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I am not a philosopher.

quote by Hans Bethe
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The Farewell

_P_. Farewell to Europe, and at once farewell
To all the follies which in Europe dwell;
To Eastern India now, a richer clime,
Richer, alas! in everything but rhyme,
The Muses steer their course; and, fond of change,
At large, in other worlds, desire to range;
Resolved, at least, since they the fool must play,
To do it in a different place, and way.
_F_. What whim is this, what error of the brain,
What madness worse than in the dog-star's reign?
Why into foreign countries would you roam,
Are there not knaves and fools enough at home?
If satire be thy object--and thy lays
As yet have shown no talents fit for praise--
If satire be thy object, search all round,
Nor to thy purpose can one spot be found
Like England, where, to rampant vigour grown,
Vice chokes up every virtue; where, self-sown,
The seeds of folly shoot forth rank and bold,
And every seed brings forth a hundredfold.
_P_. No more of this--though Truth, (the more our shame,
The more our guilt) though Truth perhaps may claim,
And justify her part in this, yet here,
For the first time, e'en Truth offends my ear;
Declaim from morn to night, from night to morn,
Take up the theme anew, when day's new-born,
I hear, and hate--be England what she will,
With all her faults, she is my country still.
_F_. Thy country! and what then? Is that mere word
Against the voice of Reason to be heard?
Are prejudices, deep imbibed in youth,
To counteract, and make thee hate the truth?
'Tis sure the symptom of a narrow soul
To draw its grand attachment from the whole,
And take up with a part; men, not confined
Within such paltry limits, men design'd
Their nature to exalt, where'er they go,
Wherever waves can roll, and winds can blow,
Where'er the blessed sun, placed in the sky
To watch this subject world, can dart his eye,
Are still the same, and, prejudice outgrown,
Consider every country as their own;
At one grand view they take in Nature's plan,
Not more at home in England than Japan.
_P_. My good, grave Sir of Theory, whose wit,
Grasping at shadows, ne'er caught substance yet,
'Tis mighty easy o'er a glass of wine
On vain refinements vainly to refine,
To laugh at poverty in plenty's reign,
To boast of apathy when out of pain,

[...] Read more

poem by Charles Churchill
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Ch 01 Manner Of Kings Story 07

A padshah was in the same boat with a Persian slave who had never
before been at sea and experienced the inconvenience of a vessel. He
began to cry and to tremble to such a degree that he could not be
pacified by kindness, so that at last the king became displeased as
the matter could not be remedied. In that boat there happened to be
a philosopher, who said: 'With thy permission I shall quiet him.'
The padshah replied: 'It will be a great favour.' The philosopher
ordered the slave to be thrown into the water so that he swallowed
some of it, whereon be was caught and pulled by his hair to the
boat, to the stern of which he clung with both his hands. Then he
sat down in a corner and became quiet. This appeared strange to the
king who knew not what wisdom there was in the proceeding and asked
for it. The philosopher replied: 'Before he had tasted the calamity of
being drowned, he knew not the safety of the boat; thus also a man
does not appreciate the value of immunity from a misfortune until it
has befallen him.'

O thou full man, barley-bread pleases thee not.
She is my sweetheart who appears ugly to thee.
To the huris of paradise purgatory seems hell.
Ask the denizens of hell. To them purgatory is paradise.

There is a difference between him whose friend is in his arms
And him whose eyes of expectation are upon the door.

poem by Sa di
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The Dialogue: Time tested knowledge -Globilization is the ladder

Time –Ladder

My words of inspiration
Will always begin by time
They say time is money
I am thinking of time sitting with my best friend
Then I came to recognize that time is friend who is caring
He is sharing me with his past experiences about life
Hear is the beginning:
My friend: Do you see that we are now failing to do the things in the way that our past forefathers were doing
Me: Yes but why
My friend: This is because we are failing to use the time in a more sunssict manner
Me: what do you mean?
My friend: Have you noticed how naughty the pupils are during the class.
Me: yes
My friend: That is because they tend to take all of things that are being said by the lectures fro granted.
Me: Why is that happening
My: That is not only because the students do not looked to attend the lectures, but that is because they think they will be able to catch up the notes either on the book or on the internet.
Me: Oh yes, But not all of us who are having the similar abilities to grasp exactly what the lectures are saying, doesn’t that cause others to fail.

