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At painful times, when composition is impossible and reading is not enough, grammars and dictionaries are excellent for distraction.

quote by Elizabeth Barrett Browning
Added by Lucian Velea
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The Impossible and the Possible.

Poem Title: The struggle to overcome the difference between the Impossible and the Possible
Acrostic Poem 166a

The struggle to overcome the difference between the impossible and the possible.
Hope being the word that springs to mind to link these two opposites to attract.
Eternally wandering Cyber space side by side hooking onto every adjective or verb.

Seeking Impossible causes to take away excuses and make them once more possible.
To overcome the bigoted, blind, self centred mind set of the un-believers.
Reaching corners of the mind that you of Christian or Muslim Faith never thought existed.
Unless you have spent all your life on earth in a cocoon not within real time.
God has chosen you to teach the differences between the Impossible and Possible.
Given that if at first you don`t succeed... You`ll get it right next time.
Love for all your Fellow Men and Women may seem Impossible. Trust me it`s the only way.
Every possibility, has been at sometime within it`s life...seemed Impossible.

Take the making of a silk purse from one sows ear. If you will
Or the finding of a needle in a hay-stack or the abolition of third world hunger and the like.

Or the creation of the Love of Nation unto Nation... The end to all War or domination
Very nearly every single problem has a solution, indeed sometimes many solutions do exist.
Electricity, how unbelievable to the even the wisest man once upon a time thought “impossible”
Radio waves converted into the sweetest sounds ever heard by mortal Man
Communication instant Chat across the Globe in real time ….one to one...”Impossible”
Of loving commitment between different creeds and cultures without ever meeting possible.
Mighty soon God will look down on earth and see the two words rolled into one!
Entreating the Impossible always Possible and the Possible never Impossible.

The struggle to overcome the difference between the Impossible and the Possible.
Holy Holy Holy, Eureka, Glory be! We are getting there, I do believe I really do believe.
Eternally where two Poets or more can get together to speak as one, in one Like-minded.

Difference between the Impossible and the Possible are reduced to nil
In practical terms every metaphor, rhetoric, noun or verb or adjective can be polished.
From the most impossible dream into the possible reality of the finest prose ever written.
From the dullest of dyslectic mutterings to the most flowery of sweetest love songs.
Endlessly tripping from the lips of stranger meeting stranger, wisest verse ever heard.
Re-acting opposites attracting the Impossible with the Possible. Judge for yourselves.
Enacting with the humble Poet that composed this message. You may never chance to meet.
Never in a Thousand years of trying, these chances, sure don't happen every day.
Catch the Impossible catch on the very boundaries of your mind to make a difference.
Every chance that one single catch will win your team the Game.

By making then the Impossible Possible, you have changed in one action the life you have.
Every Impossible thought can then be dismissed from your mind possibly forever
The sun to leave the sky, the rivers all run dry, a baby not to cry ….Impossible.
We have that song within our mind, which keeps our feet upon the ground
Every now and then to be able to accept that all things are not Possible.

[...] Read more

poem by Philip Winchester
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It's Impossible

It's impossible to tell the sun to leave the sky,
It's just impossible.
It's impossible to ask a baby not to cry,
It's just impossible.
Can I hold you closer to me
And not feel you going through me,
But the second that I never think of you?
Oh, how impossible.
Can the ocean keep from rushing to the shore?
It's just impossible.
If I had you could I ever ask for more?
It's just impossible.
And tomorrow, should you ask me for the world
Somehow I'd get it, I would sell my very soul
And not regret it for to live without your love
Is just impossible
Can the ocean keep from rushing to the shore?
It's just impossible.
If I had you could I ever ask for more?
It's just impossible.
And tomorrow, should you ask me for the world
Somehow I'd get it, I would sell my very soul
And not regret it for to live without your love
Is just impossible
Oh impossible,
Impossible.
Impossible.

song performed by Elvis Presley
Added by Lucian Velea
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Hard Times

