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Poems
Jul 18, 2020 22:27:02 GMT -5
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Post by speak on Jul 18, 2020 22:27:02 GMT -5
GROWING OLD.
They call it going down the hill when we are growing old
And speak in mournful accents when our tale is nearly told,
They sigh of speaking of the past of days that used to be,
As if the future were not bought with immortality,
But ti's not going down the hill tie climbing higher, higher,
Until we almost see the mountain that our soul desires.
But if our natural eyes grow dim ti's but to dim the earth,
Until the eyes of faith grows keener to discern the Saviour's worth,
Who would exchange the shooting blade for the waving golden grain
Or when the corn is fully ripe to wish it grew again,
Or who would wish the hoary head found in the Way of Truth,
To be again encircled with the sunny looks of youth.
For though in Truth the outward man must perish and decay,
The inward man shall be renewed with grace from day to day,
Those who are planted in the Lord unshaken in the root,
Shall in their old age flourish still and bring forth choicest fruit.
Ti's not years that make men old the spirit may be young.
When fully three score years and ten the wheels of life have run.
God has himself recorded in his blessed word of Truth
That they who waited on the Lord shall renew their youth
And there the eyes now dim shall be opened to behold the king,
And ears now dull with age shall hear the harps of heaven ring,
And on the head now hoary shall be placed the crown of gold,
Then shall be known the lasting joys of never growing old.
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I learn as the years roll onward
And leave the past behind
That much I have counted sorrow
But proves our God is kind,
That many a thing I sought for
Had a hidden thorn of pain,
That many a rugged by path
Led to fields of ripened grain.
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Poems
Jul 18, 2020 22:34:22 GMT -5
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Post by speak on Jul 18, 2020 22:34:22 GMT -5
FELLOWSHIP MEETINGS.
'Tis Sunday morning early, Tie the day the Saints will meet,” To worship the Living Saviour, and humbly sit at His feet, To give of the Bread He hath given, to strengthen each others hands, To tell of the joys and sorrows, as they walk in the path God planned
In a cot in a lonely valley, in a home on the hillside fair, In the vast wide plains, they'll meet in a home that’s a place of pray' In his name they'll also be meeting, in a home where the city’s din, Can't exclude the love of Jesus, while His children wait on Him.
May the Lord in their midst be honoured as this they meet today, And each heart be soft, and humble as they sing, speak and pray, May nothing be seen of envy, nothing of self or sin, Nothing to cloud the vision, that each may have of him.
In ancient times we read of, we're told where God's children met, That Satan was also present, and its true that he does yet, He came then, there to hinder, he came there to accuse, To tempt the soul of the righteous, his privilege to misuse,
He hasn't changed his purpose, no he hasn't changed his plans, And while all today are meeting, he'll use all the power he can, May no place tohim be given, but each heart moved as by love, Give place to the God of Heaven, give place to the spirit of love,
They'll remember Christ's broken Body, partaking of the Bread, And also the cup will tell them, of his blood that once was shed, May none drink to their condemnation, or play an unworthy part, May desire to give like the Saviour, be deepened in every heart.
There are some who fain would be meeting, where his people meet today But like myself thro’ distance, are miles and miles away, Some on a bed of sickness, some on a cot of pain, Some who can't be present for a cause, that’s just as plain.
May the Lord in His tender mercy, give unto such today, The portion of Bread that is needed, as they read, think and pray, And even not found in person, in the place where others meet, May they be there in spirit, and together sit at His feet. And now having read what I've written, and what I've just now said by pen I find in my heart an echo, to a true and glad amen, A response to a voice that is saying, thank God for his boundless love Thank Him for His humble path-way, that leads to a home above. J.Jackson.
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Poems
Jul 19, 2020 0:34:07 GMT -5
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Post by Deleted on Jul 19, 2020 0:34:07 GMT -5
Still Above Ground.
It's quite a surprise that I'm writing this verse, Cause I should have by now, had a ride in a hearse, But believe it or not, I am still above ground Not knowing how long I'll be hanging around.
I start of each day with a hit of caffeine To help me pretend that I'm still what I've been, But I now take all day to do one hours work And by then I have found out, where the pains lurk!
I once thought "retiring"was something to seek, But sometimes I long for the old 5 day week, Each day's now the same, the weekends have gone, And the only "weekends"are the legs I stand on!
I'm as busy as ever with things in the shed, Mainly sorting junk, most of which is now "dead" But I'm a good collector, I've gathered a lot And you'd be surprised, at what I've still got
So apart from the grizzles and groans that age brings I'm keeping amused reminiscing about things And I treat every day as it comes and it goes But how long can this last, nobody knows.
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Post by dmmichgood on Jul 19, 2020 19:00:06 GMT -5
Do we really need divisive political views even on a thread consisting of "poems?"
