Create
The best version
Of yourself
Every morning
You have a chance
To create
The best version
Of yourself
Bright and shine
Yourself
You will be
The great of greats
"I think you should be
One of the greats,
But you've given up,
You drink too much,
And that's sad.
When I'm 27 I'd be happy
To be like you.
In your writing,
Make sure you've got
Something really
Unbeatable...
Then say...'Here!'
When I'm 27 I'd be happy
To be like you.
You've got the spark of genius
At sixteen, you knew
You were a genius,
At nineteen, you thought
What's a genius anyway?"
When I'm 27 I'd be happy
To be like you."
("One of the Greats Who Never Was" - recently re-edited - is a kind of verse collage based on several conversations I had with a good friend around 1983.)
There are scanty men of tasty rhyme.
Shakespeare is dead and Marlow has gone with time,
Tennyson is under the soil and Holmes is no more;
Bunyan will never live again, and where is Poe?
I miss the verse of Nahum Tate,
A man stolen by the tides of fate.
I wish I could behold the mien of Coleridge,
Or see Longfellow musing upon a lonely bridge!
Now the uncoursed apprentices of this superior art
Have been left to dash hither and thither,
Knowing not which word to choose,
Chasing in vain some erratic Muse.
They say that little boats ought to keep the shore
And that larger ones may venture more.
I vote to labor on hot days and lonely nights,
I choose to rob myself of sleep and such basic rights
And attempt to fill these gaping gaps.
I seek no gain on this sorrowful earth,
I labour to earn some mystic mirth
When warmed by the blissful wings of death;
When its vanished the deceitful pride of breath.
Let no man recognize me for my plaintive works
While I'm on this earth of muddy murks!
There are scanty men of tasty rhyme.
Shakespeare is dead and Marlow has gone with time,
Tennyson is under the soil and Holmes is no more;
Bunyan will never live again, and where is Poe?
I miss the verse of Nahum Tate,
A man stolen by the tides of fate.
I wish I could behold the mien of Coleridge,
Or see Longfellow musing upon a lonely bridge!
Now the uncoursed apprentices of this superior art
Have been left to dash hither and thither,
Knowing not which word to choose,
Chasing in vain some erratic Muse.
They say that little boats ought to keep the shore
And that larger ones may venture more.
I vote to labor on hot days and lonely nights,
I choose to rob myself of sleep and such basic rights
And attempt to fill these gaping gaps.
I seek no gain on this sorrowful earth,
I labour to earn some mystic mirth
When warmed by the blissful wings of death;
When its vanished the deceitful pride of breath.
Let no man recognize me for my plaintive works
While I'm on this earth of muddy murks!
Gallant as Michael
Symbol of vision and pride
Guards our heroes past
Michael is the chief of all angels of God. He is also the guardian angel of Israel
For Carolyn's 'Bald eagle in cemetery' contest