Category Archives: Philosophical

The Visit Of The Gods (Imitated From Schiller) By Samuel Taylor Coleridge

Samuel Taylor Coleridge

Never, believe me,
Appear the Immortals,
Never alone:
Scarce had I welcomed the Sorrow-beguiler,
Iacchus! but in came Boy Cupid the Smiler;
Lo! Phoebus the Glorious descends from his throne!
They advance, they float in, the Olympians all!
With Divinities fills my
Terrestrial hall!

How shall I yield you
Due entertainment,
Celestial quire?
Me rather, bright guests! with your wings of upbuoyance
Bear aloft to your homes, to your banquets of joyance,
That the roofs of Olympus may echo my lyre!
Hah! we mount! on their pinions they waft up my soul!
O give me the nectar!
O fill me the bowl!

Give him the nectar!
Pour out for the poet,
Hebe! pour free!
Quicken his eyes with celestial dew,
That Styx the detested no more he may view,
And like one of us Gods may conceit him to be!
Thanks, Hebe! I quaff it! Io Paean, I cry!
The wine of the Immortals
Forbids me to die!

The Ghost Dancer By Edwin Brock

Edwin Brock

It is surprising to be here, now,
among these people at the end.
Far way, or so it seems, from
anywhere where anything happened.
The tiny river Tas drags its heels
past our windows, barely able
to push aside the willowherb and reeds.
The swans have flown to deeper water
and one pike has cleared the pond.
Yet it has happened to someone,
as surely as the ghost we saw
that wild autumn evening
dancing downhill beside
my father’s grave. It was more real
than any question or belief,
more substantial.
I can still feel the wind in the trees
and the unaccountable silence
waving us away.

None of us wants less than this:
looking over the strands
of history
to one moment of memory
recalled in love.

Just Pondering Part 666

Money

Money (Photo credit: 401(K) 2013)

For more years than I could really fathom, a lot of people have been looking at money as an evil force and those who had their palms heavily greased with it, were thought to be in league with the Devil.

Now, for the record, I do not believe that anyone who is rich is evil; but a lot of people seem to think so.

In Sunday school, they drilled into the young impressionable minds of the kids that the love of money is the root of all evil (So, you can clearly see how people began looking at money in a negative manner).

Certain pastors like to entertain their congregation by telling them which popular celebrity is dealing with the Devil.

And, some documentaries have mentioned the names of certain actors, actresses, musicians, singers, sportsmen and sportswomen, writers, political leaders and businessmen and businesswomen and even some spiritual leaders of bargaining with the Devil.

As a result of all of this, a lot of people are lead to believe that if a person or an organization has a heavy cash flow coming in, they are inherently evil and that they signed away the rights for their Soul for a bit of fame and wealth; while there might be some truth to this, those who are of LOVE and Light are capable of accessing wealth by following Universal Laws.

Did the Dark Cabal brainwash the masses into believing that money is evil? I would certainly say so, because if we wanted nothing to do with it, they would have more for themselves.

Now, if you want nothing to do with money, it is all right; but, don’t hate it because it is evil. Money is nothing but a creation of man — one that is made up of atoms and electrons nonetheless (And, there is nothing evil in atoms and electrons; only in the manner in which we use them; for example they can be used to create a highly explosive device. Or, they can be used positively; like the creation of free energy).

Money has gotten a bad reputation and it is time that someone set the record straight.

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Bereft By Arthur Henry Adams

Arthur Henry Adams

FOR nine drear nights my darling has been dead;
And ah, dear God! I cannot dream of her!
Now I shall see her always lying white—
A frozen flower beneath a snow of flowers,
Drowned in a sea of fragrance. I shall hear
In every silence of the coming years
Only the muffled horror from the room
Where I had left my little child asleep—
And found a nameless thing shut in and sealed…
And I shall never feel her breath that kissed
Me closer than her lips did; for the thick,
Dead perfume of slow-drooping flowers has drawn
A veil across my memory.…She is dead;
For nine drear nights I have not dreamed of her.
When, all a tangle of wee clambering limbs,
And little gusts of laughter and of tears,
Sun-flecked and shadow-stricken every hour,
She played about me, I could lie all night
And dream of her. She came in wondrous ways,
Hiding behind the dark to startle me;
Then leaping down the vistas of the night,
And yielding all her wistful soul to me
With kisses tenderer and words more sweet
Than that mad, random vehemence of love
She lavished on me through her laughing day.

