My New Year's resolution By Robert Fisher

My New Year's resolution By Robert Fisher

I will not throw the cat out the window
Or put a frog in my sister's bed
I will not tie my brother's shoelaces together
Nor jump from the roof of Dad's shed
I shall remember my aunt's next birthday
And tidy my room once a week
I'll not moan at Mum's cooking (Ugh! fish fingers again!)
Nor give her any more of my cheek.
I will not pick my nose if I can help it
I shall fold up my clothes, comb my hair,
I will say please and thank you (even when I don't mean it)
And never spit or shout or even swear.
I shall write each day in my diary
Try my hardest to be helpful at school
I shall help old ladies cross roads (even if they don't want to)
And when others are rude I'll stay cool.
I'll go to bed with the owls and be up with the larks


More By Robert Fisher:

Merry Christmas Bloggers!!! Recipe for Christmas All Year Long By Joanna Fuchs

Recipe for Christmas All Year Long
Take a heap of child-like wonder
That opens up our eyes
To the unexpected gifts in life—
Each day a sweet surprise.
Mix in fond appreciation
For the people whom we know;
Like festive Christmas candles,
Each one has a special glow.
Add some giggles and some laughter,
A dash of Christmas food,
(Amazing how a piece of pie
Improves our attitude!)
Stir it all with human kindness;
Wrap it up in love and peace,
Decorate with optimism, and
Our joy will never cease.
If we use this healthy recipe,
We know we will remember
To be in the Christmas spirit,
Even when it's not December.

By Joanna Fuchs

sweet sunshine song by Kailyn Coleman

sweet sunshine song : Kailyn Coleman
and id write you a song, oh darling, but i bet its all been written, once before. cuz i am not originality, i am just a pen, paper, and ears for listening. and my skin, it shivers, at the taste, touch, the look of your body. and this inspiration in my brain, is a tune that sings sweetly in my ear, that influence these winds, in this, full empty room, to twist and consume. i told you once before, in my sleep, its your promises, that were lies, that hold me prisoner here. the water tastes dry, and the lights have grown, more and more dull, while this years spring, looks alot like last years fall. when the sun went out, and then bursted aloud, "im shining so bright yet, you still can not see me!" i smiled til i realized, i was miles into the sky, looking down at myself, and couldnt help but cry. but the tears froze somewhere, halfway between my face, and miles below me, and turned into that same tune, i had heard once before, singing sweeter, than i had heard it sung before

The Land Of Dreams by William Blake

Awake, awake my little Boy!
Thou wast thy Mother's only joy:
Why dost thou weep in thy gentle sleep?
Awake! thy Father does thee keep.

"O, what land is the Land of Dreams?
What are its mountains, and what are its streams?
O Father, I saw my Mother there,
Among the lillies by waters fair.

Among the lambs clothed in white
She walked with her Thomas in sweet delight.
I wept for joy, like a dove I mourn— 
O when shall I return again?"

Dear child, I also by pleasant streams
Have wandered all night in the Land of Dreams;
But though calm and warm the waters wide,
I could not get to the other side.

"Father, O Father, what do we here,
In this land of unbelief and fear?
The Land of Dreams is better far
Above the light of the Morning Star."

3000 yr old Love Poem from Egypt

Extract from a 3,000 year-old papyrus.

She is one girl, there is no one like her.
She is more beautiful than any other.
Look, she is like a star goddess arising
at the beginning of a happy new year;
brilliantly white, bright skinned;
with beautiful eyes for looking,
with sweet lips for speaking;
she has not one phrase too many.
With a long neck and white breast,
her hair of genuine lapis lazuli;
her arm more brilliant than gold;
her fingers like lotus flowers,
with heavy buttocks and girt waist.
Her thighs offer her beauty,
with a brisk step she treads on ground.
She has captured my heart in her embrace.
She makes all men turn their necks
to look at her.
One looks at her passing by,this one, the unique one.

More info here:

  *    The Art of Egypt the Time of the Pharoahs

DECEMBER SNOW

 DECEMBER SNOW

I shuffle through the fresh new snow while strolling in the park, 

Seeing shadows start to form as it is getting dark. 

