Saturday, July 31, 2010


Curse of the Cat Woman 
by Edward Field

It sometimes happens
that the woman you meet and fall in love with
is of that strange Transylvanian people
with an affinity for cats.

You take her to a restuarant, say, or a show,
on an ordinary date, being attracted
by the glitter in her slitty eyes and her catlike walk,
and afterwards of course you take her in your arms
and she turns into a black panther
and bites you to death.

Or perhaps you are saved in the nick of time
and she is tormented by the knowledge of her tendency:
That she daren't hug a man
unless she wants to risk clawing him up.

This puts you both in a difficult position--
panting lovers who are prevented from touching
not by bars but by circumstance:
You have terrible fights and say cruel things
for having the hots does not give you a sweet temper.

One night you are walking down a dark street
And hear the pad-pad of a panther following you,
but when you turn around there are only shadows,
or perhaps one shadow too many.

You approach, calling, "Who's there?"
and it leaps on you.
Luckily you have brought along your sword
and you stab it to death.

And before your eyes it turns into the woman you love,
her breast impaled on your sword,
her mouth dribbling blood saying she loved you
but couldn't help her tendency.

So death released her from the curse at last,
and you knew from the angelic smile on her dead face
that in spite of a life the devil owned,
love had won, and heaven pardoned her.


Friday, July 30, 2010


Fellow Travelers list.

It's THE PASSIONATE CRONE by Rosemary Nissen-Wade,
aka SnakeyPoet, 
and contains some BEAUTIFUL writing. 

Oops, I'm gushing. 
I can't help it; she has a wonderful voice and I love her poetry.

Please, click on the link above and discover her for yourself. 

Here is an example:

The End of the Day
by Rosemary Nissen-Wade

Her happiest time of day is night:
bedtime, when she snuggles
and receives the caresses
that aren’t always spared
during busy daylight hours.
At some point she just decided
night was her cuddle time.

It’s a threesome.
When he and I draw apart,
she enters the space between us
and we both stroke her
as she purrs,
and purrs and purrs,
settling herself against us.

Funny little grey cat,
getting old, as we are —
she’s even more determined now
to have what she needs,
and she knows her needs.
She has grown ever more loving
as she ages; we have too.


The Elephant is Slow to Mate

by D. H. Lawrence
The elephant, the huge old beast,
     is slow to mate;
he finds a female, they show no haste
     they wait

for the sympathy in their vast shy hearts
     slowly, slowly to rouse
as they loiter along the river-beds
     and drink and browse

and dash in panic through the brake
     of forest with the herd,
and sleep in massive silence, and wake
     together, without a word.

So slowly the great hot elephant hearts
     grow full of desire,
and the great beasts mate in secret at last,
     hiding their fire.

Oldest they are and the wisest of beasts
     so they know at last
how to wait for the loneliest of feasts
     for the full repast.

They do not snatch, they do not tear;
     their massive blood
moves as the moon-tides, near, more near
     till they touch in flood.

from: The Complete Poems of D. H. Lawrence. Copyright © 1964, 1971.


Thursday, July 29, 2010


Kickstarter for Crowdsourcing

   For starting your own project or supporting another in theirs, this site offers tremendous possibilities.


Remember, Body ...

by C. P. Cavafy
(translated by Aliki Barnstone)

Body, remember not only how much you were loved,
not only the beds where you lay,
but also those desires for you,
shining clearly in eyes
and trembling in a voice—and some chance
obstacle thwarted them.
Now when everything is the past,
it almost looks as if you gave yourself
to those desires as well—how they shone—
remember—in the eyes that looked at you,
how they trembled for you in the voice—remember, body.

from: The Collected Poems of C. P. Cavafy. Copyright © 2006

Wednesday, July 28, 2010

Tuesday, July 27, 2010


Missing: poems by Beverly Rycroft 
by Beverly Rycroft

Dying women should not wear lipstick
by Beverly Rycroft

dying women should not wear lipstick
or pink-checked mini skirts that shriek
sexy! and shoot right up
past their skinny knees
towards their truncated breasts.
they ought not to wear
pillbox hats that lodge on their stubbled heads
like stranded yachts or put on
stiletto heels or shiny earrings
or even oddly-matched shoes. they
must stay at home and
wear brown scarves. they must
turn their dying faces away from the rest of us
and not eat ice cream on Sea Point promenade
or enjoy spring
or breed hamsters.
they may not run in the annual school sports day mothers’ race
and definitely never win.

of course they are allowed to cry.

but only in the privacy of their own
locked rooms
and only when holding
a pillow over their
warm and dying mouths to stop
their children from knowing:
     there is something a little more
     than dying going on in there.

cover of book green abstract background with yellow patterned blouse

In 1997 Beverly Rycroft was diagnosed with stage three breast cancer. The poems in her debut collection, Missing, chart the experience of facing mortality, illness and the hope of recovery.