My friend: That affect everybody.

Me: How

My friend: Do you know what? Time is very important. Most of students – tends to blame the lectures when they have failed. The University is another level of education. There is no one who will push as in the high schools. You need to go and search the information for them.
Me: Besides that my friend: Most of lectures have experience. They have devoted their times in doing their studies. Besides that, most of lectures are very old. For us as the students it is very difficult to develop knowledge about something we have never seen. Do you ever red Ferranti – the sociolology book part about Industrial Revolutions?

Me: Do you mean that Industries evolutes in Europe that any other world?

My friend: That is good but can you think of how the Industrial Revolution tests our time-knowledge?

Me: I think of the time when the animals were being domesticated. I red that book from Diamond Larry. Those animals were then used as transport for goods. Two or three Horse carriages followed on one another. But they may have seen how heavy the goods are. They developed the wheels so that the weight is reduced. That was fine. However the roads were built because of too much bumps on the lands. They have therefore conquered the knowledge of making the trains. Note that the trains mimic the movement of horse carriages. Thereafter, everything followed. That includes cars, aero planes and even telegrams. What we are talking about today is time-distance friction – which means that our world is totally shrinking. That is literally because it does not refer to the actual shrinking of world. It refers to the time that we are now using to travel from one place to another. So you can see that what ever that is happening is traced from the past experience.
My friend: Wow my friend you have killed it? (We shack the hands)

Me: So we cannot only talk about the lectures but we can make our new statement of change.

My friend: Yes my friend you are clever, because you see that this world is changing. It is also said that in our modern societies some societies are failing to change because they are still stick to the superstitions of the past. In terms of culture do you think how can we change culture in the way that will be time- tested?

Me: I like when you say time –tested knowledge. Do you know what? If we can just switch off the knowledge and hysterical notes of writings about anything, including math, science and even culture there is no point to disagree that we shall not have developed in the way that the modern world development is taking place. I don’t like your term change and I suggest that you will use transform in the future. As you have had of how the industrial development was developed and then transformed. We need to study the ways in which the things were being done in the past in other to be able to transfer our modern word in a very smoothest way.

My friend: those words are now clear. You make me remember something. During the case of the ANC president Jackop Zuma. Well you know the rape case and -

Me: Can guess what you want to say. You are talking about the groups of women’s protection, who claimed that the girl did not cry or screamed because she was extremely terrified.

My friend: Yes and the judge said “that is not acceptable. A lady might otherwise have raped dead. No matter how terrifying the thing is, when we see something that terrifies us we tend to scream or be in the state of death. The statement that the women’s protection is trying raise has therefore no interaction in the universe”

Me: The judges are professionally trained; they are the people who are saying things based on the laws that were invented by based on the past experience. It does happen that Law is changed.But again I do not like to use the word change I will prefer to use the word transform. The transformations of laws are usually caused by the transformations of the modern societies. We are highly globalized and we have no point to oppose that. So in other to make the smooth transformation of our laws we need to see what was it cause and aims and what makes it fail to fit with the modern societies.

My friend: Yes you are speaking like lawyer now.

[...] Read more

poem by Mthokozisi Ntokozo Maphumulo
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The Problem of the Idea

The Philosopher:

'The Problem of the 21st century
is the problem of the Origins of the Idea.'

The Idea has driven much
of human history-
a major motivator
many taken together are
Articulators;
Ideas compose all Human Dreams.

But ask what is this Idea
and silence ensues;
ask where is it
in the human mind
and we'll get charts of its activity centers
but nothing about what it is
or where it comes from.

The Scientist:

Well, we don't have to know what a thing is
to utilize it.
We can identify behaviors and integrate
them-
harness them to purpose.

Philosopher:

Sure like the Atomic Bomb. It was built because
we could integrate various disciplines
and make things go bang
without thinking of Consequence.
technical Ideas-too have consequences.

Scientist:

So you would hold up all human progress
until the over-arching Idea comes along
before we act?

Philosopher:
Ah, but note that progress that destroys
the planet is not
progress at all
but only a blind mistake;
one I might add,
that did not have
an Idea or Clue

[...] Read more

poem by Lonnie Hicks
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Canto the Fifteenth

I
Ah! -- What should follow slips from my reflection;
Whatever follows ne'ertheless may be
As à-propos of hope or retrospection,
As though the lurking thought had follow'd free.
All present life is but an interjection,
An "Oh!" or "Ah!" of joy or misery,
Or a "Ha! ha!" or "Bah!" -- a yawn, or "Pooh!"
Of which perhaps the latter is most true.

