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Old 01-22-2005, 04:56 AM   #31
I lidbotLl l
moving on
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Old 01-22-2005, 04:59 AM   #32
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Old 01-22-2005, 05:34 AM   #33
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But, soft! what light through yonder window breaks?
It is the east, and Juliet is the sun.
Arise, fair sun, and kill the envious moon,
Who is already sick and pale with grief,
That thou her maid art far more fair than she:
Be not her maid, since she is envious;
Her vestal livery is but sick and green
And none but fools do wear it; cast it off.
It is my lady, O, it is my love!
O, that she knew she were!
She speaks yet she says nothing: what of that?
Her eye discourses; I will answer it.
I am too bold, 'tis not to me she speaks:
Two of the fairest stars in all the heaven,
Having some business, do entreat her eyes
To twinkle in their spheres till they return.
What if her eyes were there, they in her head?
The brightness of her cheek would shame those stars,
As daylight doth a lamp; her eyes in heaven
Would through the airy region stream so bright
That birds would sing and think it were not night.
See, how she leans her cheek upon her hand!
O, that I were a glove upon that hand,
That I might touch that cheek!
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Old 02-06-2005, 06:31 AM   #34
half baked
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Love is patient, Love is kind,

It does not envy, it does not boast,
It is not proud, It is not rude,
It is not self-seeking,
It is not easily angered,
It keeps no record of wrongs.
Love does not delight in evil,
but rejoices with the truth.
Love always protects, always trusts,
always hopes, always perseveres.
Love bears all things, believes all things,
hopes all things, endures all things.
Love never ends.
L o v e N e v e r F a i l s.
Corinthians 13 : 4 - 8
As long as the world is turning and spinning, we're gonna be dizzy and we're gonna make mistakes. ~ Mel Brooks
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Old 02-09-2005, 02:41 PM   #35
thundering is my favorite
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The lily
with her tiger stripes
social with the world
straightforward and honest
with her modest heart hidden

the sunflower
lifting her face to the sun
cheerful and unsuspecting
her blossom opens
with her innocence on display

sickening sweet
the red rose flings out her petals
flamboyant and brash
unashamed and vulgar
inviting all to pluck
your star shaped heart
has reached out to me
and together our hearts beat as one
bound by the rich red that runs coarsing
united we stand
stronger than before
able to face the dark
with hands entwined
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Old 02-09-2005, 10:05 PM   #36
Conspiracy Theorist
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Aedh Wishes For The Cloths Of Heaven

Had I the heavens' embroidered cloths,
Enwrought with golden and silver light,
The blue and the dim and the dark cloths
Of night and light and the half light,
I would spread the cloths under your feet:
But I, being poor, have only my dreams;
I have spread my dreams under your feet;
Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.

-- William Butler Yeats
There are few situations in life which wind up with you saying to yourself: "Gee, I wish I'd had worse manners there."

-- trisherina
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Old 02-25-2005, 01:08 PM   #37
thundering is my favorite
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picker of buttercups
And the big bullying daisies
through the field wonderful
with eyes a little sorry
Another comes
also picking flowers
-ee cummings
your star shaped heart
has reached out to me
and together our hearts beat as one
bound by the rich red that runs coarsing
united we stand
stronger than before
able to face the dark
with hands entwined
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Old 03-06-2005, 02:41 AM   #38
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You're - sylvia plath (written while she was pregnant)

Clownlike, happiest on your hands,
Feet to the stars, and moon-skulled,
Gilled like a fish. A common-sense
Thumbs-down on the dodo's mode.
Wrapped up in yourself like a spool,
Trawling your dark as owls do.
Mute as a turnip from the Fourth
Of July to All Fool's Day,
O high-riser, my little loaf.

