Written by
Lisa Zaran |
At one end of the couch
you sit, mute as a pillow
tossed onto the upholstery.
I watch you sometimes
when you don't know I'm watching
and I see you.
Who you are.
You are a self made man.
Hard suffering.
You are grey
stone and damp earth.
A long scar on a pale sky.
The television is tuned to CNN.
The world's tragedies flicker
across your face like some
foreign film.
You are expressionless.
Your usual gestures ground to salt.
How do you explain yourself
to people that do not know you?
How do you explain to them,
this is me; that is not me.
However many words you choose
in whatever context with
whichever adjectives you use
could not compare.
Even you describing you
would not be you.
Not totally.
Your hands are folded
together, resting in your lap.
I study those hands until
every groove becomes familiar.
Like a favorite hat,
you wear your silence
comfortably.
I sometimes can not help
but wonder what we will
talk about if we ever
run out of things to say.
You are the curve
I burrow into.
The strength
I borrow.
You are the red sun
rising over the mountain.
You are the mountain.
© 2002 Lisa M.
Zaran
All rights reserved.
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Written by
Ogden Nash |
There here are words of radical advice for a young man looking for a job;
Young man, be a snob.
Yes, if you are in search of arguments against starting at the bottom,
Why I've gottem.
Let the personnel managers differ;
It,s obvious that you will get on faster at the top than at the bottom because
there are more people at the bottom than at the top so naturally the competition
at the bottom is stiffer.
If you need any further proof that my theory works
Well, nobody can deny that presidents get paid more than vice-presidents and
vice-presidents get paid more than clerks.
Stop looking at me quizzically;
I want to add that you will never achieve fortune in a job that makes you
uncomfortable physically.
When anybody tells you that hard jobs are better for you than soft jobs be sure
to repeat this text to them,
Postmen tramp around all day through rain and snow just to deliver other
people's in cozy air-conditioned offices checks to them.
You don't need to interpret tea leaves stuck in a cup
To understand that people who work sitting down get paid more than people who
work standing up.
Another thing about having a comfortable job is you not only accommodate more
treasure;
You get more leisure.
So that when you find you have worked so comfortably that your waistline is a
menace,
You correct it with golf or tennis.
Whereas is in an uncomfortable job like piano-moving or stevedoring you
indulge,
You have no time to exercise, you just continue to bulge.
To sum it up, young man, there is every reason to refuse a job that will make
heavy demands on you corporally or manually,
And the only intelligent way to start your career is to accept a sitting
position paying at least twenty-five thousand dollars annually.
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Written by
Robert William Service |
To Italy a random tour
I took to crown my education,
Returning relatively poor
In purse yet rich in conversation.
Old Rome put up a jolly show,
But I am not a classic purist,
Preferring to Mike Angelo
The slim stems of a lady tourist.
Venice, they say, was built on piles;
I used to muse, how did they do it?
I tramped the narrow streets for miles,
Religiously I gondoled through it.
But though to shrines I bowed my head,
My stomach's an aesthetic sinner,
For in St.
Mark's I yawned and said:
"I hope we'll have lasagne for dinner.
"
Florence, I'll say, was mighty swell,
With heaps of statues stark and lusty;
I liked the Pitti Palace well,
The Offusi I found to fusty.
But though I "did" the best of it,
My taste, I fear, is low and nasty,
For in its bars I'd rather sit
Imbibing cups of sparkling Asti.
And so we go, a tourist host,
And pass art treasures little heeding,
While memories that haunt us most
Are those of rich and copious feeding.
In sooth I see no need to roam,
Since all I want this side of Hades,
I'll comfortably find at home -
Just eating, drinking and the Ladies.
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Written by
Alden Nowlan |
Not every wino is a Holy Man.
Oh, but some of them are.
I love those who've learned
to sit comfortably
for long periods with their hams
pressed against their calves,
outdoors,
with a wall for a back-rest,
contentedly saying nothing.
These move about only when
necessary,
on foot, and almost always
in pairs.
I think of them as oblates.
Christ's blood is in their veins
or they thirst for it.
They have looked into the eyes
of God,
unprotected by smoked glass.
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Written by
Eugene Field |
Suppose, my dear, that you were I
And by your side your sweetheart sate;
Suppose you noticed by and by
The distance 'twixt you were too great;
Now tell me, dear, what would you do?
I know--and so do you.
And when (so comfortably placed)
Suppose you only grew aware
That that dear, dainty little waist
Of hers looked very lonely there;
Pray tell me sooth--what would you do?
I know, and so do you.
When, having done what I just did
With not a frown to check or chill,
Suppose her red lips seemed to bid
Defiance to your lordly will;
Oh, tell me, sweet, what would you do?
I know, and so do you.
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Written by
Rg Gregory |
don't be so lazy maisie maisie
don't be so lazy please
i know it's snowing
and a hard wind's blowing
but nobody knows
at the rate we're going
what time we'll get home tonight
keep to the path for me timothy timothy
keep to the path for me please
my legs are aching
and my poor back's breaking
and everyone knows
the track you're taking
will not fetch us home tonight
i know the way see maisie maisie
i know the way so there
if you'll just stop talking
and keep on walking
before anyone knows
the track will be forking
and we'll almost be home tonight
you're going too fast for me timothy timothy
you're going too fast so there
my shoes are leaking
and my old heart's creaking
the devil may know
and he's not speaking
if we'll ever find home tonight
i'm a little bit hazy maisie maisie
i'm a little bit hazy here
the snowstorm is blinding
the track is too winding.
.
.
.
surely somebody knows
and will soon start minding
that we're not in our home tonight
you're too far in front of me timothy timothy
you're too much in front of me here
you should be guiding
not foolishly hiding.
.
.
.
.
i don't think he knows
my life is subsiding.
.
.
.
he can go home without me tonight
what did i say see maisie maisie
what did i say see there
this thin track is splitting
and soon we'll be quitting
these woods that i know
we'll be comfortably sitting
by the fire in our home tonight
wait for the ghost of me timothy timothy
wait for the ghost of me there
no snow is falling
in the world that is calling
me now.
.
.
.
will you know
it's not me who'll be drawing
the curtains in our home tonight
.
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.
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.
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.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
.
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don't be so lazy maisie maisie
don't be so lazy please
you may be past caring
but a meal needs preparing
don't say you didn't know
and don't stand there staring
be thankful you're safe-home tonight
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