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Babyruth
| Sunday, February 17, 2002 - 10:31 pm
Walt Whitman (1819-1892) from Song of Myself I. I celebrate myself, And what I assume you shall assume, For every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you. I loaf and invite my soul, I lean and loafe at my ease . . . observing a spear of summer grass. II. Houses and rooms are full of perfumes . . . the shelves are crowded with perfumes, I breathe the fragrance myself, and know it and like it, The distillation would intoxicate me also, but I shall not let it. The atmosphere is not a perfume . . . it has no taste of the distillation . . . it is odorless, It is for my mouth forever . . . I am in love with it, I will go to the bank by the wood and become undisguised and naked, I am mad for it to be in contact with me. The smoke of my own breath, Echoes, ripples, and buzzed whispers . . . loveroot, silkthread, crotch and vine, My respiration and inspiration . . . the beating of my heart . . . the passing of blood and air through my lungs, The sniff of green leaves and dry leaves, and of the shore and darkcolored sea-rocks, and of hay in the barn, The sound of the belched words of my voice . . . words loosed to the eddies of the wind, A few light kisses . . . a few embraces . . . reaching around of arms, The play of shine and shade on the trees as the supple boughs wag, The delight alone or in the rush of the streets, or along the fields and hill-sides, The feeling of health . . . the full-noon trill . . . the song of me rising from bed and meeting the sun. Have you reckoned a thousand acres much? Have you reckoned the earth much? Have you practiced so long to learn to read? Have you felt so proud to get at the meaning of poems? Stop this day and night with me and you shall possess the origin of all poems, You shall possess the good of the earth and sun . . . there are millions of suns left, You shall no longer take things at second or third hand . . . nor look through the eyes of the dead. nor feed on the spectres in books, You shall not look through my eyes either, nor take things from me, You shall listen to all sides and filter them from yourself.
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Juju2bigdog
| Monday, February 18, 2002 - 12:07 am
Leaves of Grass. Oh! And what was that movie where the professor was dying and his students came to the hospital and read Song of Myself to him as he lay dying?
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Babyruth
| Monday, February 18, 2002 - 8:05 am
W. H. Channing My Symphony To live content with small means; to seek elegance rather than luxury, and refinement rather than fashion; To be worthy, not respectable, and wealthy, not rich; to study hard, think quietly, talk gently, act frankly; to listen to stars and birds, to babes and sages with open heart; to bear all cheerfully, do all bravely, await occasions, hurry never. In a word, to let the spiritual, unbidden and unconscious, grow up through the common. This is my symphony.
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Babyruth
| Monday, February 18, 2002 - 8:07 am
Oh, Juju, I don't know! Darn it all. I'll see if I can find out.
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Juju2bigdog
| Monday, February 18, 2002 - 10:51 am
Found it! With Honors. And he wasn't a professor; he was a bum, who one day stood in for the professor. With Honors I did a www.google.com search on leaves of grass movie dying. I love Google!