So quietly and peacefully new snowflakes hit the ground, 

And form a pure white layer and they never make a sound. 

The soft flakes feel like drops of ice when drifting on my face, 

And everything feels fresh and clean as I walk through this place. 

The trees are covered with a coat of freshly fallen snow, 

Then some have icy branches that give off a crystal glow. 

The only sound that I can hear is little wisps of wind, 

But only for a moment then the air is still again. 

My heart is overflowing with a feeling from within, 

A gentle, soothing, calming feeling comes to me again. 

I stop to meditate and feel the breeze upon my face, 

I need this time alone to touch my feelings and embrace, 

The constant nagging question in my mind that causes doubt, 

Once again I ask myself "what is it all about?" 

December is upon us and the holidays are near, 

It is a month when peace on earth is echoed loud and clear. 

It is a month when people try to have good will toward man, 

But always seems that good will ends as quick and it began. 

If only people took the time to stop and smell the air, 

If only people took the time to treat all others fair. 

If only people did not feel they had to leave their mark. 

If only there were peace on earth as I feel in this park, 

As... I stood there thinking of the words that I just said, 

I recalled words, something like this, that long ago I read. 

It came to me as silently as snow upon the breeze, 

"If my people turn to me and fall upon their knees" 

I knew there was much more to it, those words were just the start, 

But those few words were all I needed deep within my heart. 

I did not need the other words, the meaning I had felt, 

And in the freshly fallen snow, I bowed my head and knelt. 

I felt the tears roll down my face and glisten in the snow, 

Tears of joy or tears of sorrow, that I did not know. 

I knew what I was feeling I could not feel on my own, 

And as I spoke these words I know I was not there alone. 

I understand I'm just one man, and lowly, meek and poor, 

And as I understand the words you said you wanted more. 

So peace I will not pray for but instead I'll pray for these, 

I pray that all who call your name will fall down on their knees. 

And at this Christmas season as so many times before, 

Understand the reason what this season was made for. 

Lift your prayers to heaven and then pray that they increase, 

Remember that this season was made for the Prince Of Peace. 

Copyright © James A. Kisner

Snowman Blues by Paul Curtis

Snowman Blues by Paul Curtis

Out of the snowy lawn  The snowman grew  Wearing a hat and scarf  The way that you do  With pebbles for eyes  pressed into the snow  A smiley twig mouth  And a large carrot nose   He’s a magnificent site  The snowman that grew  But he’s just snow and ice And no substitute for you   I wish you were here  To chase the blues away  I wish you’d come back To me for Christmas day

The Stary Night - John Masefield

That starry Night when Christ was born,
The shepherds watched by Dead Man’s Thorn;
They shared their supper with the dogs,
And watched the sparks flick from the logs
Where the coppings from the holly burned.

  Then the dogs growled, and faced turned
To horsemen, coming from the hill.

  A Captain called to them, ‘Keep still…
We’re riding, seeking for a sign
Than human beings are divine…
Is there such marvel, hereabout?

  The shepherds said, ‘Us don’t know nowt.
We’re Mr Jones’s shepherd chaps.
Old Mr Jones might know, perhaps…
But if you’ve come this country road,
You’ve passed his house and never knowed.
There’s someone in the town might know;
A mile on, keeping as you go’.

  Long after all had disappeared,
More horsemen (from the woodland), neared;
And one, a King, with a dark skin,
Cried, ‘Friends, are gods and men akin?
A wonder tells of this, they say.
Is it near here? Is this the way?’

  ‘Why, no’ the shepherds said….’Perhaps.
We’re Mr. Jones’s shepherd chaps.
Old Mr. Jones would know, I wis,
But he’ll be gone to bed  by this.

  After the troop had passed away
A third came (from the River way)
And cried, ‘Good friends, we seek to find
Some guidance for the questing mind,
Eternity, in all this Death,
Some life out-living flesh and breath.
Can we find this, the way we ride?

