1 posted on
09/30/2017 10:55:02 PM PDT by
JustAmy
To: The Mayor; MEG33; Kitty Mittens; LUV W; trisham; left that other site; geologist; ...
![](https://images49.fotki.com/v1658/photos/1/107747/6181754/octatamys08-vi.jpg?1506840464)
Graphic by MamaBear
October's Party
October gave a party;
The leaves by hundreds came-
The Chestnuts, Oaks, and Maples,
And leaves of every name.
The Sunshine spread a carpet,
And everything was grand,
Miss Weather led the dancing,
Professor Wind the band."
~~ George Cooper ~~
2 posted on
09/30/2017 11:04:51 PM PDT by
JustAmy
(Just Because!)
To: JustAmy
Please add me to your ping list!
Thanks! :^)
txnativegop
4 posted on
09/30/2017 11:31:11 PM PDT by
txnativegop
(The political left, Mankinds intellectual hemlock)
To: Jim Robinson; JustAmy; MEG33; jaycee; dutchess; GodBlessUSA; deadhead; LUV W; DollyCali; Gabz; ...
![](http://rusimages.homestead.com/CupOcoffee.jpg)
Freep mail me to be on or off the Daily Bread ping list
It Takes Time to Grow
October 1, 2017
Speaking the truth in love, we will grow to become in every respect the mature body of him who is the head, that is, Christ.
Ephesians 4:15
On her first day in preschool, young Charlotte was asked to draw a picture of herself. Her artwork featured a simple orb for a body, an oblong head, and two circle eyes. On her last day of preschool, Charlotte was again directed to draw a self-portrait. This one showed a little girl in a colorful dress, a smiling face with distinct features, and a cascade of beautiful red tresses. The school had used a simple assignment to demonstrate the difference that time can make in the level of maturity.
While we accept that it takes time for children to mature, we may grow impatient with ourselves or fellow believers who show slow spiritual growth. We rejoice when we see the fruit of the Spirit (Gal. 5:2223), but are disheartened when we observe a sinful choice. The author of Hebrews spoke of this when he wrote to the church: Though by this time you ought to be teachers, you need someone to teach you the elementary truths of Gods word all over again (Heb. 5:12).
As we continue to pursue intimacy with Jesus ourselves, lets pray for each other and patiently come alongside those who love God but who seem to struggle with spiritual growth. Speaking the truth in love, lets continue to encourage one another, so that together we may grow to become in every respect the mature body of him who is the head, that is, Christ (Eph. 4:15).
Lord, we love You! In our walk with You, help us to receive and give encouragement.
Words of truth spoken in love can guide us all toward maturity in Christ.
When children begin to accept responsibility for their actions and demonstrate more patience, we say they are growing up. The children of God are to grow up spirituallyto express a heart for God and others in the spirit and attitudes of Christ. In Pauls New Testament letter to the Ephesians his message is subtle but clear. He knows that just as there is a time to celebrate the miracle and wonder of a child, there is a time to get beyond childishness. But he writes with patience and gentleness and doesnt set a timeframe, reminding us that our desire for maturity must be expressed with love (4:2).
For further study on spiritual growth read God at the Center.
9 posted on
10/01/2017 5:34:32 AM PDT by
The Mayor
(Honesty means never having to look over your shoulder.)
To: JustAmy
Collecting poetry from ancestors is one of my hobbies, which got me writing some of my own:
Ash and Eucalyptus,
Chinese Elm and common Plum;
Bark of generations built from
Lansing, Bell and Livingston.
Each spring will see them waken
To their pulsing blood-red sap,
And set upon their outstretched hand
A leaf.
A leaf.
A small and fragile promise
To the wind and to the sky
That dreams of long dead leaves
Can live again and never truly die.
To trust there will be warmth again.
To trust there will be birth.
To trust that fallen leaves
Are not forgotten on the earth.
I never knew my father
And yet I’ve come to know him well
Through the stories writ in crumbled leaves
And the tales our old tree tells.
