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Posted on 10/05/2006 8:13:09 PM PDT by Soaring Feather
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Birthday Anniversaries.
St. Augustine of Hippo, a theologian, in 354;
King Edward III of England in 1312;
Scottish author Robert Louis Stevenson in 1850;
U.S. Supreme Court Justice Louis Brandeis in 1856;
actor Richard Mulligan in 1932;
TV producer/director Garry Marshall in 1934 (age 72);
and actors Dack Rambo in 1941;
Joe Mantegna in 1947 (age 59),
Whoopi Goldberg in 1955 (age 51),
Chris Noth in 1954 (age 52)
and Tracy Scoggins in 1953 (age 53).
Good morning,
Ms Feather!
Do you walk across the shards and rubble, O Mary my mother,
Seeing the dark that man will do in the Father's name,
Listening to the grieving voices adding heat to the flame
That seems to be a never ending pyre of hate for one another,
And shed tears for all those who will not listen to your Son,
And shed tears for those who die, one by one,
Cain's endless slaughter of his brother?
Holy Mother of God, Immaculate and true
You who listen to our cries and pleas of desperation
You who work to aid in the darkest situation,
You, whose heart reaches out endlessly anew,
Forgive us for the tears we in our anger have caused,
May your prayers lead us, our anger paused,
To that place your Son will show us what to do.
Heart wrenching prayer. Thank You.
The Years
by Sara Teasdale
To-night I close my eyes and see
A strange procession passing me --
The years before I saw your face
Go by me with a wistful grace;
They pass, the sensitive, shy years,
As one who strives to dance, half blind with tears.
The years went by and never knew
That each one brought me nearer you;
Their path was narrow and apart
And yet it led me to your heart --
Oh, sensitive, shy years, oh, lonely years,
That strove to sing with voices drowned in tears.
To E.
by Sara Teasdale
I have remembered beauty in the night,
Against black silences I waked to see
A shower of sunlight over Italy
And green Ravello dreaming on her height;
I have remembered music in the dark,
The clean swift brightness of a fugue of Bach's,
And running water singing on the rocks
When once in English woods I heard a lark.
But all remembered beauty is no more
Than a vague prelude to the thought of you --
You are the rarest soul I ever knew,
Lover of beauty, knightliest and best;
My thoughts seek you as waves that seek the shore,
And when I think of you, I am at rest.
Buried Love
by Sara Teasdale
I have come to bury Love
Beneath a tree,
In the forest tall and black
Where none can see.
I shall put no flowers at his head,
Nor stone at his feet,
For the mouth I loved so much
Was bittersweet.
I shall go no more to his grave,
For the woods are cold.
I shall gather as much of joy
As my hands can hold.
I shall stay all day in the sun
Where the wide winds blow, --
But oh, I shall cry at night
When none will know.
Thanks Knitting A Conundrum,very beautiful.I finally got the newsletter out and one of your poem's is in it.It mailed to day:)
Good morning,
Ms Feather!
Quote for the day!
When choosing between two evils, I always like to
try the one I've never tried before.
-- Mae West.
Good morning SF. I hope the day finds you well.
Ah, thank you. I have not been loading you up with pings, Robert's home!!
Have a grand day SD. ;)
Swordsman’s Song
Black the soul and dark this day’s deeds
when the battle rage rises up within
not a thought of good or bad as sin
only how bright the sword that must feed
Weary muscles carry one on, duty is its name
when to just survive you surrender all
letting battle carry you on to win or fall
and care not a whit of titles or fleeting fame
Subtle soft that hissing sound of the hurling blade
swiftly separating souls from dross amid the fight
as if feasting on all the crimson flood in sight
until all reason and reasons begin at last to fade
In shattering silence of the after, as loud as war itself
one finds shuddering moments of madness so hard to still
and only ragged scraps of memories of all one had to kill
you hope one day to leave them, there upon that dusty shelf
The arm is weak with ancient age, the eyes tired by the light
and only memories remain of times amid battles rage and fire
and now but harmless dreams, of which one is oh so sure to tire
yet the feel of the swinging sword remains in the mind at night
Lord of battle, the silvered sword, feasting as is its right
shaped for battle by the hand of man, forging him in return
for both are part of the other, for in each the other burns
halves of a greater soul, warrior bred, as warriors fight
Wonderful, wonderful poem! Thank You.
So much action going on. WOW the battle scenes are so vivid.
Good morning,
Ms Feather!
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