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Babyruth
| Wednesday, February 20, 2002 - 7:55 pm
Cry If You Want To Cry if you want to I won't tell you not to I won't try to cheer you up I'll just be here if you want me. It's no use in keeping a stiff upper lip You can weep, you can sleep, you can loosen your grip You can frown, you can drown and go down with your ship You can cry if you want to. Don't ever apologize venting your pain It's something to me you don't need to explain I don't need to know why; I don't think it's insane You can cry if you want to. The windows are closed, the neighbors aren't home If it's better with me than to do it alone, I'll draw all the curtains and unplug the phone You can cry if you want to. You can stare at the ceiling and tear at your hair, Swallow your feelings and stagger and swear, You can show things and throw things, and I wouldn't care. You can cry if you want to. I won't make fun of you, I won't tell anyone I won't analyze what you do or you should have done, I won't advise you to go and have fun You can cry if you want to. Well, it's empty and ugly and terribly sad, I can't feel what you feel,I know that it's real and it makes you so mad You can cry. Cry if you want to I won't tell you not to I won't try to cheer you up I'll just be here if you want me to be near you. Copyright Signal Songs Recorded by Holly Cole Trio
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Babyruth
| Thursday, February 21, 2002 - 2:54 pm
Daughter of Eve A fool I was to sleep at noon, And wake when night is chilly Beneath the comfortless cold moon; A fool to pluck my rose too soon, A fool to snap my lily. My garden-plot I have not kept; Faded and all-forsaken, I weep as I have never wept: Oh it was summer when I slept, It's winter now I waken. Talk what you please of future spring And sun-warm'd sweet to-morrow— Stripp'd bare of hope and everything, No more to laugh, no more to sing, I sit alone with sorrow. Christina Rossetti (1830-1894)
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Babyruth
| Thursday, February 21, 2002 - 3:04 pm
Well, sorry for that rather depressing poem! Here's a lighter approach to the idea: How did it get so late so soon? Its night before its afternoon. December is here before its June. My goodness how the time has flewn. How did it get so late so soon? -Dr. Seuss
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Romans8_1
| Friday, September 27, 2002 - 11:25 am
Here's my favorite ... Ah, Are You Digging on My Grave? By Thomas Hardy "Ah, are you digging on my grave, My loved one? -- planting rue?" -- "No: yesterday he went to wed One of the brightest wealth has bred. 'It cannot hurt her now,' he said, 'That I should not be true.'" "Then who is digging on my grave, My nearest dearest kin?" -- "Ah, no: they sit and think, 'What use! What good will planting flowers produce? No tendance of her mound can loose Her spirit from Death's gin.'" "But someone digs upon my grave? My enemy? -- prodding sly?" -- "Nay: when she heard you had passed the Gate That shuts on all flesh soon or late, She thought you no more worth her hate, And cares not where you lie. "Then, who is digging on my grave? Say -- since I have not guessed!" -- "O it is I, my mistress dear, Your little dog , who still lives near, And much I hope my movements here Have not disturbed your rest?" "Ah yes! You dig upon my grave... Why flashed it not to me That one true heart was left behind! What feeling do we ever find To equal among human kind A dog's fidelity!" "Mistress, I dug upon your grave To bury a bone, in case I should be hungry near this spot When passing on my daily trot. I am sorry, but I quite forgot It was your resting place."
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Missy2
| Monday, October 14, 2002 - 8:32 am
Here's my favorite: I WANDERED LONELY AS A CLOUD I wandered lonely as a cloud That floats on high o'er vales and hills, When all at once I saw a crowd, A host, of golden daffodils; Beside the lake, beneath the trees, Fluttering and dancing in the breeze. Continuous as the stars that shine And twinkle on the milky way, They stretched in never-ending line Along the margin of a bay: Ten thousand saw I at a glance, Tossing their heads in sprightly dance. The waves beside them danced; but they Out-did the sparkling waves in glee: A poet could not but be gay, In such a jocund company: I gazed--and gazed--but little thought What wealth the show to me had brought: For oft, when on my couch I lie In vacant or in pensive mood, They flash upon that inward eye Which is the bliss of solitude; And then my heart with pleasure fills, And dances with the daffodils. ~WILLIAM WORDSWORTH
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Whit4you
| Tuesday, November 05, 2002 - 5:02 pm
Nice poems - I've always loved poetry.
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Cyn
| Monday, January 13, 2003 - 12:42 pm
I have seen all the works that are done under the sun; and, behold, all is vanity and vexation of Spirit. King Solomon
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Cyn
| Thursday, January 16, 2003 - 9:27 pm
We use tools. We become tools. Metal cinders splinter past, covering our heads with plastic We attended the marches and we protested. We do not belong amongst beasts. Beasts are visiters that mate with intent. Islands are homes for refugees. Often we cannot live together. Yet, somehow vegitarian wolves adapt. by Cyn Roe
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Cyn
| Sunday, April 13, 2003 - 7:49 am
the far east: you can see for miles on a thin black line in a crowded desert - chained and molded metal freedom upholstered and rusted lying cold w/ a bubbling pool from the mouth to the shoulder lights gazing ahead - reflecting the denial, the indecision the straightway yes, you can see for miles text and pic copyrighted not for reproduction names kept secret
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Cyn
| Saturday, May 10, 2003 - 3:55 pm
I found a crushed rainy rose in the sands, seeing it’s life-way, as a dream, like distant sky-blue clouds.