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Poems
Jul 19, 2020 19:01:57 GMT -5
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Post by Deleted on Jul 19, 2020 19:01:57 GMT -5
Today, I will not answer the radio call that your boyfriend has come home drunk and is beating you again. Today, I will not answer the radio call that your 16 year-old daughter, who is very responsible, is four hours late coming home from school. Today, I will not answer the radio call that your store has been robbed or your house has been burglarized. Today, I will not stop a drunk driver from killing someone. I will not catch a rapist or a murderer or a car thief. Today, I will not answer the radio call that a man has a gun or tried to abduct a child or that someone has been stabbed or has been in a terrible accident. Today, I will not save your child that you locked in a car, or the child you were too busy to watch went outside and fell into the swimming pool, but who I revived. No, today I will not do that. Why? Today, I was suspended from duty for doing my job, because the media, leftists, community organizers, and a mayor who ran on an anti-police agenda — all who know nothing about policing — have vilified my profession. Because . . . Today, I was killed by a drunk driver while I was helping push a disabled car off the highway. Today, I was shot and killed during a routine traffic stop to simply tell someone that they had a taillight out. Today, I was killed in a traffic accident rushing to help a citizen. Today, I was shot and killed serving a warrant on a known drug dealer. Today, I was killed by a man when I came by to do a welfare check because his family was too busy. Today, I was killed trying to stop a bank robbery or a grocery store robbery. Today I was killed doing my job. A chaplain and an officer will go to a house and tell a mom and dad or a wife or husband or a child that their son or daughter or husband or wife or father or mother won't be coming home today. The flags at many police stations will be flown at half-mast today but most people won't know why. There will be a funeral and my fellow officers will come, a 3 volley gun salute will be given, and taps and bagpipes will be played as I am laid to rest. My name will be put on a plaque, on a wall, in a building, in a city somewhere. A folded flag will be placed on a mantel or a bookcase in a home somewhere and a family will mourn. There will be no cries for justice. There will be no riots in the streets. There will be no officers marching, screaming "no justice, no peace." No citizens will scream that something must be done. No windows will be smashed, no cars burned, no stones thrown, no names called. Only someone crying themselves to sleep tonight will be the only sign that I was cared about. I was a police officer. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ well said....
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Post by intelchips on Jul 19, 2020 19:13:19 GMT -5
In Flanders Fields By: Lieutenant Colonel John McCrae, MD (1872-1918) Canadian Army In Flanders Fields the poppies blow Between the crosses row on row, That mark our place; and in the sky The larks, still bravely singing, fly Scarce heard amid the guns below. We are the Dead. Short days ago We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow, Loved and were loved, and now we lie In Flanders fields. Take up our quarrel with the foe: To you from failing hands we throw The torch; be yours to hold it high. If ye break faith with us who die We shall not sleep, though poppies grow In Flanders fields.
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Poems
Jul 19, 2020 19:26:13 GMT -5
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Post by Deleted on Jul 19, 2020 19:26:13 GMT -5
Felicia Dorothea. The Poetical Works of Felicia Dorothea Hemans London: Oxford University Press, 1914. p. 396. Editorial Credits
Casabianca {1}
The boy stood on the burning deck Whence all but he had fled; The flame that lit the battle's wreck Shone round him o'er the dead. Yet beautiful and bright he stood, As born to rule the storm; A creature of heroic blood, A proud, though child-like form.
The flames rolled on–he would not go Without his Father's word; That father, faint in death below, His voice no longer heard.
He called aloud–'say, Father, say If yet my task is done?' He knew not that the chieftain lay Unconscious of his son.
'Speak, father!' once again he cried, 'If I may yet be gone!' And but the booming shots replied, And fast the flames rolled on.
Upon his brow he felt their breath, And in his waving hair, And looked from that lone post of death In still yet brave despair.
And shouted but once more aloud, 'My father! must I stay?' While o'er him fast, through sail and shroud, The wreathing fires made way.
They wrapt the ship in splendour wild, They caught the flag on high, And streamed above the gallant child, Like banners in the sky.
There came a burst of thunder sound– The boy–oh! where was he? Ask of the winds that far around With fragments strewed the sea!–
With mast, and helm, and pennon fair, That well had borne their part– But the noblest thing which perished there Was that young faithful heart.
I remember many schoolboy versions of this poem. Some perhaps not for TMB.
This is one my Dad used to tell as a good 2x2.
The boy stood on the burning deck, His trousers needed mending, The Captain said " Look here my Boy", "Don't let me catch you bending".
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Poems
Jul 19, 2020 21:14:42 GMT -5
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Post by bailey on Jul 19, 2020 21:14:42 GMT -5
A poem I wrote after reading Kate Chopin's short story in college about a wealthy unhappy Edna Pointellier who drowned herself in the ocean.