(jimmy dean/lyrics by myles goodwyn)
Published by acuff rose music, inc. - bmi
Hard times, hard times, hard times, hard times
When the college professor has no class
And the quarterback would rather pass
And the pump jockey complains of gas
Its hard times, hard times
When the taxi driver he cant hack it
And the tennis player cant stand the racket
When allies refuse to pack it, its hard times
Hard times, hard times, real hard times
When the elevator cant find the floor
And the doorman he cant find the door
When they give to the rich what they take from the poor, its hard times
Seems your moneys gone before its spent
If youre not busted then youre badly bent
To give it away doesnt make any sense, its hard times
Hard times, hard times, real hard times, hard times
Now grandma forgets how to knit
And the wise man has lost his wit
And my tailor feels unfit, its hard times, hard times
When the fashion models lost her poise
And santa clause smashes all the toys
When boys could be girls, and girls could be boys, its hard times
Hard times, hard times, real hard times, hard times
When the clock on the walls got no time for jokes
And kreskin says its all a hoax
When the surgeon general chain smokes, its hard times
When the truck driver dont wanna truck
And the hockey player wont touch the puck
And the rock musician dont wanna fool around, its hard times
Hard times, hard times, real hard times
Harder times, hard times
I was talking to this lady the other day and she was telling me..........

song performed by April Wine
Added by Lucian Velea
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The Cōforte of Louers

The prohemye.

The gentyll poetes/vnder cloudy fygures
Do touche a trouth/and clokeit subtylly
Harde is to cōstrue poetycall scryptures
They are so fayned/& made sētēcyously
For som do wryte of loue by fables pryuely
Some do endyte/vpon good moralyte
Of chyualrous actes/done in antyquyte
Whose fables and storyes ben pastymes pleasaunt
To lordes and ladyes/as is theyr lykynge
Dyuers to moralyte/ben oft attendaunt
And many delyte to rede of louynge
Youth loueth aduenture/pleasure and lykynge
Aege foloweth polycy/sadnesse and prudence
Thus they do dyffre/eche in experyence
I lytell or nought/experte in this scyence
Compyle suche bokes/to deuoyde ydlenes
Besechynge the reders/with all my delygence
Where as I offende/for to correct doubtles
Submyttynge me to theyr grete gentylnes
As none hystoryagraffe/nor poete laureate
But gladly wolde folowe/the makynge of Lydgate
Fyrst noble Gower/moralytees dyde endyte
And after hym Cauncers/grete bokes delectable
Lyke a good phylozophre/meruaylously dyde wryte
After them Lydgate/the monke commendable
Made many wonderfull bokes moche profytable
But syth the are deed/& theyr bodyes layde in chest
I pray to god to gyue theyr soules good rest

Finis prohemii.

Whan fayre was phebus/w&supere; his bemes bryght
Amyddes of gemyny/aloft the fyrmament
Without blacke cloudes/castynge his pured lyght
With sorowe opprest/and grete incombrement
Remembrynge well/my lady excellent
Saynge o fortune helpe me to preuayle
For thou knowest all my paynfull trauayle
I went than musynge/in a medowe grene
Myselfe alone/amonge the floures in dede
With god aboue/the futertens is sene
To god I sayd/thou mayst my mater spede
And me rewarde/accordynge to my mede
Thou knowest the trouthe/I am to the true
Whan that thou lyst/thou mayst them all subdue
Who dyde preserue the yonge edyppus
Whiche sholde haue be slayne by calculacyon
To deuoyde grete thynges/the story sheweth vs

[...] Read more

poem by Stephen Hawes
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The Courtship of Miles Standish

I
MILES STANDISH

In the Old Colony days, in Plymouth the land of the Pilgrims
To and fro in a room of his simple and primitive dwelling,
Clad in doublet and hose, and boots of Cordovan leather,
Strode, with a martial air, Miles Standish the Puritan Captain.
Buried in thought he seemed, with his hands behind him, and pausing
Ever and anon to behold his glittering weapons of warfare,
Hanging in shining array along the walls of the chamber, --
Cutlass and corselet of steel, and his trusty sword of Damascus,
Curved at the point and inscribed with its mystical Arabic sentence,
While underneath, in a corner, were fowling-piece, musket, and matchlock.
Short of stature he was, but strongly built and athletic,
Broad in the shoulders, deep-chested, with muscles and sinews of iron;
Brown as a nut was his face, but his russet beard was already
Flaked with patches of snow, as hedges sometimes in November.
Near him was seated John Alden, his friend and household companion,
Writing with diligent speed at a table of pine by the window:
Fair-haired, azure-eyed, with delicate Saxon complexion,
Having the dew of his youth, and the beauty thereof, as the captives
Whom Saint Gregory saw, and exclaimed, "Not Angles, but Angels."
Youngest of all was he of the men who came in the Mayflower.

