If you look inside of your heart,
you can find forgiveness or at least the start
And from that place where you can forgive
is where Hope, and Love, also thrive and live
And with each step that you try to take
and with that chance that your heart might break
Comes so much happiness, and so much strength
which Alone can carry you a fantastic length
For hate and anger will not get you there
and though you say that you just don't care
You can EASILY avoid the pain on which hate feeds
...the kind of pain that no one needs
Just make the move, take the first stride let go of the thing known as "Foolish Pride"
Maybe then you can start to repair the past
into something strong, that will mend, and last!
(c) Barry S. Maltese2000
Being alive is miracle......Seeing the things through this eye is too....feeling the things inside and ability to translate what we see.....a beautiful earth and we and all various creature that do exist......This life, spirit and a motion we heed...this is a miracle and miraculous are we....
Thursday, May 26, 2011
Wednesday, May 25, 2011
Funeral Blues by W.H. Auden
Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.
Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message He is Dead.
Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.
He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last forever: I was wrong.
The stars are not wanted now; put out every one,
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun,
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the woods;
For nothing now can ever come to any good
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.
Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
Scribbling on the sky the message He is Dead.
Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.
He was my North, my South, my East and West,
My working week and my Sunday rest,
My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
I thought that love would last forever: I was wrong.
The stars are not wanted now; put out every one,
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun,
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the woods;
For nothing now can ever come to any good
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