As I walk the lonesome sea shore I sea the waves I look across the waters and see a grave my life is ever changing, my heart never will it's solid like a rock and quiet as the still My feet are in the water, my skin a shade of gray for long time I've been waiting but now I am afraid
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Poems
Jul 21, 2020 4:02:47 GMT -5
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Post by curlywurlysammagee on Jul 21, 2020 4:02:47 GMT -5
For Redback and Magpie and all others who live the wild outback.
THE MAN FROM SNOWY RIVER by A.B. "Banjo" Paterson
There was movement at the station, for the word had passed around That the colt from old Regret had got away, And had joined the wild bush horses - he was worth a thousand pound, So all the cracks had gathered to the fray. All the tried and noted riders from the stations near and far Had mustered at the homestead overnight, For the bushmen love hard riding where the wild bush horses are, And the stockhorse snuffs the battle with delight.
There was Harrison, who made his pile when Pardon won the cup, The old man with his hair as white as snow; But few could ride beside him when his blood was fairly up - He would go wherever horse and man could go. And Clancy of the Overflow came down to lend a hand, No better horseman ever held the reins; For never horse could throw him while the saddle girths would stand, He learnt to ride while droving on the plains.
And one was there, a stripling on a small and weedy beast, He was something like a racehorse undersized, With a touch of Timor pony - three parts thoroughbred at least - And such as are by mountain horsemen prized. He was hard and tough and wiry - just the sort that won't say die - There was courage in his quick impatient tread; And he bore the badge of gameness in his bright and fiery eye, And the proud and lofty carriage of his head.
But still so slight and weedy, one would doubt his power to stay, And the old man said, "That horse will never do For a long a tiring gallop - lad, you'd better stop away, Those hills are far too rough for such as you." So he waited sad and wistful - only Clancy stood his friend - "I think we ought to let him come," he said; "I warrant he'll be with us when he's wanted at the end, For both his horse and he are mountain bred.
"He hails from Snowy River, up by Kosciusko's side, Where the hills are twice as steep and twice as rough, Where a horse's hoofs strike firelight from the flint stones every stride, The man that holds his own is good enough. And the Snowy River riders on the mountains make their home, Where the river runs those giant hills between; I have seen full many horsemen since I first commenced to roam, But nowhere yet such horsemen have I seen."
So he went - they found the horses by the big mimosa clump - They raced away towards the mountain's brow, And the old man gave his orders, "Boys, go at them from the jump, No use to try for fancy riding now. And, Clancy, you must wheel them, try and wheel them to the right. Ride boldly, lad, and never fear the spills, For never yet was rider that could keep the mob in sight, If once they gain the shelter of those hills."
So Clancy rode to wheel them - he was racing on the wing Where the best and boldest riders take their place, And he raced his stockhorse past them, and he made the ranges ring With the stockwhip, as he met them face to face. Then they halted for a moment, while he swung the dreaded lash, But they saw their well-loved mountain full in view, And they charged beneath the stockwhip with a sharp and sudden dash, And off into the mountain scrub they flew.
Then fast the horsemen followed, where the gorges deep and black Resounded to the thunder of their tread, And the stockwhips woke the echoes, and they fiercely answered back From cliffs and crags that beetled overhead. And upward, ever upward, the wild horses held their way, Where mountain ash and kurrajong grew wide; And the old man muttered fiercely, "We may bid the mob good day, No man can hold them down the other side."
When they reached the mountain's summit, even Clancy took a pull, It well might make the boldest hold their breath, The wild hop scrub grew thickly, and the hidden ground was full Of wombat holes, and any slip was death. But the man from Snowy River let the pony have his head, And he swung his stockwhip round and gave a cheer, And he raced him down the mountain like a torrent down its bed, While the others stood and watched in very fear.
He sent the flint stones flying, but the pony kept his feet, He cleared the fallen timber in his stride, And the man from Snowy River never shifted in his seat - It was grand to see that mountain horseman ride. Through the stringybarks and saplings, on the rough and broken ground, Down the hillside at a racing pace he went; And he never drew the bridle till he landed safe and sound, At the bottom of that terrible descent.
He was right among the horses as they climbed the further hill, And the watchers on the mountain standing mute, Saw him ply the stockwhip fiercely, he was right among them still, As he raced across the clearing in pursuit. Then they lost him for a moment, where two mountain gullies met In the ranges, but a final glimpse reveals On a dim and distant hillside the wild horses racing yet, With the man from Snowy River at their heels.
And he ran them single-handed till their sides were white with foam. He followed like a bloodhound on their track, Till they halted cowed and beaten, then he turned their heads for home, And alone and unassisted brought them back. But his hardy mountain pony he could scarcely raise a trot, He was blood from hip to shoulder from the spur; But his pluck was still undaunted, and his courage fiery hot, For never yet was mountain horse a cur.