Suddenly breaking the silence, the diligent scribe interrupting,
Spake, in the pride of his heart, Miles Standish the Captain of Plymouth.
"Look at these arms," he said, "the war-like weapons that hang here
Burnished and bright and clean, as if for parade or inspection!
This is the sword of Damascus I fought with in Flanders; this breastplate,
Well I remember the day! once save my life in a skirmish;
Here in front you can see the very dint of the bullet
Fired point-blank at my heart by a Spanish arcabucero.
Had it not been of sheer steel, the forgotten bones of Miles Standish
Would at this moment be mould, in their grave in the Flemish morasses."
Thereupon answered John Alden, but looked not up from his writing:
"Truly the breath of the Lord hath slackened the speed of the bullet;
He in his mercy preserved you, to be our shield and our weapon!"
Still the Captain continued, unheeding the words of the stripling:
"See, how bright they are burnished, as if in an arsenal hanging;
That is because I have done it myself, and not left it to others.
Serve yourself, would you be well served, is an excellent adage;
So I take care of my arms, as you of your pens and your inkhorn.
Then, too, there are my soldiers, my great, invincible army,
Twelve men, all equipped, having each his rest and his matchlock,
Eighteen shillings a month, together with diet and pillage,
And, like Caesar, I know the name of each of my soldiers!"
This he said with a smile, that danced in his eyes, as the sunbeams
Dance on the waves of the sea, and vanish again in a moment.
Alden laughed as he wrote, and still the Captain continued:
"Look! you can see from this window my brazen howitzer planted

[...] Read more

poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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My Repetitious Future....[LONG; My Life/Personal; Math]

What do I have to look forward to the rest of my fine life?
It depends, to some degree at least, on my dear wife.
If she stays alive and somehow keeps on putting up with me,
I may live twenty more years (ten more than I 'should') . We'll see.

To make the math simple let's say my years left are ten.
So how many times might I repeat things between this day and then?
I mean some of the daily, weekly, monthly, or yearly things I do.
Some are necessary and some I enjoy, but some I don't look forward to.

Sleep: Let's say 10x365x10=36,500 hours, give or take.
That's about two-fifths as many hours as I'll be awake!
How many movie DVDs watched at night from our couch?
That's 5x52x10=2600 movies we'll see. Ouch.

At only two real meals a day, that's still 7300 sittings to dine,
but with an equal number of snacks I think that I'll be fine.
And while Aki slaves to prepare about 3400 dinners
I'll be reading to us aloud from 130 novels of murder, losers, and winners.

If my body cooperates I'll take 2600 walks, give or take.
Some will be near Bay, but most will be near home that I'll make.
And walking my town's streets I'll take down 300 outdated signs,
and trim 200 overhanging branches as long as no one whines.

I'll practice Happy Birthday on piano 3000 times, most times while standing,
and do perhaps 200 little home projects, which may include some sanding.
I'll fill bird feeders 120 times or more, depending on the birds,
and 2000 times add water to bird dishes, removing first their turds.

I'll romance my wife 520 times; that figure may be high.
I'll shave my face a thousand times unless I give beard, again, a try.
Trim toenails 60 times and fingernails about one-o-five.
3650 showers I'll take as long as wife's alive.

I'll have an untold number of bowel movements. Wait and see.
And ‘bout eighteen thousand times, usually without flushing, I'll pee.
I'll have 10 to 100 doctor appointments. Who really knows?
I'll go to dental office twice yearly, though their current business staff blows.

I'll brush my teeth six or seven thousand times, but with no flossing.
I'll punch a time clock no more times; except for from my wife, I'll have no bossing.

Ten or twenty shirts I'll wear out completely, while getting countless others dirty.
I'll call my siblings about 400 times, especially my sister Birdie.
I'll call friends about 2500 times, plus emails, but few letters.
I might wear an outdoor jacket 400 times, but I'll rarely wear a sweater.

I'll take 3600 doses of aspirin, and twice-that of flaxseed oil,
and 500 bottles of red wine to, hopefully, bad health foil.