“This astonishingly moving debut collection reads compellingly as one complete story. Missing covers the archetypal journey from sickness and near-death to transformation and hope. Rycroft wears her exquisite poetic technique lightly – through rich and deftly crafted images, the poems are profoundly inviting, readable and memorable. I could not put it down.”
– Finuala Dowling

We are delighted to host the launch of Beverly Rycroft's first published poetry collection, Missing, published by Modjaji Books.

Monday, July 26, 2010

The Cat in the Kitchen

by Robert Bly
(For Donald Hall)

Have you heard about the boy who walked by
The black water? I won't say much more.
Let's wait a few years. It wanted to be entered.
Sometimes a man walks by a pond, and a hand
Reaches out and pulls him in.

There was no
Intention, exactly. The pond was lonely, or needed
Calcium, bones would do. What happened then?

It was a little like the night wind, which is soft,
And moves slowly, sighing like an old woman
In her kitchen late at night, moving pans
About, lighting a fire, making some food for the cat.

Sunday, July 25, 2010

What Do Women Want?

painting of a brunette woman in a red dress seated with her right arm over her head

by Kim Addonizio

I want a red dress.
I want it flimsy and cheap,
I want it too tight, I want to wear it
until someone tears it off me.
I want it sleeveless and backless,
this dress, so no one has to guess
what's underneath. I want to walk down
the street past Thrifty's and the hardware store
with all those keys glittering in the window,
past Mr. and Mrs. Wong selling day-old
donuts in their café, past the Guerra brothers
slinging pigs from the truck and onto the dolly,
hoisting the slick snouts over their shoulders.
I want to walk like I'm the only
woman on earth and I can have my pick.
I want that red dress bad.
I want it to confirm
your worst fears about me,
to show you how little I care about you
or anything except what
I want. When I find it, I'll pull that garment
from its hanger like I'm choosing a body
to carry me into this world, through
the birth-cries and the love-cries too,
and I'll wear it like bones, like skin,
it'll be the goddamned
dress they bury me in.

from: Tell Me. Copyright © 2000

Amazon's Kim Addonizio page.
(Painting by LIAT

Saturday, July 24, 2010


Growth for the sake of growth is the ideology of a cancer cell. 

Friday, July 23, 2010


I thought I'd give it a try. 
It is good now and then to reevaluate 
your relationship with your self. Only After I'd made my own list 
did I discovered that I live my life by bumper stickers.

Here are Maddow's rules for living:

Maddow Rule #1: Don't lie.
Maddow Rule #2: Don't threaten to shoot people.
Maddow Rule #3: Never underestimate a breakfast implement.

Snowball's rules for living:

  1. Don't lie.
  2. Don't whine.
  3. Don't hold grudges. (You only hurt yourself)
  4. Don't forget your shoes on a hot day. (really important in CA)
  5. Always eat dessert first.
  6. Question authority. (but not your mother)
  7. Read banned books.
  8. Speak truth to power with humor and a smile.
  9. Don’t worry about what idiots think, they don’t do it very often.
  10. Walk your talk. (Going to church doesn’t make you a Christian anymore than standing in a garage makes you a car.) 
  11. If you must choose between two evils, pick the one you’ve never tried before.
  12. Never lick a steak knife. (I confess, I lifted this from the comments - but it is important)
in the imortal words of buckaroo bansai:

Wherever you go, there you are.

Thursday, July 22, 2010

How to Quash a Rebellion

Matt Pocock

Oh crap, I think the populace
Have gone and got some impetus
Let's dumb them down with more TV
They love that television screen
Or just put cocaine on the street
So if they're high, they can't stampede
I tell you what, this will work best:
Let's post another terrorist threat!

