A Poem for Sunday: "Choices by Nikki Giovanni

[caption id="attachment_2330" align="aligncenter" width="640"]Copyright: bradcalkins / 123RF Stock Photo Copyright: bradcalkins / 123RF Stock Photo[/caption] Choices

if i can't do 
what i want to do 
then my job is to not 
do what i don't want 
to do 

it's not the same thing 
but it's the best i can 

if i can't have 
what i want    then 
my job is to want 
what i've got 
and be satisfied 
that at least there 
is something more 
to want 

since i can't go 
where i need 
to go    then i must    go 
where the signs point 
though always understanding 
parallel movement 
isn't lateral 

when i can't express 
what i really feel 
i practice feeling 
what i can express 
and none of it is equal 
i know 
but that's why mankind 
alone among the animals 
learns to cry —Nikki Giovanni

A Poem for Sunday: The Conqueror Worm by Edgar Allan Poe

Image credit: roystudio / 123RF Stock Photo

Image credit: roystudio / 123RF Stock Photo

Lo! ’t is a gala night
Within the lonesome latter years!
An angel throng, bewinged, bedight
In veils, and drowned in tears,
Sit in a theatre, to see
A play of hopes and fears,
While the orchestra breathes fitfully
The music of the spheres.

Mimes, in the form of God on high,
Mutter and mumble low,
And hither and thither fly—
Mere puppets they, who come and go
At bidding of vast formless things
That shift the scenery to and fro,
Flapping from out their Condor wings
Invisible Wo!

That motley drama—oh, be sure
It shall not be forgot!
With its Phantom chased for evermore
By a crowd that seize it not,
Through a circle that ever returneth in
To the self-same spot,
And much of Madness, and more of Sin,
And Horror the soul of the plot.

But see, amid the mimic rout,
A crawling shape intrude!
A blood-red thing that writhes from out
The scenic solitude!
It writhes!—it writhes!—with mortal pangs
The mimes become its food,
And seraphs sob at vermin fangs
In human gore imbued.Out—out are the lights—out all!
And, over each quivering form,
The curtain, a funeral pall,
Comes down with the rush of a storm,
While the angels, all pallid and wan,
Uprising, unveiling, affirm
That the play is the tragedy, “Man,”
And its hero, the Conqueror Worm.

    Quote of the Day

    The story of life is quicker than the blink of an eye, the story of love is hello, goodbye.— Jimi Hendrix

    A Poem for Sunday: "Death Be Not Proud" by John Donne

    A very close family friend passed overnight.  That along with what happened in Boston and Texas this week has had me thinking about death this morning.  It’s very painful for the family and friends left behind—especially when it comes unexpectedly but as Donne says in his famous poem, I don’t think that those moving on should fear it. [caption id="" align="alignnone" width="448"]image "Waking up with the sun" Smithsonian Magazine Photo of the Day: July 16, 2012
    Reni Bitting (Medina, Ohio); Photographed August 2011, Okaloosa Island, Destin, FL[/caption] DEATH BE NOT PROUD Death, be not proud, though some have called thee Mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so; For those whom thou think’st thou dost overthrow Die not, poor death, nor yet canst thou kill me. From rest and sleep, which but thy pictures be, Much pleasure; then from thee much more must flow, And soonest our best men with thee do go, Rest of their bones, and soul’s delivery. Thou art slave to fate, chance, kings, and desperate men, And dost with poison, war, and sickness dwell, And poppy or charms can make us sleep as well And better than thy stroke; why swell’st thou then? One short sleep past, we wake eternally, And death shall be no more, death, thou shalt die.



    Science may eventually explain the world of How. The ultimate world of Why may remain for contemplation, philosophy, religion.—Liberty Hyde Bailey

    Source: Brainyquote.com