[...] Read more

poem by Bri Edwards
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Loving You's A Dirty Job But Somebody's Gotta Do It

(jim steinman)
Producer for bonnie: jim steinman
Girl:
When the sky is falling and you're looking round for somewhere to hide
Did you ever call out to someone
Did you ever call out to me, i've never been gone-
I've been right here by your side
There ain't nothin' but clouds
There ain't nothin' but clouds in your eyes
Why don't you believe it when you finally found the truth
Youve been drinking poison water from the fountain of youth
Why don't you stop tearing up everyone you need the most
You're so busy trying to get even
You never even try to get close
I can't explain it away
It doesn't make any sense
To know what it's like
I guess you gotta go through it
It doesn't matter baby
Loving you's a dirty job
But somebody's gotta do it
Boy:
There were times when we'd never fake it
There were times when we'd always make it
There were times when we'd take it to the limit
And we'd never, never, ever leave each other alone
We were flesh and blood and bone
There were times we had it all
There were times we had it all
(alt/ same)
Both:
There were times when we took our chances
There were times we were damn good dancers
There were times when we heard all the answers
In the beating of the drummer and the riches of the rock and the roll
I can see right through your soul
There were times we had it all
There were times we had it all
Boy:
If your fears could only be forgotten
We could pull all of the barriers down
Would you follow your dreams' desire
Would you follow your secret dreams and forbidden fire
Let's just peel out of this town
Both:
It's been nothing but dreams
It's been nothing but dreams until now
Boy:
You're never gonna see it
Both:

[...] Read more

song performed by Bonnie Tyler
Added by Lucian Velea
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Courtship of Miles Standish, The

I
MILES STANDISH

In the Old Colony days, in Plymouth the land of the Pilgrims
To and fro in a room of his simple and primitive dwelling,
Clad in doublet and hose, and boots of Cordovan leather,
Strode, with a martial air, Miles Standish the Puritan Captain.
Buried in thought he seemed, with his hands behind him, and pausing
Ever and anon to behold his glittering weapons of warfare,
Hanging in shining array along the walls of the chamber, --
Cutlass and corselet of steel, and his trusty sword of Damascus,
Curved at the point and inscribed with its mystical Arabic sentence,
While underneath, in a corner, were fowling-piece, musket, and matchlock.
Short of stature he was, but strongly built and athletic,
Broad in the shoulders, deep-chested, with muscles and sinews of iron;
Brown as a nut was his face, but his russet beard was already
Flaked with patches of snow, as hedges sometimes in November.
Near him was seated John Alden, his friend and household companion,
Writing with diligent speed at a table of pine by the window:
Fair-haired, azure-eyed, with delicate Saxon complexion,
Having the dew of his youth, and the beauty thereof, as the captives
Whom Saint Gregory saw, and exclaimed, "Not Angles, but Angels."
Youngest of all was he of the men who came in the Mayflower.

Suddenly breaking the silence, the diligent scribe interrupting,
Spake, in the pride of his heart, Miles Standish the Captain of Plymouth.
"Look at these arms," he said, "the war-like weapons that hang here
Burnished and bright and clean, as if for parade or inspection!
This is the sword of Damascus I fought with in Flanders; this breastplate,
Well I remember the day! once save my life in a skirmish;
Here in front you can see the very dint of the bullet
Fired point-blank at my heart by a Spanish arcabucero.
Had it not been of sheer steel, the forgotten bones of Miles Standish
Would at this moment be mould, in their grave in the Flemish morasses."
Thereupon answered John Alden, but looked not up from his writing:
"Truly the breath of the Lord hath slackened the speed of the bullet;
He in his mercy preserved you, to be our shield and our weapon!"
Still the Captain continued, unheeding the words of the stripling:
"See, how bright they are burnished, as if in an arsenal hanging;
That is because I have done it myself, and not left it to others.
Serve yourself, would you be well served, is an excellent adage;
So I take care of my arms, as you of your pens and your inkhorn.
Then, too, there are my soldiers, my great, invincible army,
Twelve men, all equipped, having each his rest and his matchlock,
Eighteen shillings a month, together with diet and pillage,
And, like Caesar, I know the name of each of my soldiers!"
This he said with a smile, that danced in his eyes, as the sunbeams
Dance on the waves of the sea, and vanish again in a moment.
Alden laughed as he wrote, and still the Captain continued:
"Look! you can see from this window my brazen howitzer planted

[...] Read more

poem by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
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Good Times Roll

Let the good times roll
Let them knock you around
Let the good times roll
Let them make you a clown
Let them leave you up in the air
Let them brush your rock and roll hair
Let the good times roll
Let the good times roll
Let the good times roll
Let the stories be told
They can say what they want
Let the photos be old
Let them show what they want
Let them leave you up in the air
Let them brush your rock and roll hair
Let the good times roll
Let the good times roll-oll
Wont you let the good times roll
Good times roll
If the illusion is real
Let them give you a ride
If they got thunder appeal
Let them be on your side
Let them leave you up in the air
Let them brush your rock and roll hair
Let the good times roll
Wont you let the good times roll-oll
Let the good times roll
Let the good times roll
Wont you let the good times roll
Well let the good times roll
Let =91em roll (good times roll)
Let the good times roll
Oo let the good times roll
Oo let the good times roll
Let =91em roll (good times roll)
Well, let the good times roll
(let the good times roll)
Well let the good times roll
Good times roll
(let the good times roll)
Let the good times roll
Let =91em roll

song performed by Cars
Added by Lucian Velea
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A Hundred Times Over