He was a soldier, and a poet,
And a lover and a man
And I feel his passion flood my veins
As I hold his phantom hand.
14 posted on
10/01/2017 9:41:21 AM PDT by
mairdie
To: JustAmy
This thread seems mostly religious, so I hope I’m not out of place in posting something secular I wrote this week.
We’ll have our global warming,
it’s gonna be the rage.
The benefits are forming
to stall the next ice age.
But, hark, what muffled grousing
the transom overflows,
as climate change arouses
funky festooned foes.
It’s a cascade of excresence
to make mankind regress
to living like a peasant
while using less and less.
Crank up the moth-balled factories
and turn the A/C down.
Build nuclear reactors
to light your life and town.
15 posted on
10/01/2017 11:30:39 AM PDT by
sparklite2
(I'm less interested in the rights I have than the liberties I can take.)
To: Jim Robinson
17 posted on
10/01/2017 2:09:57 PM PDT by
JustAmy
(Just Because!)
To: Mama_Bear
![](https://images53.fotki.com/v1495/photos/1/107747/420032/birthday26a-vi.jpg)
Wishing you a very Happy Birthday, Lori.
Tho it was a sad day. I know you enjoyed spending time with you family.
Also, Thank you for the wonderful graphics.
I appreciate you.
Big Hugs.
28 posted on
10/01/2017 6:33:07 PM PDT by
JustAmy
(Just Because!)
To: JustAmy
I'm not religious, but I respect those who make that central to their lives. 5th great grandfather, Henry Livingston, the author of 'Night Before Christmas' about whom I wrote, found tremendous joy in religion, both spiritually and thru being active in his church to help those less fortunate. He was also a watercolorist. Two of his poems always hit deep. I don't know the "St. John" reference in the second, so I can't tell if that poem comes from, or was inspired by, some bible verse. Perhaps someone else knows.
Without distinction, fame, or note
Upon the tide of life I float,
A bubble almost lost to sight
As cobweb frail, as vapor light;
And yet within that bubble lies
A spark of life which never dies.
![](http://www.henrylivingston.com/writing/poetry/images/poemmss/withoutdistinction-650.jpg)
*****
GOD IS LOVE
St. John
I LOVE my feeble voice to raise
In humble pray'r and ardent praise
Till my rapt soul attains that height
When all is glory and delight.
I LOVE to read the book of Heav'n
Which Grace to fall'n man has giv'n;
Where evr'y page and evr'y line
Proclaims its origin divine.
I LOVE that consecrated Fane
Where GOD has stamp'd his holy name:
United with my brethren there
We hear the word and join in pray'r.
I LOVE to join the pious few
And there the covenant renew,
Recount our joys, relate our grief
And jointly ask from GOD relief.
I LOVE on Pity's wing to fly
To sooth the deep expiring sigh,
To wipe the tear from wan distress
And light a smile on Sorrow's face.
I LOVE to view domestic bliss
Bound with the ligature of peace,
Where Parents - Children - All agree
To tune the lute of harmony.
I LOVE the morning's roseate ray,
I bless the glorious march of day,
And when the lulling ev'ning comes
I love the night amidst its glooms.
I LOVE to anticipate the day
When the freed spirit wings its way
To the Jerusalem above
Where reigns 'th eternal SOURCE of LOVE.
For my beloved daughter Jane.
H. L.
78 [years old]
![](http://www.henrylivingston.com/writing/poetry/images/poemmss/godislove1-650.jpg)
69 posted on
10/04/2017 9:10:09 AM PDT by
mairdie
To: JustAmy; LUV W; Kathy in Alaska; beachn4fun; All
All Hallow's Eve, Hallow E'en, Halloween, Day of the Dead, Samhain. By whatever name it has been called, this special night preceding All Hallows day (November 1st) has been considered for centuries as one of the most magical nights of the year. A night of power, when the veil that separates our world from the Otherworld is at its thinnest.