And down by Kosciusko, where the pine-clad ridges raise Their torn and rugged battlements on high, Where the air is clear as crystal, and the white stars fairly blaze At midnight in the cold and frosty sky, And where around The Overflow the reed beds sweep and sway To the breezes, and the rolling plains are wide, The man from Snowy River is a household word today, And the stockmen tell the story of his ride.
The Bulletin, 26 April 1890.
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Poems
Jul 21, 2020 4:23:11 GMT -5
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Post by curlywurlysammagee on Jul 21, 2020 4:23:11 GMT -5
Another of my favourite poems is Dover Beach by Matthew Arnold. This was written on his honeymoon.
Dover Beach BY MATTHEW ARNOLD The sea is calm tonight. The tide is full, the moon lies fair Upon the straits; on the French coast the light Gleams and is gone; the cliffs of England stand, Glimmering and vast, out in the tranquil bay. Come to the window, sweet is the night-air! Only, from the long line of spray Where the sea meets the moon-blanched land, Listen! you hear the grating roar Of pebbles which the waves draw back, and fling, At their return, up the high strand, Begin, and cease, and then again begin, With tremulous cadence slow, and bring The eternal note of sadness in.
Sophocles long ago Heard it on the Ægean, and it brought Into his mind the turbid ebb and flow Of human misery; we Find also in the sound a thought, Hearing it by this distant northern sea.
The Sea of Faith Was once, too, at the full, and round earth’s shore Lay like the folds of a bright girdle furled. But now I only hear Its melancholy, long, withdrawing roar, Retreating, to the breath Of the night-wind, down the vast edges drear And naked shingles of the world.
Ah, love, let us be true To one another! for the world, which seems To lie before us like a land of dreams, So various, so beautiful, so new, Hath really neither joy, nor love, nor light, Nor certitude, nor peace, nor help for pain; And we are here as on a darkling plain Swept with confused alarms of struggle and flight, Where ignorant armies clash by night.
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Post by Pragmatic on Jul 21, 2020 4:47:25 GMT -5
I don’t think I should post up the tale of “Eskimo Nell” ... I suspect Redback probably knows it anyway!
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Poems
Jul 21, 2020 21:06:58 GMT -5
Post by speak on Jul 21, 2020 21:06:58 GMT -5
REBEKAH.
Thine the beauty and the glory of all things Son of God
Shining round me and before me lightening all the desert road,
Camels girded for the journey kneeling laden set for home,
Oh my heart is gone already centered there no more to roam.
Roll afar thou proud Euphates nought can keep me from my journey,
Where my mighty guardian came from there with me shall he return,
Buried in Chaldea’s city I had perished with my race,
But the steward sent to save me met me with his masters grace.
Asked me for a little water,-let me quench his
Asked me for a little water, let me quench his camels thirst,
Saw in me Betheuls daughter whom he prayed for at the first,
Oh the errand that he told me of the loving one who died,
Of the Fathers love. and counsel taking unto him a bride.
Nothing I remember, nothing but that sacrifice and choice,
Never music filled my spirit like that penetrating voice,
C’ld I hear this eldest servant and for Isaac not be won,
Oh the Father loved and sought me sent and claimed me for his Son.
Let the token in my forehead and the braclets on my hand,
Prove me chosen now the daughter of the Lord of all the land,
I will go, I will not tarry object of that hearts delight,
He was unto to death obedient I shall walk with him in white.
Jewels, raiments, gifts the servant brought for me from Isaac's hand
Precious things that else had never shone in any foreign land,
I shall see Him in his beauty, he, Himself his bride shall meet,
I shall dwell with Him for ever in companionship complete.
Tho of him are strength and gladness "Oh” who meets us on the way,
Tis himself behold the Bridegroom veiled the bride is caught away.
And the servant telleth Isaac of the things that he had done,
And Rebekah dwells in Hebron wife of once the offered one.
Gone is the past with all its sadness bright the prospects that they face
Crowned another in his household served with wondrous love and grace,
She is with him as His comfort, sorrow, care and fear all o'er,
She is with Him, he has brought her to his home forever more.
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Post by Deleted on Jul 22, 2020 0:03:56 GMT -5
Trees BY JOYCE KILMER I think that I shall never see A poem lovely as a tree.
A tree whose hungry mouth is prest Against the earth’s sweet flowing breast;
A tree that looks at God all day, And lifts her leafy arms to pray;
A tree that may in Summer wear A nest of robins in her hair;
Upon whose bosom snow has lain; Who intimately lives with rain.
Poems are made by fools like me, But only God can make a tree.
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Post by dmmichgood on Jul 22, 2020 3:32:49 GMT -5
NOTHING TO DO
She sits, -lacing and unlacing her belt between and around her gnarled fingers, -inspecting each knuckle and fingernail, -nothing to do.