Wednesday, July 21, 2010



Tuscan Whole Milk, 1 Gallon, 128 fl oz

Make this your only stock and store, July 8, 2008
By     Edgar (Baltimore) -

Once upon a mid-day sunny, while I savored Nuts 'N Honey,
With my Tuscan Whole Milk, 1 gal, 128 fl. oz., I swore
As I went on with my lapping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at the icebox door.
'Bad condensor, that,' I muttered, 'vibrating the icebox door -
Only this, and nothing more.'

Not to sound like a complainer, but, in an inept half-gainer,
I provoked my bowl to tip and spill its contents on the floor.
Stupefied, I came to muddle over that increasing puddle,
Burgeoning deluge of that which I at present do adore -
Snowy Tuscan wholesomeness exclusively produced offshore -
Purg'ed here for evermore.

And the pool so white and silky, filled me with a sense of milky
Ardor of the type fantastic of a loss not known before,
So that now, to still the throbbing of my heart, while gently sobbing,
I retreated, heading straightway for the tempting icebox door -
Heedless of that pitter-patter tapping at the icebox door -
I resolved to have some more.

Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
'This,' said I, 'requires an extra dram of milk, my favorite pour.'
To the icebox I aspired, motivated to admire
How its avocado pigment complemented my decor.
Then I grasped its woodgrain handle - here I opened wide the door; -
Darkness there, and nothing more.

Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams of Tuscans I had known before
But the light inside was broken, and the darkness gave no token,
And the only words there spoken were my whispered words, 'No more!'
Coke and beer, some ketchup I set eyes on, and an apple core -
Merely this and nothing more.

Back toward the table turning, all my soul within me burning,
Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.
'Surely,' said I, 'surely that is something at my window lattice;
Let me see then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore -
Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore; -
'Tis the wind and nothing more!'

From the window came a stirring, then, with an incessant purring,
Inside stepped a kitten; mannerlessly did she me ignore.
Not the least obeisance made she; not a minute stopped or stayed she;
But, with mien of lord or lady, withdrew to my dining floor -
Pounced upon the pool of Tuscan spreading o'er my dining floor -
Licked, and lapped, and supped some more.

Then this tiny cat beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
By the grand enthusiasm of the countenance she wore,
Toward the mess she showed no pity, 'til I said, 'Well, hello, kitty!'
Sought she me with pretty eyes that seemed to open some rapport.
So I pleaded, 'Tell me, tell me what it is that you implore!'
Quoth the kitten, 'Get some more.'


Tuesday, July 20, 2010


What if political scientists covered the news?
By Christopher Beam 

A new article in the Columbia Journalism Review discusses the differences between political journalism and political science. What if academics started writing the news?

A powerful thunderstorm forced President Obama to cancel his Memorial Day speech near Chicago on Monday—an arbitrary event that had no affect on the trajectory of American politics.

Obama now faces some of the most difficult challenges of his young presidency: the ongoing oil spill, the Gaza flotilla disaster, and revelations about possibly inappropriate conversations between the White House and candidates for federal office. But while these narratives may affect fleeting public perceptions, Americans will ultimately judge Obama on the crude economic fundamentals of jobs numbers and GDP.

Chief among the criticisms of Obama was his response to the spill. Pundits argued that he needed to show more emotion. Their analysis, however, should be viewed in light of the economic pressures on the journalism industry combined with a 24-hour news environment and a lack of new information about the spill itself.

Republicans, meanwhile, complained that the administration has not been sufficiently involved in the day-to-day cleanup. Their analysis, of course, is colored by their minority status in America's two-party system, which creates a strong structural incentive to criticize the party in power, whatever the merits.

At the same time, Obama's job approval rating fell to 48 percent. This isn't really news, though. Studies have shown that the biggest factor in a president's rating is economic performance. Connecting the minute blip in the polls with Obama's reluctance to emote or alleged failure to send enough boom to the Gulf is, frankly, absurd.

Democrats have also slipped in their standing among "independent voters." That phrase, by the way, is meaningless. Voters may self-identify as "independent" but in almost all cases they lean toward one party.
Poll numbers also confirmed that Americans are in an anti-incumbent mood. … Ha! Just kidding. The anti-Washington narrative was concocted by dominant media outlets based on the outcomes of a statistically insignificant handful of largely unrelated races. Sorry.