As ubiquitous as Halloween celebrations are throughout the world, few of us know that the true origin of Halloween is a ceremony of honoring our ancestors and the day of the dead.
A time when the veils between the worlds were thinner, and so many could "see" the other side of life. A time in the year when the spiritual and material worlds touched for a moment, and a greater potential exists for magical creation.
ANCIENT RITES
In ancient times, this day was a special and honored day of the year.
In the Celtic calendar, it was one of the most important days of the year, representing a mid point in the year, Samhain, or "summer's end". Occuring opposite the great Spring Festival of May Day, or Beltain, this day represented the turning point of the year, the eve of the new year which begins with the onset of the dark phase of the year.
And while celebrated by the Celts, the origin of this day has connections to other cultures as well, such as Egypt, and in Mexico as Dia de la Muerta, or the day of the dead.
The Celts believed that the normal laws of space and time were held in abeyance during this time, allowing a special window where the spirit world could intermingle with the living.
It was a night when the dead could cross the veils and return to the land of the living to celebrate with their family, or clan. As such, the great burial mounds of Ireland were lit up with torches lining the walls, so the spirits of the dead could find their way.
JACK-O-LANTERNS
Out of this ancient tradition comes one of our most famous icons of the holiday: the Jack-o-lantern. Originating from Irish folkfore, the Jack-o-lantern was used as a light for the lost soul of Jack, a notorious trickster, stuck between worlds. Jack is said to have tricked the devil into a truck of a tree and by carving an image of a cross in the tree's trunk, he trapped the devil there. His pranks denied him access to Heaven, and having angered the devil also to Hell, so Jack was a lost soul, trapped between worlds. As a consolation, the devil gave him a sole ember to light his way through the darkness between worlds.
Originally in Ireland turnips were carved out and candles placed inside as lanterns lit to help guide Jacks lost spirit back home. Hence the term: Jack-o-lanterns. Later, when immigrants came to the new world, pumpkins were more readily available, and so the carved pumpkins carrying a lit candle served the same function.
FESTIVAL FOR THE DEAD
As the Church began to take hold in Europe the ancient Pagan rituals were co-opted into festivals of the Church. While the Church could not support a general feast for all the dead, it created a festival for the blessed dead, all those hallowed so, All Hallow's, was transformed into All Saints and All Souls day. Today, we have lost the significance of this most significant time of year which in modern times has turned into a candy fest with kids dressing up as action heroes.
Many cultures have ceremonies to honor their dead. In so doing, they complete a cycle of birth and death, and keep in line with a harmony and order of the universe, at time when we enter into the cycle of darkness for the upcoming year.
As you light your candles this year, keep in mind the true potency of this time, one of magical connections to the other side of life, and a time to remember those who have passed before us. A time to send our love and gratitude to them to light their way back home.
About the Author: Christan Hummel is the creator of the "Do It Yourself Space Clearing Kit" and an international lecturer and workshop leader. She has taught thousands around the world how to create sacred space in their homes and cities through connecting with the divine in nature and ourselves. For information see: www.earthtransitions.com
97 posted on
10/06/2017 9:40:35 AM PDT by
SandRat
(Duty, Honor, Country)
To: JustAmy
A poem of father’s for Friday:
A Song of Legions (1933, Major TenEyck Van Deusen)
Then the Legions turned from Britain
On the long white road to Gaul
From the purple patterned heather
Bound tight against the Wall.
The Little Painted Peoples
Ran shadows through the grass
As they clawed aside the branches
To watch our Eagles pass.
The gallant, vanquished Eagles
With their faces turned toward home,
The proud and polished Eagles
That led the shields from Rome.
The blazing day flung glory
From each rank of tilted spears
And the Cohorts sang of Roma
As their thoughts rolled back the years.
The salt sweat burned the callous
Where the wet straps tugged and tore
And each shift of shield and armour
But seemed to cut the more.
This land was Rome’s and Romans held it
Though the black seas bit the beach,
And wing-helmed through ice and snow whorls
Came those of alien speech.