Turns her chair first toward the fire, then back toward the winter window, -smiles and calls to the children walking home from school. They, -mindless of her, -don't look back.
She looks at her fingers, nothing to do. Those fingers once worked so hard, keeping house, tending chickens, working a garden, -canning...
Ah! canning! -put up... -91 qts. of beans... -48 pts. of corn... -10 1/2 qts. of pickles...
"Loraine, -how much did you put up this year?" "Oh, I'm way ahead of you, Ruth!"
Dear sister, gone... -gone the chickens... the garden.. the canning...
Lacing and unlacing her belt between her fingers, nothing to do...she sits.
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Poems
Jul 22, 2020 11:55:28 GMT -5
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Post by iam on Jul 22, 2020 11:55:28 GMT -5
NOTHING TO DOShe sits, -lacing and unlacing her belt between and around her gnarled fingers, -inspecting each knuckle and fingernail, -nothing to do.
Turns her chair first toward the fire, then back toward the winter window, -smiles and calls to the children walking home from school. They, -mindless of her, -don't look back.
She looks at her fingers, nothing to do. Those fingers once worked so hard, keeping house, tending chickens, working a garden, -canning...
Ah! canning! -put up... -91 qts. of beans... -48 pts. of corn... -10 1/2 qts. of pickles...
"Loraine, -how much did you put up this year?" "Oh, I'm way ahead of you, Ruth!"
Dear sister, gone... -gone the chickens... the garden.. the canning...
Lacing and unlacing her belt between her fingers, nothing to do...she sits.
She has nothing to do but YOU do much good here on TMB. As we get older our DOing lead us in a different direction. So thankful for each one here and those we interact with each day. That is a lovely poem and though it seems sad, she has so much to offer because she lived through a lot.
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Poems
Jul 22, 2020 11:57:28 GMT -5
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Post by iam on Jul 22, 2020 11:57:28 GMT -5
'Wait' By Russel Keifer
Desperately, helplessly, longingly, I cried;
Quietly, patiently, lovingly, God replied.
I pled and I wept for a clue to my fate….
And the Master so gently said, “Wait.”
“Wait? You say wait?” my indignant reply.
“Lord, I need answers, I need to know why!
Is your hand shortened? Or have you not heard?
By faith I have asked, and I’m claiming your Word.
“My future and all to which I relate
Hangs in the balance, and you tell me to wait?
I’m needing a ‘yes’, a go-ahead sign,
Or even a ‘no’ to which I can resign.
“You promised, dear Lord, that if we believe,
We need but to ask, and we shall receive.
And Lord I’ve been asking, and this is my cry:
I’m weary of asking! I need a reply.”
Then quietly, softly, I learned of my fate,
As my Master replied again, “Wait.”
So I slumped in my chair, defeated and taut,
And grumbled to God, “So, I’m waiting for what?”
He seemed then to kneel, and His eyes met with mine….
and He tenderly said, “I could give you a sign.
I could shake the heavens and darken the sun.
I could raise the dead and cause mountains to run.
‘“I could give all you seek and pleased you would be.
You’d have what you want, but you wouldn’t know Me.
You’d not know the depth of my love for each saint.
You’d not know the power that I give the faint.
“You’ not learn to see through clouds of despair;
You’d not learn to trust just by knowing I’m there.
You’d not know the joy of resting in Me
When darkness and silence are all you can see.
“You’d never experience the fullness of love
When the peace of My spirit descends like a dove.
You would know that I give, and I save, for a start,
But you’d not know the depth of the beat of My heart.
“The glow of My comfort late into the night,
The faith that I give when you walk without sight.
The depth that’s beyond getting just what you ask
From an infinite God who makes what you have last.
“You’d never know, should your pain quickly flee,
What it means that My grace is sufficient for thee.
Yes, your dearest dreams overnight would come true,
But, oh, the loss, if you missed what I’m doing in you.
“So, be silent, my child, and in time you will see
That the greatest of gifts is to truly know me.
And though oft My answers seem terribly late,
My most precious answer of all is still…..Wait.”
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Post by dmmichgood on Jul 22, 2020 16:04:24 GMT -5
NOTHING TO DOShe sits, -lacing and unlacing her belt between and around her gnarled fingers, -inspecting each knuckle and fingernail, -nothing to do.
Turns her chair first toward the fire, then back toward the winter window, -smiles and calls to the children walking home from school. They, -mindless of her, -don't look back.
She looks at her fingers, nothing to do. Those fingers once worked so hard, keeping house, tending chickens, working a garden, -canning...
Ah! canning! -put up... -91 qts. of beans... -48 pts. of corn... -10 1/2 qts. of pickles...