A hundred times over words have flowed through my fingers to the keys
A hundred times over I have released the freedom that is in my mind,
A hundred times over I have become one with my inter most longing,
A hundred times over I have taken a journey to show you my own world.
A hundred times over I have written of pain and life, of sorrow and joy,
A hundred times over I have used my art to show you what's in my mind
A hundred times over again I will show you.
A hundred times over I have cried for those, whose names are untold,
A hundred times over I have showed you their pain.
A hundred times over I have become their connection to you,
A hundred times over I have showed you the beauty of our world,
A hundred times over I have taken you somewhere you may never see,
A hundred times over my words have screamed the horror of darkness,
A hundred times over I have sung to you the beauty of light,
A hundred times over I have taken your hand to lead you to a new place
A hundred time over I have written for those who have no words to write
A hundred times over I have tried to show truth in a world of lies,
A hundred times over I have have tried to show the world's beauty,
A hundred times over again I will lead down these paths,
A hundred times over and over again I will show you reality,
A hundred times over and over again I shall show you my world,
A hundred times over and over again until you have memorised truth,
A hundred times over again until you can repeat what I have told,
A hundred times over again shall I create an art of words, time, of life.
A hundred times over again I shall do this,
A hundred times over again.
A hundred times over.

poem by Bethany Maxwell
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Stifle not the reader

Reading is an art,
reading is a tool.
Those who think it dumb,
must be such a fool.

Reading is enjoyment,
reading is a blast.
Reading is a separate entity
from the future and the past.

Reading is done in present,
though written in a tense.
Reading is about life,
in surprise or suspense.

Reading is a place of joy,
full of hope and song,
Reading is a place I feel
that I truly do belong.

A trapdoor to a fantasy,
A world thought lost to us,
Reading is a place of wonder,
a place that we can trust.

Why read about reality,
when I can delve into magic.
Why stifle my own happiness,
with scenarios so tragic.

Stifle not the reader,
for it is their choice alone.
Reading is an outlet,
for hearts that turned to stone.

poem by Mandy Lee
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I Don't Think So

I Don't Think So
We've been through this time together
AlI in my mind the love was so alive
Oh I never wanted for another
Then I saw the beginnings of a Iie
Good times and the bad times
Through the good times and the bad times with me
Good times and the bad times
Yeah I wonder why I never see
Good times and the bad times
Oh maybe there was always something wrong
Good times and the bad times
Did l wait too long
Chorus:
You said you'd love me for all of your life
I don't think so
Through the best of the best and the worst of the times
I don't think so
You said the world was a beautiful place
l don't think so
You swore the love was perfectly sale
I don't think so
People can only stay together
If in their hearts they know they can say what's on their minds
Would you say
Good times and the bad times
If it can't really be then I gotta move on
Good times and the bad times
Is it really time
Chorus: (repeat)
Said the check's in the mail and the maiI's on time
I don't think so
Said out of touch ain't out of mind
I don't think so
Couldn't live without me, and that's a fact
I don't think so
Love is real and it's not an act
I don't think so
Come on
Good times and the bad times
I don't think so
Good times and the bad times
Baby our love was a beautiful thing
I don't think so
Good times and the bad times
You said you'd love me for all of your life
I don't think so
Good times and the bad times
Through the best of the best and the worst of times
I don't think so

[...] Read more

song performed by Hall & Oates
Added by Lucian Velea
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Hermann And Dorothea - VI. Klio

THE AGE.