Still, Democrats hope that passing health care and financial regulatory reform will give them enough momentum to win in November. Unfortunately, there's little relationship between legislative victories and electoral victories. Also, what the hell is "momentum"?

Prospects for an energy bill, meanwhile, are looking grim, since Obama has spent all his political capital. He used to have a lot. Now it's gone. Why winning legislative battles builds momentum but saps political capital, I have no idea. Just go with it.

Possible "game changers" for Obama include plugging the oil leak, peace between the Palestinians and Israelis, and World War III, although these events would be almost entirely outside Obama's control.

Looking ahead to 2012, Republicans need a candidate who can shake up the electoral map, which currently consists of "red states" and "blue states," even though there's not much difference.

The GOP—a stupid acronym we use only so we don't have to keep repeating the word Republican—will have to decide between a moderate "establishment" pick and a more conservative Tea Party favorite. In reality, both candidates would embrace similar policies in the general election.

That candidate will then face off against Obama, whose charisma, compelling personal story, and professional political operation will prove formidable. Actually, Obama will probably win because he's the incumbent. And because voters always go with the guy who's taller.

Christopher Beam is a Slate political reporter.
Copyright 2010 Washingtonpost.Newsweek Interactive Co. LLC

Monday, July 19, 2010


by Suzan-Lori Parks

U Being U
Mr. President-Elect
Makes me wanna get MY stuff

I feel like starting with something RADICAL
Love my Neighbor
Like share what I've got
Like think for myself
Like ask the hard questions
Like lean toward the good and help keep the peace

U being U
Makes me wanna do something new
Like Go Green, or at least try to.

You being you, Mr. President-Elect
Makes me want to look on others with respect
Makes me wanna
practice Radical Inclusion, you know,
Open my heart wide, especially in the presence of folks who
Are not like me, you know,
work to see my Brother
In the Other
You make me want to entertain all my far-out ideas
Make me wanna represent the race, as in the human race,
And know that, like You, I too am Prized.

And to those who say yr a Magic Negro,
I love them just the same
And my love helps us weave a United States.

Mr. President,
Heaven sent
Since heaven is just a place where possibility
becomes possible
And where hostility
its hostile,
I feel like picking up the trash in the park or on the beach
I think I'll teach, and learn, from all I meet
I think I'll apologize in person for all our faults
and try to make amends for our shortcomings
And also, I think,
I'll brag,
Just a little bit,
About how cool We The People are

Oh, I just had to sing you a little something
Because you,
Mr. President,
You are embarking with Us on an awesome and beautiful
And potentially perilous journey
And so I am giving you
All the Love
All the Love
All the Love
All the Love
Mr. President
That I've got
Because I believe
In the dream
And I am ready
To wake up
And live it.

Suzan-Lori Parks is Pulitzer Prize winning a novelist and playwright.

Sunday, July 18, 2010


"The figure of Death (Heath) presides over the front entrance of a carnival sideshow whose spectators watch performers undergo unspeakable degradations so grotesquely compelling that the spectators’ s eyes become larger and larger until the spectators themselves are transformed into gigantic eyeballs in chairs, while on the other side of the sideshow tent the figure of Life (Heaven) uses a megaphone to invite fairgoers to an exhibition in which, if the fairgoers consent to undergo unspeakable degradations, they can witness ordinary persons gradually turn into giant eyeballs."
- David Foster Wallace
giant eyeball
From footnote 24 of “Infinite Jest” 
(James Incandenza’s filmography)

eyeball - Laumeier Sculpture Park


Saturday, July 17, 2010

Having slept, the cat gets up

by Kobayashi Issa

Having slept, the cat gets up,
yawns, goes out
to make love.


UH . . . MR. POE . . .

grey cat on its back in a pile of feathers. teh raven is burp nevar moar

Friday, July 16, 2010



I don't know who said it. But it certainly is true. 

Come to think of it, they may be the only trips I'm taking for a while!


Thursday, July 15, 2010

Wednesday, July 14, 2010


by Langston Hughes

Hold fast to dreams
For if dreams die
Life is a broken-winged bird
That cannot fly.