Vague as fog and looked for like mail.
Farther off than Australia.
Bent-backed Atlas, our travelled prawn.
Snug as a bud and at home
Like a sprat in a pickle jug.
A creel of eels, all ripples.
Jumpy as a Mexican bean.
Right, like a well-done sum.
A clean slate, with your own face on.
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Old 03-07-2005, 01:05 AM   #39
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Body and Soul
B. H. Fairchild

Half-numb, guzzling bourbon and Coke from coffee mugs,
our fathers fall in love with their own stories, nuzzling
the facts but mauling the truth, and my friend's father begins
to lay out with the slow ease of a blues ballad a story
about sandlot baseball in Commerce, Oklahoma decades ago.
These were men's teams, grown men, some in their thirties
and forties who worked together in zinc mines or on oil rigs,
sweat and khaki and long beers after work, steel guitar music
whanging in their ears, little white rent houses to return to
where their wives complained about money and broken Kenmores
and then said the hell with it and sang Body and Soul
in the bathtub and later that evening with the kids asleep
lay in bed stroking their husband's wrist tattoo and smoking
Chesterfields from a fresh pack until everything was O.K.
Well, you get the idea. Life goes on, the next day is Sunday,
another ball game, and the other team shows up one man short.

They say, we're one man short, but can we use this boy,
he's only fifteen years old, and at least he'll make a game.
They take a look at the kid, muscular and kind of knowing
the way he holds his glove, with the shoulders loose,
the thick neck, but then with that boy's face under
a clump of angelic blonde hair, and say, oh, hell, sure,
let's play ball. So it all begins, the men loosening up,
joking about the fat catcher's sex life, it's so bad
last night he had to hump his wife, that sort of thing,
pairing off into little games of catch that heat up into
throwing matches, the smack of the fungo bat, lazy jogging
into right field, big smiles and arcs of tobacco juice,
and the talk that gives a cool, easy feeling to the air,
talk among men normally silent, normally brittle and a little
angry with the empty promise of their lives. But they chatter
and say rock and fire, babe, easy out, and go right ahead
and pitch to the boy, but nothing fancy, just hard fastballs
right around the belt, and the kid takes the first two
but on the third pops the bat around so quick and sure
that they pause a moment before turning around to watch
the ball still rising and finally dropping far beyond
the abandoned tractor that marks left field. Holy shit.
They're pretty quiet watching him round the bases,
but then, what the hell, the kid knows how to hit a ball,
so what, let's play some goddamned baseball here.
And so it goes. The next time up, the boy gets a look
at a very nifty low curve, then a slider, and the next one
is the curve again, and he sends it over the Allis Chalmers,
high and big and sweet. The left field just stands there, frozen.
As if this isn't enough, the next time up he bats left-handed.
They can't believe it, and the pitcher, a tall, mean-faced
man from Okarche who just doesn't give a shit anyway
because his wife ran off two years ago leaving him with
three little ones and a rusted-out Dodge with a cracked block,
leans in hard, looking at the fat catcher like he was the sonofabitch
who ran off with his wife, leans in and throws something
out of the dark, green hell of forbidden fastballs, something
that comes in at the knees and then leaps viciously towards
the kid's elbow. He swings exactly the way he did right-handed
and they all turn like a chorus line toward deep right field
where the ball loses itself in sagebrush and the sad burnt
dust of dustbowl Oklahoma. It is something to see.