II
But, more or less, the whole's a syncopé
Or a singultus -- emblems of emotion,
The grand antithesis to great ennui,
Wherewith we break our bubbles on the ocean, --
That watery outline of eternity,
Or miniature at least, as is my notion,
Which ministers unto the soul's delight,
In seeing matters which are out of sight.

III
But all are better than the sigh supprest,
Corroding in the cavern of the heart,
Making the countenance a masque of rest,
And turning human nature to an art.
Few men dare show their thoughts of worst or best;
Dissimulation always sets apart
A corner for herself; and therefore fiction
Is that which passes with least contradiction.

IV
Ah! who can tell? Or rather, who can not
Remember, without telling, passion's errors?
The drainer of oblivion, even the sot,
Hath got blue devils for his morning mirrors:
What though on Lethe's stream he seem to float,
He cannot sink his tremors or his terrors;
The ruby glass that shakes within his hand
Leaves a sad sediment of Time's worst sand.

V
And as for love -- O love! -- We will proceed.
The Lady Adeline Amundeville,
A pretty name as one would wish to read,
Must perch harmonious on my tuneful quill.
There's music in the sighing of a reed;
There's music in the gushing of a rill;
There's music in all things, if men had ears:
Their earth is but an echo of the spheres.

[...] Read more

poem by Byron from Don Juan (1824)
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Another important historical factor is the fact that this already very simple religion was further simplified and purified by the early philosophers of ancient China. Our first great philosopher was a founder of naturalism; and our second great philosopher was an agnostic.

quote by Hu Shih
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One can only become a philosopher, but not be one. As one believes he is a philosopher, he stops being one.

quote by Karl Wilhelm Friedrich Schlegel
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The philosopher proves that the philosopher exists. The poet merely enjoys existence.

quote by Wallace Stevens
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Degrees Don't Love You

Degrees don't love you so you never went to school!
But your mind writes like a Philosopher to teach many;
And the truth is, Degrees are obtained under a Faculty.

Degrees are obtained after the length of studies,
But without one's Philosophy there is no Faculty!
Because one has to create the ideas for others to follow;
And out of Philosophy came the branches of Faculties.

You don't need any Degree to identify yourself,
Because you have the ability of teaching others;
And Philosophy is always above Faculty! !
For, you are a Philosopher with the magic ink of your mind.

poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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Don Juan: Canto The Fifteenth

Ah!--What should follow slips from my reflection;
Whatever follows ne'ertheless may be
As à-propos of hope or retrospection,
As though the lurking thought had follow'd free.
All present life is but an interjection,
An 'Oh!' or 'Ah!' of joy or misery,
Or a 'Ha! ha!' or 'Bah!'-- a yawn, or 'Pooh!'
Of which perhaps the latter is most true.

But, more or less, the whole's a syncope
Or a singultus - emblems of emotion,
The grand antithesis to great ennui,
Wherewith we break our bubbles on the ocean,--
That watery outline of eternity,
Or miniature at least, as is my notion,
Which ministers unto the soul's delight,
In seeing matters which are out of sight.

But all are better than the sigh supprest,
Corroding in the cavern of the heart,
Making the countenance a masque of rest,
And turning human nature to an art.
Few men dare show their thoughts of worst or best;
Dissimulation always sets apart
A corner for herself; and therefore fiction
Is that which passes with least contradiction.

Ah! who can tell? Or rather, who can not
Remember, without telling, passion's errors?
The drainer of oblivion, even the sot,
Hath got blue devils for his morning mirrors:
What though on Lethe's stream he seem to float,
He cannot sink his tremors or his terrors;
The ruby glass that shakes within his hand
Leaves a sad sediment of Time's worst sand.

And as for love--O love!--We will proceed.
The Lady Adeline Amundeville,
A pretty name as one would wish to read,
Must perch harmonious on my tuneful quill.
There's music in the sighing of a reed;
There's music in the gushing of a rill;
There's music in all things, if men had ears:
Their earth is but an echo of the spheres.