"Loraine, -how much did you put up this year?" "Oh, I'm way ahead of you, Ruth!"
Dear sister, gone... -gone the chickens... the garden.. the canning...
Lacing and unlacing her belt between her fingers, nothing to do...she sits.
She has nothing to do but YOU do much good here on TMB. As we get older our DOing lead us in a different direction. So thankful for each one here and those we interact with each day. That is a lovely poem and though it seems sad, she has so much to offer because she lived through a lot. Thank you, Iam.
My mother had alzheimer's and lived with us .
I wrote the poem at that time which was many years ago.
But tears still came to my eyes as I recorded it here.
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Post by Deleted on Jul 22, 2020 16:41:19 GMT -5
Thank you so much for your poem Dmg, it brought a tear to my eye. You put so much meaning into those words.
I am just at the start of caring for the person I love so much, who has been diagnosed with that dread disease. It is daunting as each day you witness so much change in what was once an active life.
I found some comfort in this poem,
I Am Still a Person
I have Alzheimer’s, but just the same, Kenny Dale Lauer is still my name I may not remember who you are, But I know your special, at least so far. I cannot Speak, no words come out. But if I could I think I’d Shout. Sometimes I’m Sad, and shed a tear, Sometimes its, scary and lots of fear, Sometimes I smile when you stop by, Even if it’s just to say hi. I worked at Fairbanks, this I know But, don’t you all? I do think so. It is hard to swallow when I try to eat. But good ‘ol ice cream is still a treat. I drool a lot and make a mess It’s part of this crazy disease I guess. I wear pull ups, and I hate clothes, and what I’m thinking, no one knows. All the nurses and helpers too, Know exactly what to do, I love my Teddy and Teddy loves me, I am still a person, and God Bless Me. – Judy Lauer
About the Author
Judy Lauer is a caregiver for her 70-year-old husband who has been suffering from Alzheimer’s disease for the last 8 years.
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Poems
Jul 22, 2020 17:46:42 GMT -5
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Post by iam on Jul 22, 2020 17:46:42 GMT -5
Those poems of redback and dmg brought tears to my eyes too.
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Post by curlywurlysammagee on Jul 28, 2020 2:34:11 GMT -5
A poem by Mark Knopfler. www.youtube.com/watch?v=2R2Qtf3UeL0Brothers in Arms dIRE sTRATS These mist covered mountains Are a home now for me But my home is the lowlands And always will be Someday you'll return to Your valleys and your farms And you'll no longer burn to be Brothers in arms Through these fields of destruction Baptisms of fire I've witnessed your suffering As the battle raged high And though they did hurt me so bad In the fear and alarm You did not desert me My brothers in arms There's so many different worlds So many different suns And we have just one world But we live in different ones Now the sun's gone to hell and The moon's riding high Let me bid you farewell Every man has to die But it's written in the starlight And every line in your palm We're fools to make war On our brothers in arms Source: LyricFind Songwriters: Mark Knopfler Brothers in Arms lyrics © Universal Music Publishing Group
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Post by maryhig on Jul 29, 2020 9:26:24 GMT -5
Here's a poem I wrote a while ago, I think I've posted it here before, but I've changed it a bit again. It's a Dylan Thomas poem that I've adapted it to be about Jesus.
Rage rage at the dying of the light, as they killed the Son who put up no fight. Who never doubted or blasphemed, but came with hope of our hearts to clean, who loved the Lord God from his heart, doing and teaching from the start.
Showing the way as he preached the word, hoping they would believe as they've seen and heard. Yet still there are many in darkness from this glorious light, walking among us forever shining bright. Because hardness fills their hearts of sin, loving their flesh before they loved him.
Rage rage at the dying of the light, as they scourged and crucified our Lord Jesus Christ, viciously piercing his hands and his feet, wickedness done by the power of darkness and deceit.
No room for mercy at the hands of these thieves, taking Christs life with with their evil deeds. Lying and cheating to get the job done, with the help of judas a betrayer of Gods Son.
Rage rage at the dying of the light, because when the light's gone there's just darkness and night. And those inside have no hearing or sight. So rage rage at the dying of the light.
They say, at the cross at the cross is where they first saw the light, but that's where they put the light out. But they couldn't win, Jesus rose again, here to help us overcome sin.
Christ is the Son of the living God, and with his glorious wisdom and might, will carry on preaching the cleansing word, through those who who have seen and those who have heard, who come out of darkness to walk in the the light.
So yes, rage rage at the dying of the light, but rejoice at the rising of the Son.
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Post by speak on Jul 30, 2020 22:47:47 GMT -5
GROWING OLD.
A little more tired at close of day,
A little less anxious to have our way,
A little less ready to scold and blame,
A little more care for a brother's name,
And so we are nearing the journeys end,
Where time and eternity meet and blend.