And now she has been dead nine dreary nights,
And ah, dear God! I cannot dream of her!
Her idle hoop is hung against the wall,
And in the dusk her cherished garments seem
As if still warmed with all her eager life.
And here the childish story that she wrote
Herself, and never finished;—how one day
With puzzled pucker of her brow she stopped
Mid-sentence! as if God had gravely held
A finger up to hush her, and she knew
She was to keep His secrets;—soon, so soon,
Perhaps He whispered low, she would know all.
And now she has been dead nine long sad nights;
And ah, dear God! I cannot dream of her!
So I shall see her always lying white—
A frozen flower beneath a snow of flowers,
Drowned in a sea of fragrance. Now it seems
As if the memories I hold of her
Have shrivelled with the lilies that she loved
And lay with on her little narrow bed.
And now she will not murmur through my dreams
Those faint, strange words that mean so much in dreams,
And wither with the morn. I lie awake
And whisper to my hopes, “To-night I’ll hear
Her petulant hands knock at my dreams’ shut gate;

And oh, the gladness when I let her in!
Hush! what a patter of impatient feet
Down the long staircase of the stars!” And then
I sleep, and with an endless weariness
I grope among the spaces of the dark
For rhythm of her unresting feet, or touch
Of her caressing fingers, or the kiss
And whisper of her little self-willed curls;
But never lifts her laugh across the dark,
And never may I smooth her wilful curls,
And when I wake again I see her yet,
So pitifully thin and chill and straight,
Who used to be all curves—a living flame!
For nine drear nights my darling has been dead,
And till I die I cannot dream of her.
Perhaps she aches to come, shut in her grave—
So deep to dig to hide that tender form!
Dear God! she is too frail and weak to climb
The horror of those walls that hedge her in;
And when you call her to you let me be
Close by her side to lift her little feet
Up to the grass and sunshine of this world,
That lacking her is now so desolate.
So I have called and called…she does not come.
And yet I know the way into my heart
She has not quite forgotten…She does not come.
And now for nine drear nights she has been dead;
And ah, dear God! I cannot dream of her!

The Air Is A Root By Jean Arp

Jean Arp

The air is a root.
The stones are filled with tenderness. bravo.
bravo. the stones are filled with air.
the stones are watery branches.
on the stones replacing the mouth
grows the skeleton of a leaf. bravo.
A stone voice face to face and foot to foot
with a stone glance.
the stones are tormented like flesh
the stones are clouds for their second
nature dances to them on their third nose.
bravo. bravo.
when the stones scratch themselves, nails grow
on the roots. bravo. bravo.
the stones woke to eat the exact
hour.

Resilient Tree

Resilient Tree

Here is the link to the latest article on my other blog: Resilient Tree

Bloggers Will Always Unfollow Each Other

Apple-Tablet-PC.jpgHere is the link to the latest article on my other blog: Bloggers Will Always Unfollow Each Other

Thou And You By Alexander Sergeyevich Pushkin

Alexander Sergeyevich Pushkin

She substituted, by a chance,
For empty ‘you’ – the gentle ‘thou’;
And all my happy dreams, at once,
In loving heart again resound.
In bliss and silence do I stay,
Unable to maintain my role:
‘Oh, how sweet you are!’ I say -
‘How I love thee!’ says my soul.

Five Ways To Kill A Man By Edwin Brock

Edwin Brock

There are many cumbersome ways to kill a man.
You can make him carry a plank of wood
to the top of a hill and nail him to it. To do this
properly you require a crowd of people
wearing sandals, a cock that crows, a cloak
to dissect, a sponge, some vinegar and one
man to hammer the nails home.

Or you can take a length of steel,
shaped and chased in a traditional way,
and attempt to pierce the metal cage he wears.
But for this you need white horses,
English trees, men with bows and arrows,
at least two flags, a prince, and a
castle to hold your banquet in.

Dispensing with nobility, you may, if the wind
allows, blow gas at him. But then you need
a mile of mud sliced through with ditches,
not to mention black boots, bomb craters,
more mud, a plague of rats, a dozen songs
and some round hats made of steel.

In an age of aeroplanes, you may fly
miles above your victim and dispose of him by
pressing one small switch. All you then
require is an ocean to separate you, two
systems of government, a nation’s scientists,
several factories, a psychopath and
land that no-one needs for several years.

These are, as I began, cumbersome ways
to kill a man. Simpler, direct, and much more neat
is to see that he is living somewhere in the middle
of the twentieth century, and leave him there.

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