The Lady Adeline, right honourable;
And honour'd, ran a risk of growing less so;
For few of the soft sex are very stable
In their resolves--alas! that I should say so!
They differ as wine differs from its label,

[...] Read more

poem by Byron
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Iced Espresso With A Straw

In another world (hmm..) after or before
he was aloof diverging in a 4x4
her hair of Medusa in his fingers tangled,
smiling Hercules loved and wrangled;

Chimeras distracted him sly to finagle,
Tartarus was a sauce spread on a bagel;
sneaky Harpies stole his yummy breakfast;
as he visioned a Naiad of an aquatic caste.

An austere philosopher drinks coffee,
in a vast sincerity, stirs in a toffee;
Gorgon rushes threatening, with a chomp,
chews his hair relentlessly in a romp!

With half hair desperate, prays to Apollo
his students God Dionysus, in bars follow;
wise Apollo sends Hebe to treat him but
she offers him wisely a marine hair cut.

Now the philosopher becomes Theseus,
fair Ariadne is a Nymph, blessed by Zeus;
her mane tangled in his tips, he thinks;
an iced espresso with a straw, he drinks;

His 4x4 takes him to a temple of Poseidon
while in air epic comes, music of Haydn;
Medusa's hair waves on his windshield,
her Siren song enfolds him, on Attica field.

poem by Giorgio Veneto
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A poem on divine revelation

This is a day of happiness, sweet peace,
And heavenly sunshine; upon which conven'd
In full assembly fair, once more we view,
And hail with voice expressive of the heart,
Patrons and sons of this illustrious hall.
This hall more worthy of its rising fame
Than hall on mountain or romantic hill,
Where Druid bards sang to the hero's praise,
While round their woods and barren heaths was heard
The shrill calm echo of th' enchanting shell.
Than all those halls and lordly palaces
Where in the days of chivalry, each knight,
And baron brave in military pride
Shone in the brass and burning steel of war;
For in this hall more worthy of a strain
No envious sound forbidding peace is heard,
Fierce song of battle kindling martial rage
And desp'rate purpose in heroic minds:
But sacred truth fair science and each grace
Of virtue born; health, elegance and ease
And temp'rate mirth in social intercourse
Convey rich pleasure to the mind; and oft
The sacred muse in heaven-breathing song
Doth wrap the soul in extasy divine,
Inspiring joy and sentiment which not
The tale of war or song of Druids gave.
The song of Druids or the tale of war
With martial vigour every breast inspir'd,
With valour fierce and love of deathless fame;
But here a rich and splendid throng conven'd
From many a distant city and fair town,
Or rural seat by shore or mountain-stream,
Breathe joy and blessing to the human race,
Give countenance to arts themselves have known,
Inspire the love of heights themselves have reach'd,
Of noble science to enlarge the mind,
Of truth and virtue to adorn the soul,
And make the human nature grow divine.

Oh could the muse on this auspicious day
Begin a song of more majestic sound,
Or touch the lyre on some sublimer key,
Meet entertainment for the noble mind.
How shall the muse from this poetic bow'r
So long remov'd, and from this happy hill,
Where ev'ry grace and ev'ry virtue dwells,
And where the springs of knowledge and of thought
In riv'lets clear and gushing streams flow down
Attempt a strain? How sing in rapture high

[...] Read more

poem by Hugh Henry Brackenridge
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Universally Respected

I.
Biggs was missing: Biggs had vanished; all the town was in a ferment;
For if ever man was looked to for an edifying end,
With due mortuary outfit, and a popular interment,
It was Biggs, the universal guide, philosopher, and friend.

But the man had simply vanished; speculation wove no tissue
That would hold a drop of water; each new theoryfell flat.
It was most unsatisfactory, and hanging on the issue
Were a thousand wagers, ranging from a “pony” to a hat.

Not a trace could search discover in the township or without it,
And the river had been dragged from morn till night with no avail.
His continuity had ceased, and that was all about it,
And there wasn't even a grease-spot left behind to tell the tale.
That so staid a man as Biggs was should be swallowed up in mystery
Lent an increment to wonder—he who trod no doubtful paths,
But stood square to his surroundings, with no cloud upon his history,
As the much-respected lessee of the Corporation Baths.

His affairs were all in order: since the year the alligator
With a startled river bather made attempt to coalesce,
The resulting wave of decency had greater grown and greater,
And the Corporation Baths had been a marvellous success.