WHEN the pastor ask'd the foreign magistrate questions,
What the people had suffer'd, how long from their homes they had wander'd,
Then the man replied:--'By no means short are our sorrows,
For we have drunk the bitters of many a long year together,
All the more dreadful, because our fairest hopes have been blighted.
Who can deny that his heart beat wildly and high in his bosom
And that with purer pulses his breast more freely was throbbing,
When the newborn sun first rose in the whole of its glory,
When we heard of the right of man, to have all things in common,
Heard of noble Equality, and of inspiriting Freedom!
Each man then hoped to attain new life for himself, and the fetters
Which had encircled many a land appear'd to be broken,
Fetters held by the hands of sloth and selfish indulgence.
Did not all nations turn their gaze, in those days of emotion,
Tow'rds the world's capital, which so many a long year had been so,
And then more than ever deserved a name so distinguish'd?
Were not the men, who first proclaim'd so noble a message,
Names that are worthy to rank with the highest the sun ever shone on,
Did not each give to mankind his courage and genius and language?

'And we also, as neighbours, at first were warmly excited.
Presently after began the war, and the train of arm'd Frenchmen
Nearer approach'd; at first they appear'd to bring with them friendship,
And they brought it in fact; for all their souls were exalted.
And the gay trees of liberty ev'rywhere gladly they planted,
Promising unto each his own, and the government long'd for.
Greatly at this was youth, and greatly old age was delighted,
And the joyous dance began round the newly-raised standards.
In this manner the overpowering Frenchmen soon conquer'd
First the minds of the men, with their fiery lively proceedings,
Then the hearts of the women, with irresistible graces.
Even the strain of the war, with its many demands, seem'd but trifling,
For before our eyes the distance by hope was illumined,
Luring our gaze far ahead into paths now first open'd before us.
'O how joyful the time, when with his bride the glad bridegroom
Whirls in the dance, awaiting the day that will join them for ever
But more glorious far was the time when the Highest of all things
Which man's mind can conceive, close by and attainable seemed.
Then were the tongues of all loosen'd, and words of wisdom and feeling
Not by greybeards alone, but by men and by striplings were utter'd.

'But the heavens soon clouded became. For the sake of the mast'ry
Strove a contemptible crew, unfit to accomplish good actions.
Then they murder'd each other, and took to oppressing their new-found
Neighbours and brothers, and sent on missions whole herds of selfÄseekers
And the superiors took to carousing and robbing by wholesale,
And the inferiors down to the lowest caroused and robb'd also.
Nobody thought of aught else than having enough for tomorrow.

[...] Read more

poem by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
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The Impossible

What seems to be impossible, is realized through the God of Israel,
By God, all things are possible, while His purpose, God does fulfill.
Christ is Immanuel, God with us, and in The Lord, we place our trust,
Though men are but of dust, He does the impossible in men like us.

All the impossible for God above, is nothing for His Awesome Love,
Guiding us in times deemed tough; showing all what faith’s made of.
The impossible comes many ways, as we live out these earthly days,
But as the task, to Him we raise, He turns that impossible into praise.

The things in life that men pursue, Christ, in Heaven above foreknew,
All difficult things we need to do, can and will be completed through,
The authority of the Living God, who reigns above this earth we trod,
As God guides us with staff and rod, as we travel on the earthly sod.

Even situations that we can face, would be impossible without Grace,
As we look back to time and place, God’s Hand in lives we can trace.
His hand of Grace reaches down, where the impossible can be found,
With a love that’s sure and sound, providing a Grace that will abound.

Nothing is impossible for Him, who sent His Son to die for all our sin,
Using our faith God puts within, He helps us through the time we’re in.
All the impossible men conceive, God works out in those who believe,
So The Spirit in others may conceive, desire that His Son they receive.

(12/2007)

poem by Bob Gotti
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Love Action

When you're in love
You know you're in love
No matter what you try to do
You might as well resign yourself
To what you're going through
If you're a hard man or if you're a child
It still might get to you
Don't kid yourself you've seen it all before
A million mouths have said that too
I've had my hard times in the past
I've been a husband and a lover too
I've lain alone and cried at night
Over what love made me do
And the loved ones who let me down
And couldn't share my point of view
But this is philomena talking
I want to tell you
What i've found to be true
I love your love action
Lust's just a distraction
No talking, just looking
Watching your love action
I believe, i believe what the old man said
Though i know that there's no lord above
I believe in me, i believe in you
And you know i believe in love
I believe in truth though i lie a lot
I feel the pain from the push and shove
No matter what you put me through
I'll still believe in love
And i say
I love your love action
Lust's just a distraction
No talking, just looking
Watching your love action
I love your love action
Lust's just a distraction
No talking, just looking
Watching your love action
I love your love action
Lust's just a distraction
No talking - i'm just checking
To see if someone out there
Is really reading all this

song performed by Human League
Added by Lucian Velea
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A Fable For Critics