But why make a long story long: runs pile up on both sides,
the boy comes around five times, and five times the pitcher
is cursing both God and His mother as his chew of tobacco sours
into something resembling horse piss, and a ragged and bruised
Spalding baseball disappears into the far horizon. Goodnight,
Irene. They have lost the game and some painful side bets
and they have been suckered. And it means nothing to them
though it should to you when they are told the boy's name is
Mickey Mantle. And that's the story, and those are the facts.
But the facts are not the truth. I think, though, as I scan
the faces of these old men now lost in the innings of their youth,
it lying there in the weeds behind that Allis Chalmers
just waiting for the obvious question to be asked: why, oh
why in hell didn't they just throw around the kid, walk him,
after he hit the third homer? Anybody would have,
especially nine men with disappointed wives and dirty socks
and diminishing expectations for whom winning at anything
meant everything. Men who knew how to play the game,
who had talent when the other team had nothing except this ringer
who without a pitch to hit was meaningless, and they could go home
with their little two-dollar side bets and stride into the house
singing If You've Got the Money, Honey, I've Got the Time
with a bottle of Southern Comfort under their arms and grab
Dixie or May Ella up and dance across the gray linoleum
as if it were V-Day all over again. But they did not
And they did not because they were men, and this was a boy.
And they did not because sometimes after making love,
after smoking their Chesterfields in the cool silence and
listening to the big bands on the radio that sounded so glamorous,
so distant, they glanced over at their wives and noticed the lines
growing heavier around the eyes and mouth, felt what their wives
felt: that Les Brown and Glenn Miller and all those dancing couples
and in fact all possibility of human gaiety and light-heartedness
were as far away and unreachable as Times Square or the Avalon
ballroom. They did not because of the gray linoleum lying there
in the half-dark, the free calendar from the local mortuary
that said one day was pretty much like another, the work gloves
looped over the doorknob like dead squirrels. And they did not
because they had gone through a depression and a war that had left
them with the idea that being a man in the eyes of their fathers
and everyone else had cost them just too goddamn much to lay it
at the feet of a fifteen year-old-boy. And so they did not walk him,
and lost, but at least had some ragged remnant of themselves
to take back home. But there is one thing more, though it is not
a fact. When I see my friend's father staring hard into the bottomless
well of home plate as Mantle's fifth homer heads toward Arkansas,
I know that this man with the half-orphaned children and
worthless Dodge has also encountered for the first and possibly
only time the vast gap between talent and genius, has seen
as few have in the harsh light of an Oklahoma Sunday, the blond
and blue-eyed bringer of truth, who will not easily be forgiven.

-- The Art of the Lathe, Alice James Books, 1998
My strength is as the strength of eight --
My heart is nearly pure.
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Old 03-13-2005, 09:59 PM   #40
Coming in Last
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George Gordon Lord Byron (1788-1824)

She Walks in Beauty

She walks in beauty, like the night
Of cloudless climes and starry skies;
And all that's best of dark and bright
Meet in her aspect and her eyes:
Thus mellow'd to that tender light
Which heaven to gaudy day denies.

One shade the more, one ray the less,
Had half impair'd the nameless grace
Which waves in every raven tress,
Or softly lightens o'er her face;
Where thoughts serenely sweet express
How pure, how dear their dwelling-place.

And on that cheek, and o'er that brow,
So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,
The smiles that win, the tints that glow,
But tell of days in goodness spent,
A mind at peace with all below,
A heart whose love is innocent!
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Old 03-14-2005, 12:40 AM   #41
no more nice girl
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7th December 1897

Dear Miss Dynon,

I suppose it would do poor justice to the reputation my countrymen bear for courage - though in this case it may be called audacity - if I did not risk, as so many others in other cases have, with better or worse fortune done, the inevitable question. The world is made up of incompatibles, or rather contradictions; without the Union of opposites there would be no possibility of the average that makes progress. I am in most of the qualities that build a character, at one pole, you at the other; but your sex is born to redeem, and Goodness Knows there is a big field for redemption in my case. Well, you can well think I am, for once at all events in my life, in a bit of a muddle. I have written pamphlets, leading articles, essays, etc., by the mile, but never before put in writing the impertinence f a proposal of marriage. And this has to be done, at the table f the legislative Assembly of New South Wales, with the Federal Convention sitting, and Mr. Lyne, within a yard of me, pouring on the too-thinly protected top of my head, a Niagra of figures. However, I must attempt it.

Well Dear Miss Dynon, to be candid, which is indeed my dearest desire. I heard of you six or seven years ago, and from what a lady who knew you well said of you then, I know if on meeting you, I did not feel it instinctively, that you are as deserving of the reputation you bear as I am under the estimate..........You unfortunately - or, rather perhaps, fortunately for myself - know little of me; that is outside my reputation as a public man. But as far as I can say it, I feel I am Bohemian in temperament, fond of the softer - I don't like to say poetic - side of life; liable, like many of my too romantic countrymen to extremes of spirit, by no means correct as the world goes, but at all events capable of discerning if not following, the Right. The girl that takes me will deserve an indulgence - a dispensation from purgatory, so that I may have at least a negative recommendation...

