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Posted on 07/12/2004 4:09:47 AM PDT by JustAmy
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We are all time travelers. I am sending this to you in the future from here in the presnt soon to be past.
LulaBelle would love that job.
She would probably work cheap, too. What ????? .... a couple of biscuits a day?
I don't chase the clock because time is fleeting.
A walk, some belly rubbing, a few treats.
What can I drink?
Copyright © 2004
by Qasem Shukran
Bacchus
Bring me wine, but wine which never grew
In the belly of the grape,
Or grew on vine whose tap-roots, reaching through
Under the Andes to the Cape,
Suffer no savor of the earth to scape.
Let its grapes the morn salute
From a nocturnal root,
Which feels the acrid juice
Of Styx and Erebus;
And turns the woe of Night,
By its own craft, to a more rich delight.
We buy ashes for bread;
We buy diluted wine;
Give me of the true,
Whose ample leaves and tendrils curled
Among the silver hills of heaven
Draw everlasting dew;
Wine of wine,
Blood of the world,
Form of forms, and mold of statures,
That I intoxicated,
And by the draught assimilated,
May float at pleasure through all natures;
The bird-language rightly spell,
And that which roses say so well.
Wine that is shed
Like the torrents of the sun
Up the horizon walls,
Or like the Atlantic streams, which run
When the South Sea calls.
Water and bread,
Food which needs no transmuting,
Rainbow-flowering, wisdom-fruiting,
Wine which is already man,
Food which teach and reason can.
Wine which Music is,
Music and wine are one,
That I, drinking this,
Shall hear far Chaos talk with me;
Kings unborn shall walk with me;
And the poor grass shall plot and plan
Quickened so, will I unlock
Every crypt of every rock.
I thank the joyful juice
For all I know;
Winds of remembering
Of the ancient being blow,
And seeming-solid walls of use
Open and flow.
Pour, Bacchus! the remembering wine;
Retrieve the loss of men and mine!
Vine for vine be antidote,
And the grape requite the lote!
Haste to cure the old despair,
Reason in Nature's lotus drenched,
The memory of ages quenched;
Give them again to shine;
A dazzling memory revive;
Refresh the faded tints,
Recut the aged prints,
And write my old adventures with the pen
Which on the first day drew,
Upon the tablets blue,
The dancing Pleiads and eternal men.
-- Ralph Waldo Emerson (1803-1882)
Good morning, OESY. Hope you are having a great day.
This is post # 267 1/2 :)
If all the world were paper
And all the sea were ink,
And all the trees were bread and cheese,
What should we do for drink?
Author Unknown.
Submitted by Hookman
Ooops ... And this one is post #268 1/2
Not drunk is he who from the floor
Can rise alone and still drink more;
But drunk is he who prostrate lies
Without the power to move or rise.
Thomas Love Peacock (English author) (1785-1866)
:)
Wineglass 1
Copyright © 2002
by Mark Kowalski
Give Me Women, Wine, and Snuff
Give me women, wine, and snuff
Until I cry out "hold, enough!"
You may do so sans objection
Till the day of resurrection:
For, bless my beard, they aye shall be
My beloved Trinity.
-- John Keats (1795–1821) :)
I think you've stumped me!!
I need to go shopping at the Google store.
hahaha ! You have a great Tuesday, too ! :^D
Time's up. I beat you to the store -- with the copious help of Mr. Anon. I find the selection fair and balanced, however suspicious it may be, though I can imagine why. They did have trial lawyers and class action suits back in their days, didn't they?
Prince and peasant, lord and lackey,
All in some form take their Baccy. – Anon.
For rich and poor, in peace or strife,
It smooths the rugged path of life. – Anon.
What introduces Wig or Tory,
And reconciles them in their story,
When each is boasting in his glory,
A pinch of snuff.
Where speech and tongue together fail,
What helps old ladies in their tale,
And adds fresh canvas to their sail,
A pinch of snuff. -- Anon
Snuff or the fan supply each pause of chat
With singing, laughing, ogling and all that.
And Catullus wrote that when Cupid sneezed,
The little loves that waited by,
Bowed and blessed the augury.
A sonnet to the nose,
Knows he that never took a pinch
Nosey! the pleasure thence which flows?