Hold fast to dreams
For when dreams go
Life is a barren field
Frozen with snow.

from: The Collected Poems of Langston Hughes,
published by Alfred A. Knopf/Vintage. ©1994


Tuesday, July 13, 2010

After Reading Tu Fu, I Go Outside to the Dwarf Orchard

by Charles Wright

East of me, west of me, full summer.
How deeper than elsewhere the dusk is in your own yard.
Birds fly back and forth across the lawn
                                         looking for home
As night drifts up like a little boat.

Day after day, I become of less use to myself.
Like this mockingbird,
                       I flit from one thing to the next.
What do I have to look forward to at fifty-four?
Tomorrow is dark.
                  Day-after-tomorrow is darker still.

The sky dogs are whimpering.
Fireflies are dragging the hush of evening
                                           up from the damp grass.
Into the world's tumult, into the chaos of every day,
Go quietly, quietly.

from: Chickamauga, published by Farrar, Straus & Giroux. ©1995

Monday, July 12, 2010




from Psychoanalysis: An Elegy       
by Jack Spicer

What are you thinking?

I think that I would like to write a poem that is slow as a summer
As slow getting started
As 4th of July somewhere around the middle of the second stanza
After a lot of unusual rain
California seems long in the summer.
I would like to write a poem as long as California
And as slow as a summer.
Do you get me, Doctor?  It would have to be as slow
As the very tip of summer.
As slow as the summer seems
On a hot day drinking beer outside Riverside
Or standing in the middle of a white-hot road
Between Bakersfield and Hell
Waiting for Santa Claus.

poets dot org

Saturday, July 10, 2010


Funky Flamingo TV

Truly the world's first
internet tv station by &
for people with disabilities.

 Contact information HERE.

A Boy and His Dad

by Edgar Guest

A boy and his dad on a fishing-trip—
There is a glorious fellowship!
Father and son and the open sky
And the white clouds lazily drifting by,
And the laughing stream as it runs along
With the clicking reel like a martial song,
And the father teaching the youngster gay
How to land a fish in the sportsman's way.

I fancy I hear them talking there
In an open boat, and the speech is fair.
And the boy is learning the ways of men
From the finest man in his youthful ken.
Kings, to the youngster, cannot compare
With the gentle father who's with him there.
And the greatest mind of the human race
Not for one minute could take his place.

Which is happier, man or boy?
The soul of the father is steeped in joy,
For he's finding out, to his heart's delight,
That his son is fit for the future fight.
He is learning the glorious depths of him,
And the thoughts he thinks and his every whim;
And he shall discover, when night comes on,
How close he has grown to his little son.

A boy and his dad on a fishing-trip—
Builders of life's companionship!
Oh, I envy them, as I see them there
Under the sky in the open air,
For out of the old, old long-ago
Come the summer days that I used to know,
When I learned life's truths from my father's lips
As I shared the joy of his fishing-trips.

Friday, July 9, 2010


Click the title below the picture for its story,
and go to ICONIC PHOTOS for many more wonderful
snapshots of History.

Thursday, July 8, 2010


As Rumi said:

    "You're crazy and numb.
    You're drinking our blood,
    and have no experience
    of the nearness."

Ought Women to Learn the Alphabet?

The question posed and parsed in the ATLANTIC MAGAZINE, February 1859.
- here is the actual essay from the magazine! Just click.

"Obsta principiis.
Woman must be a subject or an equal;
there is no middle ground."

Wednesday, July 7, 2010


On the Subject of Poetry      
by W. S. Merwin

I do not understand the world, Father.
By the millpond at the end of the garden
There is a man who slouches listening
To the wheel revolving in the stream, only
There is no wheel there to revolve.

He sits in the end of March, but he sits also
In the end of the garden; his hands are in
His pockets. It is not expectation
On which he is intent, nor yesterday
To which he listens. It is a wheel turning.

When I speak, Father, it is the world
That I must mention. He does not move
His feet nor so much as raise his head
For fear he should disturb the sound he hears
Like a pain without a cry, where he listens.

I do not think I am fond, Father,
Of the way in which always before he listens
He prepares himself by listening. It is
Unequal, Father, like the reason
For which the wheel turns, though there is no wheel.

I speak of him, Father, because he is
There with his hands in his pockets, in the end
Of the garden listening to the turning
Wheel that is not there, but it is the world,
Father, that I do not understand.

from: The First Four Books of Poems. Copyright © 2000.