But I find, with my usual lack of pluck in matters outside my line, I am becoming all preface. The Sum of it all is this, if you consent to marry me, Miss Dynon, you will for the sacrifice, deserve Heaven, and probably save me from somewhere else. May I ask you to do so. I am by no means well off - but why should I say that to you - but I can and do work, and though, if I may use the term for the sake of its great expressiveness, devil-may-care in most matters, will try under the great responsibility, to become financially orthodox, I dont care the proverbial rap for the Ceremonial side of life.

If you consent to be my wife - a great word - why should we not be married at once. It will have the advantage for me that the matter will be inevitable settled before you know too much of me....If you have me, I can honestly promise you to give you no divided heart and to live no double life. You will know me for good or bad, as I am.

Well, if you bless me, I will with your consent, go for you on Friday, marry on Saturday and return the same day. If you will come - anyhow I wish you would - over at once, so much the better. We can be married on the arrival of the train. My friend Mr. OMalley will give me away; I hope he has not done so already. This is a lot to ask but the occasion is my great excuse. I am not my own master now - we are servants of the Nation and its destinies. Besides as I said, I know you thoroughly - and after we can call each other wife and husband; well, what does the unorthodox way of settling the bond matter.

In Hopes of a reply that will enable me to really begin to live, I am Dear Miss Dynon,

Your admirer and friend under any circumstances,

P. McM. Glynn
He really shatters the myth of white supremacy once and for all.
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Old 03-16-2005, 05:18 PM   #42
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he loved her and she loved him.
his kisses sucked out her whole past and future or tried to
he had no other appetite
she bit him she gnawed him she sucked
she wanted him complete inside her
safe and sure forever and ever
their little cries fluttered into the curtains

her eyes wanted nothing to get away
her looks nailed down his hands his wrists his elbows
he gripped her hard so that life
should not drag her from that moment
he wanted all future to cease
he wanted to topple with his arms round her
off that moment's brink and into nothing
or everlasting or whatever there was

her embrace was an immense press
to print him into her bones
his smiles were the garrets of a fairy palace
where the real world would never come
her smiles were spider bites
so he would lie still till she felt hungry
his words were occupying armies
her laughs were an assassin's attempts
his looks were bullets daggers of revenge
his glances were ghosts in the corner with horrible secrets
his whispers were whips and jackboots
her kisses were lawyers steadily writing
his caresses were the last hooks of a castaway
her love-tricks were the grinding of locks
and their deep cries crawled over the floors
like an animal dragging a great trap
his promises were the surgeon's gag
her promises took the top off his skull
she would get a brooch made of it
his vows pulled out all her sinews
he showed her how to make a love-knot
her vows put his eyes in formalin
at the back of her secret drawer
their screams stuck in the wall

their heads fell apart into sleep like the two halves
of a lopped melon, but love is hard to stop

in their entwined sleep they exchanged arms and legs
in their dreams their brains took each other hostage

in the morning they wore each other's face

ted hughes,1969
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Old 03-17-2005, 04:37 AM   #43
Coming in Last
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When we two parted
Lord Byron

When we two parted
In silence and tears,
Half broken-hearted,
To sever for years,
Pale grew thy cheek and cold,
Colder thy kiss;
Truly that hour foretold
Sorrow to this.

The dew of the morning
Sank chill on my brow -
It felt like the warning
Of what I feel now.
Thy vows are all broken,
And light is thy fame:
I hear thy name spoken,
And share in its shame.

They name thee before me,
A knell to mine ear;
A shudder comes o'er me -
Why wert thou so dear?
They know not I knew thee,
Who knew thee too well: -
Long, long shall I rue thee
Too deeply to tell.

In secret we met -
In silence I grieve
That thy heart could forget,
Thy spirit deceive.
If I should meet thee
After long years,
How should I greet thee? -
With silence and tears.
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Old 03-20-2005, 10:05 AM   #44
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Old 03-20-2005, 11:14 PM   #45
Hyakujo's Fox
left hanging
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Posts: 10,071
We Should Talk about This Problem

There is a Beautiful Creature
Living in a hole you have dug.

So at night
I set fruit and grains
And little pots of wine and milk
Beside your soft earthen mounds,

And I often sing.

But still, my dear,
You do not come out.

I have fallen in love with Someone
Who hides inside you.

We should talk about this problem---

I will never leave you alone.

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