Huge men and brave in combat
Yellow-haired and raiders all;
But they dropped sail once near Vectis
And we pinned them near the Wall.
Good blades and mighty axemen
And they met us knee to knee,
But our sullen, dark browed Legion
Turned and flung them back to sea.
Yes, they tossed their sails and left us
Bruised and battered, bloody, numb
Yes, we whipped them, whipped them, whipped them
But they never ceased to come!
They’ll come again and take this
All this bleakly lovely shore;
The Picts can never stop them
And the Eagles soar no more.
For the Legions turn from Britain
And their half-completed task -
Rome’s will - there is no question
That a soldier dares to ask,
Dares to ask or stops to wonder -
There is no Law but Rome!
But the land my comrades died in
The Legions called it - home.
139 posted on
10/13/2017 10:08:06 AM PDT by
mairdie
To: JustAmy
I'm making my Kindle book "
Thrice Happy Poetry" FREE FOR TODAY ONLY.
This is, essentially, a graphic novel, a comic book if you will, of 14 poems of love and beautiful women by Henry Livingston (1748-1828), the author of "Night Before Christmas," illustrated with 174 antique postcards. As an art history/physics major, may I immodestly say that the book is breathtaking for both the art and Henry's poetry.
![](http://www.henrylivingston.com/images/thrice-loved-poetry-p30-4lines-600.jpg)
167 posted on
10/15/2017 5:14:41 AM PDT by
mairdie
To: JustAmy
Humor the antidepressant A study of grime and germs
Ah! The scent of chlorine-permeated hair blowing in the wind, the pungent odor of sweaty bodies, and the cloying coconut scent of tanning lotion are part of summer. But now those joyous months are a blur in our rearview mirrors as we launch into fall and all the ways people, athletes, in particular, manage to get grubby.
It is October and baseball division playoffs are in full swing. We cheer for our favorite teams, hoping they reach the ultimate baseball pinnacle known as World Series Champions. But, have you noticed all the ways the boys of summer manage to get down and dirty, and wallow in germs?
Ask any mother of a Little Leaguer or a softball player What do you dread the most? and they will reply Trying to get the grass stains and dirt out of the uniforms. What? Dont they worry about a hit with a bat or ball on little Herman or Harriets skull? Of course, they do. However, for harried and perfectionist mothers the process of getting out grass stains and ground in dirt ranks right up there on the sixth rung of Hell.
We watch the pitcher pick up the rosin bag from the mound and toss it in his hands. Then he messes with his hat (sometimes he removes his cap and runs his fingers through sweaty, long hair), adjusts his crotch essentials, licks his fingers and pitches. This viewer shrieks, Ewe, Germs!
Often players must dive to make catches. They skid in the dirt flopping on their bellies as if they were on a childs Slip-n-Slide without the lubricating benefit of water flowing on the plastic slide.
Throughout the game, players spit on the ground, wipe sweat and other bodily fluids on their sleeves, then roll around on the spit covered ground with wild abandon. Pity the laundry engineer charged with cleaning all the stains and muck off their uniforms. We sure hope they get paid well for a thankless job.
Adding to the joys of clean up drudgery, if the home team wins, someone will get a sticky Gatorade shower. Pity the cleanup crew who must make the field presentable and cleans up the spit, snot, and other fluids from the ground.
Whether we watch baseball, hockey or basketball, there will always be a camera person who feels compelled to share the pore-enhancing closeups of flying snot or spittle or waterfalls of sweat streaming off the basketball players bodies.
Of course, we cannot speak for the majority of viewers, but if we happen to pop a bite of food in our mouths, there could be a problem. Camera operators think nothing of invading the personal space of players just to chronicle various fluid emissions. As a result, the viewers inclination to spew rather than swallow could make watching sports a messy business.