W. S. Merwin to Be Named Poet Laureate
W.S. Merwin Will Be the Next Poet Laureate
Present in Company
Books of W. S. Merwin



on women and violence.

Brought to you by Art Works For Change. Find more of their offerings here.
Art Works for Change produces contemporary art exhibitions to address social and environmental issues such as social justice, human rights, gender equity, and environmental sustainability. It uses the transformative power of art as a vehicle to promote dialogue and awareness; inspire action and thought; and address systems for social change. 

Tuesday, July 6, 2010


                    from normblog:

Suppose you read four books a week every week for 70 years. Allowing for a day here and there where you're unable to read, we can call that 200 books a year, and 14,000 books over the whole three score years and ten. It's a lot of books. But relative to all the books there are, it's a tiny, tiny fraction. 

According to the guy who manages the Google Books metadata team, at the latest count the books in the world now total 168,178,719. Your 14,000 books are just 0.008324477724 per cent of that. You can think of it as follows. 

Suppose all the books in the world made up a single calendar year, and you were reading through the pages of that year, cover to cover. Then, 14,000 books - and that's going some - would only get you through the first 44 minutes of the year. 

There'd still be 364 days, 23 hours and 16 minutes that you hadn't read. And if you get through fewer than 14,000 books in your lifetime, it will look even worse. Comforting in a way.

(Disclaimer: As this was originally posted in September of 2009, the numbers will have gone up just a bit.)

Yes, This Is A Repost. But Sometimes, Well, Something Speaks To You And . . .

I measure every Grief I meet
by Emily Dickinson

I measure every Grief I meet
With narrow, probing, Eyes – 
I wonder if It weighs like Mine – 
Or has an Easier size.

I wonder if They bore it long – 
Or did it just begin – 
I could not tell the Date of Mine – 
It feels so old a pain – 

I wonder if it hurts to live – 
And if They have to try – 
And whether – could They choose between – 
It would not be – to die – 

I note that Some – gone patient long – 
At length, renew their smile –  
An imitation of a Light
That has so little Oil – 

I wonder if when Years have piled –  
Some Thousands – on the Harm –  
That hurt them early – such a lapse
Could give them any Balm –  

Or would they go on aching still
Through Centuries of Nerve – 
Enlightened to a larger Pain –  
In Contrast with the Love –  

The Grieved – are many – I am told –  
There is the various Cause –  
Death – is but one – and comes but once –  
And only nails the eyes –  

There's Grief of Want – and grief of Cold –  
A sort they call "Despair" –  
There's Banishment from native Eyes – 
In Sight of Native Air –  

And though I may not guess the kind –  
Correctly – yet to me
A piercing Comfort it affords
In passing Calvary –  

To note the fashions – of the Cross –  
And how they're mostly worn –  
Still fascinated to presume
That Some – are like My Own – 

Monday, July 5, 2010


by Medbh McGuckian
Left to itself, they say, every foetus  
would turn female, staving in, nature  
siding then with the enemy that
delicately mixes up genders. This
is an absence I have passionately sought,  
brightening nevertheless my poet’s attic  
with my steady hands, calling him my blue  
lizard till his moans might be heard  
at the far end of the garden. For I like  
his ways, he’s light on his feet and does  
not break anything, puts his entire soul  
into bringing me a glass of water,

I can take anything now, even his being  
away, for it always seems to me his  
writing is for me, as I walk springless  
from the dressing-room in a sisterly  
length of flesh-coloured silk. Oh there  
are moments when you think you can  
give notice in a jolly, wifely tone,  
tossing off a very last and sunsetty
letter of farewell, with strict injunctions  
to be careful to procure his own lodgings:
that my good little room is lockable,  
but shivery, I recover at the mere  
sight of him propping up my pillow.

from Selected Poems,  Copyright © 1997.