Phoebus, sitting one day in a laurel-tree's shade,
Was reminded of Daphne, of whom it was made,
For the god being one day too warm in his wooing,
She took to the tree to escape his pursuing;
Be the cause what it might, from his offers she shrunk,
And, Ginevra-like, shut herself up in a trunk;
And, though 'twas a step into which he had driven her,
He somehow or other had never forgiven her;
Her memory he nursed as a kind of a tonic,
Something bitter to chew when he'd play the Byronic,
And I can't count the obstinate nymphs that he brought over
By a strange kind of smile he put on when he thought of her.
'My case is like Dido's,' he sometimes remarked;
'When I last saw my love, she was fairly embarked
In a laurel, as _she_ thought-but (ah, how Fate mocks!)
She has found it by this time a very bad box;
Let hunters from me take this saw when they need it,-
You're not always sure of your game when you've treed it.
Just conceive such a change taking place in one's mistress!
What romance would be left?-who can flatter or kiss trees?
And, for mercy's sake, how could one keep up a dialogue
With a dull wooden thing that will live and will die a log,-
Not to say that the thought would forever intrude
That you've less chance to win her the more she is wood?
Ah! it went to my heart, and the memory still grieves,
To see those loved graces all taking their leaves;
Those charms beyond speech, so enchanting but now,
As they left me forever, each making its bough!
If her tongue _had_ a tang sometimes more than was right,
Her new bark is worse than ten times her old bite.'

Now, Daphne-before she was happily treeified-
Over all other blossoms the lily had deified,
And when she expected the god on a visit
('Twas before he had made his intentions explicit),
Some buds she arranged with a vast deal of care,
To look as if artlessly twined in her hair,
Where they seemed, as he said, when he paid his addresses,
Like the day breaking through, the long night of her tresses;
So whenever he wished to be quite irresistible,
Like a man with eight trumps in his hand at a whist-table
(I feared me at first that the rhyme was untwistable,
Though I might have lugged in an allusion to Cristabel),-
He would take up a lily, and gloomily look in it,
As I shall at the--, when they cut up my book in it.

Well, here, after all the bad rhyme I've been spinning,
I've got back at last to my story's beginning:
Sitting there, as I say, in the shade of his mistress,
As dull as a volume of old Chester mysteries,

[...] Read more

poem by James Russell Lowell
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Fifth Book

AURORA LEIGH, be humble. Shall I hope
To speak my poems in mysterious tune
With man and nature,–with the lava-lymph
That trickles from successive galaxies
Still drop by drop adown the finger of God,
In still new worlds?–with summer-days in this,
That scarce dare breathe, they are so beautiful?–
With spring's delicious trouble in the ground
Tormented by the quickened blood of roots.
And softly pricked by golden crocus-sheaves
In token of the harvest-time of flowers?–
With winters and with autumns,–and beyond,
With the human heart's large seasons,–when it hopes
And fears, joys, grieves, and loves?–with all that strain
Of sexual passion, which devours the flesh
In a sacrament of souls? with mother's breasts,
Which, round the new made creatures hanging there,
Throb luminous and harmonious like pure spheres?–
With multitudinous life, and finally
With the great out-goings of ecstatic souls,
Who, in a rush of too long prisoned flame,
Their radiant faces upward, burn away
This dark of the body, issuing on a world
Beyond our mortal?–can I speak my verse
So plainly in tune to these things and the rest,
That men shall feel it catch them on the quick,
As having the same warrant over them
To hold and move them, if they will or no,
Alike imperious as the primal rhythm
Of that theurgic nature? I must fail,
Who fail at the beginning to hold and move
One man,–and he my cousin, and he my friend,
And he born tender, made intelligent,
Inclined to ponder the precipitous sides
Of difficult questions; yet, obtuse to me,–
Of me, incurious! likes me very well,
And wishes me a paradise of good,
Good looks, good means, and good digestion!–ay,
But otherwise evades me, puts me off
With kindness, with a tolerant gentleness,–
Too light a book for a grave man's reading! Go,
Aurora Leigh: be humble.
There it is;
We women are too apt to look to one,
Which proves a certain impotence in art.
We strain our natures at doing something great,
Far less because it's something great to do,
Than, haply, that we, so, commend ourselves
As being not small, and more appreciable
To some one friend. We must have mediators

[...] Read more

poem by Elizabeth Barrett Browning from Aurora Leigh (1856)
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Good Times Are Killing Me