A little less care for bonds and gold,
A little more zest in the days of old,
A broader view and a saner mind,
And a little more love for all mankind,
And so we are faring a down the way,
That leads to the Gates of a better day.
A little more love for the friends, of youth,
A little more zeal for established Truth,
A little more charity in our views,
A little less thirst for the daily news,
And so we are folding our tents away,
And passing in silence at close of day..
A little more laughter, a few more tears,
And we shall have told our increasing years,
The book is closed and the prayers are said,
And we are a part of the countless dead,
Thrice happy if then some soul can say,
I live because He has passed my way.
**************************************************************
The bird that soars on highest wing,
Builds on the ground her lowly nest,
And she who doth most sweetly sing,
Sings in the shade when all things rest,
In lark and nightingale we see,
What honour hath humility.
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Post by blacksheep on Aug 4, 2020 16:22:20 GMT -5
Sermons We See by Edgar Guest
I'd rather see a sermon than hear one any day; I'd rather one should walk with me than merely tell the way. The eye's a better pupil and more willing than the ear, Fine counsel is confusing, but example's always clear; And the best of all the preachers are the men who live their creeds, For to see good put in action is what everybody needs.
I soon can learn to do it if you'll let me see it done; I can watch your hands in action, but your tongue too fast may run. And the lecture you deliver may be very wise and true, But I'd rather get my lessons by observing what you do; For I might misunderstand you and the high advise you give, But there's no misunderstanding how you act and how you live.
When I see a deed of kindness, I am eager to be kind. When a weaker brother stumbles and a strong man stays behind Just to see if he can help him, then the wish grows strong in me To become as big and thoughtful as I know that friend to be. And all travelers can witness that the best of guides today Is not the one who tells them, but the one who shows the way.
One good man teaches many, men believe what they behold; One deed of kindness noticed is worth forty that are told. Who stands with men of honor learns to hold his honor dear, For right living speaks a language which to every one is clear. Though an able speaker charms me with his eloquence, I say, I'd rather see a sermon than to hear one, any day.
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Post by speak on Aug 5, 2020 23:01:03 GMT -5
BE CAREFUL WHAT YOU SAY.
When speaking of a persons fault,
Pray don't forget your own,
The dweller in a house of glass,
Should seldom throw a stone,
If we have nothing else to do,
But talk of those who sin.
Tie better we commence at home,
And from that point begin.
We have no right to judge a man,
Until he's fairly tried,
Should we not like his company,
We know the world is wide,
Some have their faults, and who has not,
The old as well as young,
Perhaps we may for ought we know
Have fifty to their one.
I'll tell you of a better plan,
Which I find works full well,
To try my own defects to cure,
And not of others tell,
And tho’ I sometimes hope to 'be.
No worse than some I know,
My own shortcomings bid me let,
The faults of other go.
Then let us all when we commence,
To talk of friend or foe,
Think of the harm one word may do,
To those who little know,
Remember curses sometimes, like,
Our chickens "roast at home,'
Don't speak of other's fault until,
You have none of your own.
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Poems
Aug 6, 2020 2:16:08 GMT -5
Post by dmmichgood on Aug 6, 2020 2:16:08 GMT -5
Here's a poem I wrote a while ago, I think I've posted it here before, but I've changed it a bit again. It's a Dylan Thomas poem that I've adapted it to be about Jesus. Rage rage at the dying of the light, as they killed the Son who put up no fight. Who never doubted or blasphemed, but came with hope of our hearts to clean, who loved the Lord God from his heart, doing and teaching from the start. Showing the way as he preached the word, hoping they would believe as they've seen and heard. Yet still there are many in darkness from this glorious light, walking among us forever shining bright. Because hardness fills their hearts of sin, loving their flesh before they loved him. Rage rage at the dying of the light, as they scourged and crucified our Lord Jesus Christ, viciously piercing his hands and his feet, wickedness done by the power of darkness and deceit. No room for mercy at the hands of these thieves, taking Christs life with with their evil deeds. Lying and cheating to get the job done, with the help of judas a betrayer of Gods Son. Rage rage at the dying of the light, because when the light's gone there's just darkness and night. And those inside have no hearing or sight. So rage rage at the dying of the light. They say, at the cross at the cross is where they first saw the light, but that's where they put the light out. But they couldn't win, Jesus rose again, here to help us overcome sin. Christ is the Son of the living God, and with his glorious wisdom and might, will carry on preaching the cleansing word, through those who who have seen and those who have heard, who come out of darkness to walk in the the light. So yes, rage rage at the dying of the light, but rejoice at the rising of the Son. I'm not sure what Dylan Thomas would have thought of someone taking the main phrase in his poem for which he was famous, "-Rage rage at the dying of the light.." and worked it into something like your poem.
Of course he is dead now so we can't know.