"Master Origami Guy Lives in Garbage Truck"

What he does

koi fish made from dollar bill 


Where he lives

outside view of garbage truck with small motorcycle on the backinside view of garbage truck converted to living quarters by the artist. Small and white with a specific place for everything

Sunday, July 4, 2010






(just click the links to go to the documents in question) 
(also, a link to Founding Fathers info HERE)


The Star-Spangled Banner       
by Francis Scott Key

O say, can you see, by the dawn's early light, 
What so proudly we hailed at the twilight's last gleaming? 
Whose broad stripes and bright stars through the perilous fight, 
O'er the ramparts we watched were so gallantly streaming; 
And the rocket's red glare, the bombs bursting in air,
Gave proof through the night that our flag was still there; 
O say, does that star-spangled banner yet wave 
O'er the land of the free, and the home of the brave? 
On the shore dimly seen through the mists of the deep, 
Where the foe's haughty host in dread silence reposes,
What is that which the breeze, o'er the towering steep, 
As it fitfully blows, now conceals, now discloses? 
Now it catches the gleam of the morning's first beam, 
In full glory reflected now shines on the stream; 
'Tis the star-spangled banner; O long may it wave
O'er the land of the free, and the home of the brave! 
And where is that band who so vauntingly swore 
That the havoc of war and the battle's confusion 
A home and a country should leave us no more? 
Their blood has washed out their foul footsteps' pollution.
No refuge could save the hireling and slave, 
From the terror of flight and the gloom of the grave; 
And the star-spangled banner in triumph doth wave 
O'er the land of the free, and the home of the brave! 
O! thus be it ever, when freemen shall stand
Between their loved homes and the war's desolation! 
Blest with victory and peace, may the heav'n-rescued land, 
Praise the power that hath made and preserved us a nation. 
Then conquer we must, for our cause it is just. 
And this be our motto— "In God is our trust; "
And the star-spangled banner in triumph shall wave 
O'er the land of the free, and the home of the brave.

Friday, July 2, 2010


"The True Born Englishman"
Daniel Defoe

A true-born Englishman’s a contradiction,
In speech an irony, in fact a fiction.
The whole wonderful thing:
Thus from a mixture of all kinds began,
That het’rogeneous thing, an Englishman:
In eager rapes, and furious lust begot,
Betwixt a painted Britain and a Scot.
Whose gend’ring off-spring quickly learn’d to bow,
And yoke their heifers to the Roman plough:
From whence a mongrel half-bred race there came,
With neither name, nor nation, speech nor fame.
In whose hot veins new mixtures quickly ran,
Infus’d betwixt a Saxon and a Dane.
While their rank daughters, to their parents just,
Receiv’d all nations with promiscuous lust.
This nauseous brood directly did contain
The well-extracted blood of Englishmen.
      Which medly canton’d in a heptarchy,
A rhapsody of nations to supply,
Among themselves maintain’d eternal wars,
And still the ladies lov’d the conquerors.

      The western Angles all the rest subdu’d;
A bloody nation, barbarous and rude:
Who by the tenure of the sword possest
One part of Britain, and subdu’d the rest
And as great things denominate the small,
The conqu’ring part gave title to the whole.
The Scot, Pict, Britain, Roman, Dane, submit,
And with the English-Saxon all unite:
And these the mixture have so close pursu’d,
The very name and memory’s subdu’d:
No Roman now, no Britain does remain;
Wales strove to separate, but strove in vain:
The silent nations undistinguish’d fall,
And Englishman’s the common name for all.
Fate jumbled them together, God knows how;
What e’er they were they’re true-born English now.

      The wonder which remains is at our pride,
To value that which all wise men deride.
For Englishmen to boast of generation,
Cancels their knowledge, and lampoons the nation.
A true-born Englishman’s a contradiction,
In speech an irony, in fact a fiction.
A banter made to be a test of fools,
Which those that use it justly ridicules.
A metaphor invented to express
A man a-kin to all the universe.

      For as the Scots, as learned men ha’ said,
Throughout the world their wand’ring seed ha’ spread;
So open-handed England, ’tis believ’d,
Has all the gleanings of the world receiv’d.

      Some think of England ’twas our Saviour meant,
The Gospel should to all the world be sent:
Since, when the blessed sound did hither reach,
They to all nations might be said to preach.

      ’Tis well that virtue gives nobility,
How shall we else the want of birth and blood supply?
Since scarce one family is left alive,
Which does not from some foreigner derive.

Thursday, July 1, 2010


"The real lover is the man who can thrill you 
by touching your head or smiling into your eyes
or just staring into space."

- Marilyn Monroe -