MODEST MOUSE - The Good Times Are Killing Me
Album: Good News For People Who Love Bad News (2004)
The good times are killing me.
Here we go!
Got dirt, got air, got water and I know you can carry on.
Shrug off shortsighted false excitement and oh what can I say?
Have one, have twenty more "one mores" and oh it does not relent.
The good times are killing me.
Kick butt buzz-cut dickheads
who didn't like what I said.
The good times are killing me.
Jaws clenched tight we talked all night,
oh but what the hell did we say?
The good times are killing me.
The good times are killing me.
The good times are killing me.
Fed up with all that LSD.
Need more sleep than coke or methamphetamines.
Late nights with warm, warm whiskey.
I guess the good times they were all just killing me.
Got dirt, got air, got water and I know you can carry on.
The good times are killing me.
Enough hair of the dog to make myself an entire rug.
The good times are killing me.
Have one, have twenty more "one mores" and oh it does not relent.
The good times are killing me.
Shit-kicker city slickers who all wanted me dead.
The good times are killing me.
Get sucked in and stuck in late nights
with more folks that I don't know.
The good times are killing me.
The good times are killing me.
The good times are killing me.
The good times are killing me.
The good times are killing me.
The good times are killing me.
The good times are killing me.
The good times are killing me.
The good times are killing me.

song performed by Modest Mouse
Added by Lucian Velea
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At A Lost To Love's Meaning

Painful changes come.
Painful...
Changes.

For those fixed to things...
And at a lost,
To love's meaning.

Painful changes come.
Painful...
Changes.

For those fixed to things...
And at a lost,
To love's meaning.

Emptiness is a feeling many feeling an emptiness!

Painful changes come.
Painful...
Changes.

Emptiness is a feeling many feeling an emptiness!

For those fixed to things...
And at a lost,
To love's meaning.

Painful changes come.
Painful...
Changes.

Emptiness is a feeling many feeling an emptiness!
And at a lost,
To love's meaning.

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Hermann And Dorothea - I. Kalliope

FATE AND SYMPATHY.

'NE'ER have I seen the market and streets so thoroughly empty!
Still as the grave is the town, clear'd out! I verily fancy
Fifty at most of all our inhabitants still may be found there.
People are so inquisitive! All are running and racing
Merely to see the sad train of poor fellows driven to exile.
Down to the causeway now building, the distance nearly a league is,
And they thitherward rush, in the heat and the dust of the noonday.
As for me, I had rather not stir from my place just to stare at
Worthy and sorrowful fugitives, who, with what goods they can carry,
Leaving their own fair land on the further side of the Rhine-stream,
Over to us are crossing, and wander through the delightful
Nooks of this fruitful vale, with all its twistings and windings.
Wife, you did right well to bid our son go and meet them,
Taking with him old linen, and something to eat and to drink too,
Just to give to the poor; the rich are bound to befriend them.
How he is driving along! How well he holds in the horses!
Then the new little carriage looks very handsome; inside it
Four can easily sit, besides the one on the coachbox.
This time he is alone; how easily-turns it the corner!'
Thus to his wife the host of the Golden Lion discoursed,
Sitting at ease in the porch of his house adjoining the market.
Then replied as follows the shrewd and sensible hostess
'Father, I don't like giving old linen away, for I find it
Useful in so many ways, 'tis not to he purchased for money
Just when it's wanted. And yet to-day I gladly have given
Many excellent articles, shirts and covers and suchlike;
For I have heard of old people and children walking half-naked.
Will you forgive me, too, for having ransacked your presses?
That grand dressing-gown, cover'd with Indian flowers all over,
Made of the finest calico, lined with excellent flannel,
I have despatch'd with the rest; 'tis thin, old, quite out of fashion.'

But the worthy landlord only smiled, and then answer'd
I shall dreadfully miss that ancient calico garment,
Genuine Indian stuff! They're not to be had any longer.
Well! I shall wear it no more. And your poor husband henceforward
Always must wear a surtout, I suppose, or commonplace jacket,
Always must put on his boots; good bye to cap and to slippers!'

'See,' continued his wife, 'a few are already returning
Who have seen the procession, which long ago must have pass'd by.
See how dusty their shoes are, and how their faces are glowing
Each one carries a handkerchief, wiping the sweat from his forehead.
I, for one, wouldn't hurry and worry myself in such weather
Merely to see such a sight! I'm certain to hear all about it.'

And the worthy father, speaking with emphasis, added
'Such fine weather seldom lasts through the whole of the harvest

[...] Read more

poem by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
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