Knows he the titillating joy
Which my nose knows?
O nose! I am as proud of thee
As any mountain of its snows!
I gaze on thee and feel that pride
A Roman knows! – Alexander Pope (1688-1744)
Tobacco is an Indian weed,
From the devil it doth proceed,
It picks you pockets, burns your clothes,
And makes a chimney of your nose. – Anon.
Drink, and the whole world drinks with you.
Swear off, and you drink alone. – Anon.
Wine and Rose
Copyright © 2002
by Loyce D. Hood
Ode To Wine
Day-colored wine,
night-colored wine,
wine with purple feet
or wine with topaz blood,
wine,
starry child
of earth,
wine, smooth
as a golden sword,
soft
as lascivious velvet,
wine, spiral-seashelled
and full of wonder,
amorous,
marine;
never has one goblet contained you,
one song, one man,
you are choral, gregarious,
at the least, you must be shared.
At times
you feed on mortal
memories;
your wave carries us
from tomb to tomb,
stonecutter of icy sepulchers,
and we weep
transitory tears;
your
glorious
spring dress
is different,
blood rises through the shoots,
wind incites the day,
nothing is left
of your immutable soul.
Wine
stirs the spring, happiness
bursts through the earth like a plant,
walls crumble,
and rocky cliffs,
chasms close,
as song is born.
A jug of wine, and thou beside me
in the wilderness,
sang the ancient poet.
Let the wine pitcher
add to the kiss of love its own.
My darling, suddenly
the line of your hip
becomes the brimming curve
of the wine goblet,
your breast is the grape cluster,
your nipples are the grapes,
the gleam of spirits lights your hair,
and your navel is a chaste seal
stamped on the vessel of your belly,
your love an inexhaustible
cascade of wine,
light that illuminates my senses,
the earthly splendor of life.
But you are more than love,
the fiery kiss,
the heat of fire,
more than the wine of life;
you are
the community of man,
translucency,
chorus of discipline,
abundance of flowers.
I like on the table,
when we're speaking,
the light of a bottle
of intelligent wine.
Drink it,
and remember in every
drop of gold,
in every topaz glass,
in every purple ladle,
that autumn labored
to fill the vessel with wine;
and in the ritual of his office,
let the simple man remember
to think of the soil and of his duty,
to propagate the canticle of the wine.
-- Pablo Neruda (1904-1973)
The Dance
Copyright © 2004
by Kristupa Saragih
Thank you so much for the beautiful poem and graphic!
Mmmmm...Mmmmm....Good!
With breakfasts like that, who needs lunch and dinner?
sad moon
Copyright © 2004
by Caleb Kincaid
Saddest Poem
I can write the saddest poem of all tonight.
Write, for instance: "The night is full of stars,
and the stars, blue, shiver in the distance."
The night wind whirls in the sky and sings.
I can write the saddest poem of all tonight.
I loved her, and sometimes she loved me too.
On nights like this, I held her in my arms.
I kissed her so many times under the infinite sky.
She loved me, sometimes I loved her.
How could I not have loved her large, still eyes?
I can write the saddest poem of all tonight.
To think I don't have her. To feel that I've lost her.
To hear the immense night, more immense without her.
And the poem falls to the soul as dew to grass.
What does it matter that my love couldn't keep her.
The night is full of stars and she is not with me.
That's all. Far away, someone sings. Far away.
My soul is lost without her.
As if to bring her near, my eyes search for her.
My heart searches for her and she is not with me.
The same night that whitens the same trees.
We, we who were, we are the same no longer.
I no longer love her, true, but how much I loved her.
My voice searched the wind to touch her ear.
Someone else's. She will be someone else's.
As she once belonged to my kisses.
Her voice, her light body. Her infinite eyes.
I no longer love her, true, but perhaps I love her.
Love is so short and oblivion so long.
Because on nights like this I held her in my arms,
my soul is lost without her.
Although this may be the last pain she causes me,
and this may be the last poem I write for her.
-- Pablo Neruda (1904-1973)
Sad eyes
Copyright © 2003
by Claudia F.
How very sad indeed. Thank you so much for the poem!
Not so sad: Bin Laden aide surrenders in Saudi Arabia. Dems blame Bush.
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