  ‘You’d better picket down and bide,’
The shepherds said ‘And rest your bones.
We’re shepherds here to Mr. Jones.
When morning comes, you ask of he,
For he’d know more of that than we.
We’re only shepherds here; so bide.’

  ‘We cannot wait’ the horseman cried.
‘Life cannot wait; Death cannot stay;
This midnight is our only day.
Push on, friends; shepherd all, farewell.
This living without Life is Hell’.

  The clatter of the horse-hoofs failed,
Along the wood a barn-owl wailed;
The small mice rustled in the wood;
The stars burned in their multitude.

  Meanwhile, within the little town,
The camping horsemen settled down;
The horses drank at stream and fed
On chaff, from nose-bags, picketed.
The men rolled blankets out, and stretched;
Black Nim their hard cheese supper fetched;
Then, after spirit from the gourd,
Each turned to sleep without a word,
But shortly roused again to curse
A some-one calling for a nurse
To help a woman in her woe.

  All this was very long ago.

Ryunosuke Akutagawa - Haiku

• Sick and feverish
• Glimpse of cherry blossoms
• Still shivering.

i believe this is how im feeling today. -,-

THE LIVING ARE THE DOGS OF WAR : THE WALKING MAN

THE WALKING MAN: THE LIVING ARE THE DOGS OF WAR

THE LIVING ARE THE DOGS OF WAR

Let them bathe in the blood of another,

it will not be mine and they will not

send their own kin or kind

off to fight in their wars

for privilege and an office

on the sixty sixth floor.

Their power is the hammer.

Their wealth the anvil they beat against.

And we,

the living are the molten rod

they rage against.

Trying to form and shape us

into something different

than what we are.

They ever try

to pry more,

always more,

from an earth

that has drank her fill

of the living’s blood.

She is throwing up now,

back in their faces,

and they do not recognize it

though it be the very thing they desire,

blood ancient blood of souls long departed

from this dying place shocked and awed

to submission by their beauty.

A gorging gorgeous

that the living will never know.

Does not want to know or have.

The rich, the famous, the fabulous,

on their red carpet ride long stroll

over the blood of men forced to war

for them now long dead.

While the living scream

in a rage no more.

We care little for either hammer or anvil

for they have not got the strength

to wield the weight of the hammer

against our Master

who has a’ready shaped

us into something that

refuses to die for their

fear and amusement.

Canines they are,

but no, they are no match for

the dogs of war.

That is us, the living.

They are pack dogs

tail tucked in fear

knowing there is a line

they can not cross

less they be harmed in understanding

there are them they can not control.

Us the living ready now

Now ready to turn on them

to shred their body magnificent.

© M Durfee

12/9/10

Suggest Poetry Day

Alright, so ive been thinking, I should dedicate this post to my viewers and their suggestions. You can suggest a poet/poem by simply clicking the "Create a link". Everyones link will be displayed below :D

Spoken Word Poetry "My Life" Ben Falealili

Today i decided to do things differently. Here is a video of some powerful spoken word. This guy really loves the woman he is with. So sweet.

Sans pretension by Henry Normal

We say 'cul de sac'

To make 'dead end' sound sunny.

We say 'nouveau riche'

Instead of working class with money.

We call art 'avant-garde'

When we don't understand it.

Jumble sales sell 'bric-a-brac'

Which must be French for shit.

Let's call a spud a spud,

No more lies or elaborate word contortions.

Chips are chips

Not pomme frites or french fries.

Why say 'haute cuisine' when you mean 'smaller portions'.

No more saying we had a 'tete a tete'

When you mean you've been nagging

Bragging or just chin wagging,

And no more calling it a 'menage a trois'

When you mean three people shagging.

I would like to thank 

Christina Lindsay for introducing me to this wonderful poet.

Hope is a Thing With Feathers by Emily Dickinson

Hope is a thing with feathers
That perches in the soul
And sings a tune without words
And never stops at all.

And sweetest, in the gale, is heard
And sore must be the storm
That could abash the little bird
That keeps so many warm.

I've heard it in the chilliest land
And on the strangest sea
Yet, never, in extremity
It ask a crumb of me.

 Emily  Dickinson