I wandered into the crevices of rocks that are filled with night, and waited for daybreaks to come in sight, After a sleepless night of celebration, After sleepless nights of celebrations, With one shift I Leaned against the doors, that opened at our will as the beams of sunshine entered
photo #1: moon at 4AM for 4MINS photo #2: sun at 6AM for 2 MINS copyright Time & Materials
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Cyn
| Thursday, May 15, 2003 - 7:34 pm
The days were so much happier when we sat and traced and made plans to visit far away places To the places that are now reachable we have gone And returned And we still sit smiling With our quick glances Folded into our cuffs from the captured reflections of light that we create in each other's eyes

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Cyn
| Thursday, May 15, 2003 - 7:54 pm
A brief note today made me wish for the time we will once again sit and trace our twirling light in each other's eyes
copyright Time & Materials
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Staceyinpa
| Friday, May 16, 2003 - 7:33 am
One of my Favorites: The Jaberwocky By Lewis Carroll 'Twas brillig, and the slithy toves Did gyre and gimble in the wabe: All mimsy were the borogoves, And the mome raths outgrabe. "Beware the Jabberwock, my son! The jaws that bite, the claws that catch! Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun The frumious Bandersnatch!" He took his vorpal sword in hand: Long time the manxome foe he sought- So rested he by the Tumtum tree, And stood awhile in thought. And, as in uffish thought he stood, The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame, Came whiffing through the tugey wood, And burbled as it came! One, two! One, two! And through and through The vorpal blade went snicker-snack! He left it dead, and with its head He went galumphing back. "And hast thou slain the Jaberwock? Come to my arms, my beamish boy! O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!" He chortled in his joy. 'Twas brillig, and the slithy toves Did grye and gimble in the wabe: All mimsy were the borogoves, And the mome raths outgrabe
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Cyn
| Saturday, May 31, 2003 - 10:18 am
Copyright Time & Materials
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Cyn
| Thursday, June 05, 2003 - 8:31 am
“Women of the world united in prayer for a peaceful world of co-existence.” Copyright Time & Materials
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Cyn
| Thursday, June 05, 2003 - 8:32 am

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Jan
| Wednesday, August 06, 2003 - 2:52 pm
To a Young Child Margaret, are you grieving Over Goldengrove unleaving? Leaves, like the things of man, you With your fresh thoughts care for, can you? Ah! as the heart grows older It will come to such sights colder By and by, nor spare a sigh Though worlds of wanwood leafmeal lie; And yet you will weep and know why. Now no matter, child, the name: Sorrow's springs are the same. Nor mouth had, no nor mind, expressed What heart heard of, ghost guessed: It is the blight man was born for, It is Margaret you mourn for. -- Gerald Manley Hopkin
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Meridian
| Wednesday, October 29, 2003 - 9:11 am
I Go Back to May 1937 (from The Gold Cell) I see them standing at the formal gates of their colleges, I see my father strolling out under the ochre sandstone arch, the red tiles glinting like bent plates of blood behind his head, I see my mother with a few light books at her hip standing at the pillar made of tiny bricks with the wrought-iron gate still open behind her, its sword-tips black in the May air, they are about to graduate, they are about to get married, they are kids, they are dumb, all they know is they are innocent, they would never hurt anybody. I want to go up to them and say Stop, don't do it--she's the wrong woman, he's the wrong man, you are going to do things you cannot imagine you would ever do, you are going to do bad things to children, you are going to suffer in ways you never heard of, you are going to want to die. I want to go up to them there in the late May sunlight and say it, her hungry pretty blank face turning to me, her pitiful beautiful untouched body, his arrogant handsome blind face turning to me, his pitiful beautiful untouched body, but I don't do it. I want to live. I take them up like the male and female paper dolls and bang them together at the hips like chips of flint as if to strike sparks from them, I say Do what you are going to do, and I will tell about it. --Sharon Olds
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