Nor could trouble in the household solve the riddle of his clearance,
For his bride was now in heaven, and the issue of the match
Was a patient drudge whose virtues were as plain as her appearance—
Just the sort whereto no scandal could conceivably attach.

So the Whither and the Why alike mysterious were counted;
And as Faith steps in to aid where baffled Reason must retire,
There were those averred so good a man as Biggs might well have mounted
Up to glory like Elijah in a chariot of fire!

For indeed he was a good man; when he sat beside the portal
Of the Bath-house at his pigeon-hole, a saint within a frame,
We used to think his face was as the face of an immortal,
As he handed us our tickets, and took payment for the same.

And, oh, the sweet advice with which he made of such occasion
A duplicate detergent for our morals and our limbs—
For he taught us that decorum was the essence of salvation,
And that cleanliness and godliness were merely synonyms;

But that open-air ablution in the river was a treason
To the purer instincts, fit for dogs and aborigines,
And that wrath at such misconduct was the providential reason
For the jaws of alligators and the tails of stingarees.

[...] Read more

poem by James Brunton Stephens
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For Whom To Fish Or Hunt

I will not write about love or separations,
About types of men are my cogitations.

Number one is a man of super class.
Abundance of them goes to the mass.
A car is the main thing in his life,
He marries it and it becomes his wife.
He is free like a bird and forever in flight
The highway he travels days and at night.

Another one here seems to be like a gift,
Intelligent, quiet, in all he likes thrift.
He loves himself, to others indifferent,
So often cheats and so much prudent.
Many times divorced he everyone kicks
And to marry again he does not risk.

This one is assured with cars and a house
It takes him a second to unbutton your blouse,
He looks exactly like a crown prince,
In paradise living he tries you to convince.
But here my dear don't make an illusion
As his soul is empty and he is in confusion.

This man looks as a very domestic,
He sits on a couch and looks majestic
He hates any company, he is a TV viewer,
In life and in his wife he has to be sure.
He is always a hard-working and humble,
He doesn't like worries and jumble.

There is a single one, a bachelor forever.
In love pool he won't rush. Never!
With his mother he must all details discuss,
So that his parents will not him cuss.
His advances will be long and boring
Your opinion he is just ignoring.

This one is romantic but he is so rare
He ages mix up and he looks an ideal.
Candy and flowers, obsolete phrases,
His love making simply amazes.
He'll always dream and your body admire,
But sorry to say that: won't be on fire.

This one is intelligent, handsome and rich,
Has family, children and all likes to teach.
In all he knows limits and measure
And only career is his main treasure.
If you are satisfied with the role of mistress

[...] Read more

poem by Larisa Rzhepishevska
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Alma; or, The Progress of the Mind. In Three Cantos. - Canto I.

Matthew met Richard, when or where
From story is not mighty clear:
Of many knotty points they spoke,
And pro and con by turns they took:
Rats half the manuscript have ate;
Dire hunger! which we still regret;
O! may they ne'er again digest
The horrors of so sad a feast;
Yet less our grief, if what remains,
Dear Jacob, by thy care and pains
Shall be to future times convey'd:
It thus begins:

** Here Matthew said,
Alma in verse, in prose, the mind,
By Aristotle's pen defined,
Throughout the body squat or tall,
Is
bona fide
, all in all;
And yet, slapdash, is all again
In every sinew, nerve, and vein;
Runs here and there, like Hamlet's ghost,
While every where she rules the roast.

This system, Richard, we are told
The men of Oxford firmly hold:
The Cambridge wits, you know, deny
With
ispe dixit
to comply:
They say (for in good truth they speak
With small respect of that old Greek)
That, putting all his words together,
'Tis three blue beans in one blue bladder.

Alma, they strenuously maintain,
Sits cock-horse on her throne, the brain,
And from that seat of thought dispenses,
Her sovereign pleasure to the senses.
Two optic nerves, they say, she ties,
Like spectacle across the eyes,
By which the spirits bring her word
Whene'er the balls are fix'd or stirr'd;
How quick at Park and play they strike;
The duke they court; the toast they like;
And at St. James's turn their grace
From former friends, now out of place.