Could not you have found your own phrase?
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Post by maryhig on Aug 6, 2020 2:28:37 GMT -5
Sermons We See by Edgar Guest I'd rather see a sermon than hear one any day; I'd rather one should walk with me than merely tell the way. The eye's a better pupil and more willing than the ear, Fine counsel is confusing, but example's always clear; And the best of all the preachers are the men who live their creeds, For to see good put in action is what everybody needs. I soon can learn to do it if you'll let me see it done; I can watch your hands in action, but your tongue too fast may run. And the lecture you deliver may be very wise and true, But I'd rather get my lessons by observing what you do; For I might misunderstand you and the high advise you give, But there's no misunderstanding how you act and how you live. When I see a deed of kindness, I am eager to be kind. When a weaker brother stumbles and a strong man stays behind Just to see if he can help him, then the wish grows strong in me To become as big and thoughtful as I know that friend to be. And all travelers can witness that the best of guides today Is not the one who tells them, but the one who shows the way. One good man teaches many, men believe what they behold; One deed of kindness noticed is worth forty that are told. Who stands with men of honor learns to hold his honor dear, For right living speaks a language which to every one is clear. Though an able speaker charms me with his eloquence, I say, I'd rather see a sermon than to hear one, any day. I thought this was a really good poem and I read it in our meeting last night and they all liked it too. Thanks for posting it 😊
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Post by maryhig on Aug 6, 2020 2:35:56 GMT -5
Here's a poem I wrote a while ago, I think I've posted it here before, but I've changed it a bit again. It's a Dylan Thomas poem that I've adapted it to be about Jesus. Rage rage at the dying of the light, as they killed the Son who put up no fight. Who never doubted or blasphemed, but came with hope of our hearts to clean, who loved the Lord God from his heart, doing and teaching from the start. Showing the way as he preached the word, hoping they would believe as they've seen and heard. Yet still there are many in darkness from this glorious light, walking among us forever shining bright. Because hardness fills their hearts of sin, loving their flesh before they loved him. Rage rage at the dying of the light, as they scourged and crucified our Lord Jesus Christ, viciously piercing his hands and his feet, wickedness done by the power of darkness and deceit. No room for mercy at the hands of these thieves, taking Christs life with with their evil deeds. Lying and cheating to get the job done, with the help of judas a betrayer of Gods Son. Rage rage at the dying of the light, because when the light's gone there's just darkness and night. And those inside have no hearing or sight. So rage rage at the dying of the light. They say, at the cross at the cross is where they first saw the light, but that's where they put the light out. But they couldn't win, Jesus rose again, here to help us overcome sin. Christ is the Son of the living God, and with his glorious wisdom and might, will carry on preaching the cleansing word, through those who who have seen and those who have heard, who come out of darkness to walk in the the light. So yes, rage rage at the dying of the light, but rejoice at the rising of the Son. I'm not sure what Dylan Thomas would have thought of someone taking the main phrase in his poem for which he was famous, "-Rage rage at the dying of the light.." and worked it into something like your poem.
Of course he is dead now so we can't know.
Could not you have found your own phrase?I heard the poem and thought about cruelty of the way Jesus died, as he is the light, so I wrote it. It's not like I'm publishing it and I've clearly said that rage rage at the dying of the light is from a Dylan Thomas poem. Anyway you have your opinion, I hope he would have been ok with it. But as you said he's not here anymore, so I can't ask him, so there we go.
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Post by blacksheep on Aug 6, 2020 6:10:13 GMT -5
The House by the Side of the Road
There are hermit souls that live withdrawn In the place of their self-content; There are souls like stars, that dwell apart, In a fellowless firmament; There are pioneer souls that blaze the paths Where highways never ran – But let me live by the side of the road And be a friend to man.
Let me live in a house by the side of the road Where the race of men go by – The men who are good and the men who are bad, As good and as bad as I. I would not sit in the scorner’s seat Nor hurl the cynic’s ban – Let me live in a house by the side of the road And be a friend to man.
I see from my house by the side of the road By the side of the highway of life, The men who press with the ardor of hope, The men who are faint with the strife, But I turn not away from their smiles and tears, Both parts of an infinite plan – Let me live in a house by the side of the road And be a friend to man.
I know there are brook-gladdened meadows ahead, And mountains of wearisome height; That the road passes on through the long afternoon And stretches away to the night. And still I rejoice when the travelers rejoice And weep with the strangers that moan, Nor live in my house by the side of the road Like a man who dwells alone.
Let me live in my house by the side of the road, Where the race of men go by – They are good, they are bad, they are weak, they are strong, Wise, foolish – so am I. Then why should I sit in the scorner’s seat, Or hurl the cynic’s ban? Let me live in my house by the side of the road And be a friend to man.
– Sam Walter Foss
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