Baseball players have a large field at their disposal for all the spitting, etc. But the dugout is an enclosed area and the accumulation of unmentionable stuff tossed must leave a nasty mess. Hockey players also sit in a relatively small area, and their spitting and nasal emissions are jaw-dropping to behold. In both situations, most of the emissions are on tape and saved for posterity.
If you read this column with any regularity, you know this writer dislikes dirt and germs. From personal observation, males tend to tolerate the unwashed status better than females. It is not uncommon to hear the words youre such a boy pass these lips. Unbunch your boxers and relax because this writer means no offense, just stating facts.
For example, our son is on a temporary assignment that requires living in a tent. He enjoys the outdoors, therefore what would be a hardship for some is fun for him. His mother remarked that living in a tent was yucky. To which the son replied I love it! And, I can be filthy when I go to bed. Haha.
174 posted on
10/15/2017 5:39:14 PM PDT by
SandRat
(Duty, Honor, Country)
To: JustAmy
Last Christmas I got inspired and turned the story of who wrote "Night Before Christmas" into an anapestic poem going from 1806 to 1900. If I'm lucky and inspired, maybe I can finish it this year.
The Story of the Writing of "The Night Before Christmas"
1806
It was finished at last, Henry noted with pride,
As he sanded the words, check'd to see if they'd dried.
Was it "jirk" with an "i" or perhaps with an "e?"
Never mind, he decided, 'twas only a flea.
So what if the reindeer names stumbled a bit?
Using names of the horses would make them a hit.
Which remind'd him Dancer's new bridle was loose.
It might better fit Cupid. That horse was a moose!
My, but Dunder and Blixem were beautifully match'd.
The gold of their tails glow'd like ducks newly hatch'd.
That was Charlie's hard work earning him Santa's best
It was up to his father to handle the rest.
And the boy would be pleas'd, Henry smil'd as he thought
Of the pup from his sister quite recently bought.
Stretching tall as the stairs o'er his head let him stand,
Henry pick'd up his parchment and brush'd off the sand.
Stooping low through the archway he left his snug den,
In delight to return to his family again.
They were just as he'd left them short hours ago,
Mama's laughter, like music, hung o'er the tableau.
With Eliza, the babe, speeding fast toward the door
Follow'd closely by six year old Jane with a roar.
Of course Sidney and Edwin were arguing loud
With their four year old sister, who wouldn't be cow'd.
There was Charlie now singing an old carol sweet,
Entertaining a neighbor though dead on his feet.
As the Christmas song made its way straight to his heart
Henry heard his lost angels lend voice to each part.
Through Cornelia's sweet descant, not long ago gone,
Came the baby notes warbled with Henry Welles' yawn.
While their mother, sweet Sally, her voice join'd in praise
Of the Christmas Eve infant whose star soon would blaze.
She would bless his new fam'ly, and watch o'er the fate
Of their still earth-bound babes, Henry Welles and dear Cate.
"For all of these children, for Caty's own eight,
"For these all," Henry mus'd, "Santa's poem I'll relate."
"Gather round me, dear children, and see in my hand
"Explanations aplenty of what Santa's planned."
In an instant the noise blew the chamber apart
As the welcome afforded touched Henry's warm heart.
"It's a poem, darling Papa! I know it's a poem,
"You've not writ us a new one since last you were home!"
Grabbing babe with one hand and a vase with the other,
Henry smil'd at the chaos and kiss'd her big brother.
Just as smoke thru the air will be briskly dispatch'd,
From his arms babe and pot were with deftness quick snatch'd.
With a shake to the paper now crinkled all round
Henry struck a fine posture like Genius renown'd.
From his eye gave a wink to his wife as she pass'd,
And a pat to the child who must still be held fast.
"'Twas the night before Christmas," he started to say,
As the shouts and the laughter began to give way
"And all through the house," he continued so low
That the children stay'd quiet as mice in a row.
1816-1900
280 posted on
11/01/2017 3:39:24 PM PDT by
mairdie
FreeRepublic.com is powered by software copyright 2000-2008 John Robinson