Without these aids, to be more serious,

[...] Read more

poem by Matthew Prior
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Ghazal 314

You who are not kept anxiously awake for love's sake, sleep on.
In restless search for that river, we hurry along;
you whose heart such anxiety has not disturbed, sleep on.
Love's place is out beyond the many separate sects;
since you love choosing and excluding, sleep on.
Love's dawn cup is our sunrise, his dusk our supper;
you whose longing is for sweets and whose passion is for supper, sleep on.
In search of the philosopher's stone, we are melting like copper;
you whose philosopher's stone is cushion and pillow, sleep on.
I have abandoned hope for my brain and head; you who wish for
a clear head and fresh brain, sleep on.
I have torn speech like a tattered robe and let words go;
you who are still dressed in your clothes, sleep on.

poem by Rumi
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To Friedrich Holderlin, poet

Here in this river valley below the Alps
which mimic high Olympus’ watching spirit,
everyone’s a silent poet of nature:
lakes; rivers; green fields; steeper goatfoot pastures;
forests; bare gaunt rocks and snow;

and the poetry of seasons of the year.
Once to see the seasons through, is to be
a little nearer God; to know
how gods measure out the earth.

Here inside the wooden room,
the measures, not so clear:
measured out by sterner, darker gods
whose seasons are not so predictable:
storms, tempests, thunder, flood
may last until we learn
lessons we do not yet understand.

Outside the window now
the last rays of evening sun catch
the metal spire of the nestling church;

its metal lightning conductor running
down its walls to that patch of earth
whose signs of scorching warn the devout soul..

Here inside the room, the poet too:
aspiring spire, lightning conductor;
rattling between heaven and earth,
torn by view of outside, inside..

Poets are only responsible to their words
when lining up their obstinacies
in the mind, on paper:
after that, must send them on their way:
the words mean more, or less, than the poets knew
while writing them; someone else may make
better use of them. This too,
the measure of the gods, of God.

*

Friedrich Holderlin, bi-polar poet-philosopher,1770-1843; correspondent of Goethe, inspirer of Rilke, subject of much discussion by philosopher Martin Heidegger.

poem by Michael Shepherd
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Many People Lives In Thy....

Many people lives in thy soul.
The painter paints the
Words, the singer sings
the lyrics, the philosopher,
dives deep into its thought.
Whom do you love most?
The philosopher within,
Drives your mind….
The poet, writes the feelings;
The painter gives color to it…
The singer putting life
To the lyric makes
More adorable……..
None can be left alone….
And all of them create
The sense of God…..
None can be left alone!

poem by Nilakshi Das
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Where's the God?

[It was in Corinth that a meeting between Alexander the Great and Diogenes is supposed to have taken place.[26] The accounts of Plutarch and Diogenes Laërtius recount that they exchanged only a few words: while Diogenes was relaxing in the sunlight in the morning, Alexander, thrilled to meet the famous philosopher, asked if there was any favour he might do for him. Diogenes replied, 'Yes, stand out of my sunlight'. Alexander then declared, 'If I were not Alexander, then I should wish to be Diogenes.'[27] In another account of the conversation, Alexander found the philosopher looking attentively at a pile of human bones. Diogenes explained, 'I am searching for the bones of your father but cannot distinguish them from those of a slave.'

A pregnant
Mom
Runs
in
the
Gaza
strip
to
catch
the
overhead
Bombs?

nimal dunuhinga

poem by Nimal Dunuhinga
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A Bow To Simplicity

you go to church every morning
model catholic of this town
you listen to the sermon of the priest
you take the body of Christ
in your body
somehow these matters give you
comfort and so you have no time to
ask for more answers
because there are no questions asked
anyway

in any way, you dwell in the comfort zone of
religion
you are not a philosopher with all the wrinkles
on his forehead
you do not envy all these
search for wisdom
you do not need it anyway in your everyday
morning existence
about those joys you claim you have
the contentment of an achievement
no wars
no confusion even in small matters about
real happiness
in some ways you smile
and by all means we think that you are the child of God
smiling to everyone

sometimes i envy you
as i tremble over my thoughts
grinding every bean of coffee
in the machine of my mind
hot temperatures here
like hell

are questions part of hell?
doubts and regrets
they come together
trying to hit me with their fists
me, the philosopher
still unable to hold the beautiful arms of an
answer

i talk within and there are many selves talking
within
you pity me
for thinking too much
on such a simple existence
as breakfast and lunch and dinner
that you serve on my table

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poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Added by Poetry Lover
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