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Wrinkle our face
Twinkle weather
Quietly we embrace
Age together.

Each annular ring
Season’s turning breeze
In our ears sing
We are aging with ease.

What if she gets slow
My limbs are growing rust
Lacking youthful glow
We’re aging in good trust.

Her curves have lost the edge
My gait lacks olden spright
Yet nicely do we age
We’re aging without fright.

Have grown dim our eyes
Ears too often fail
There’s no disguise
We are aging well.

We are past that ride
Stuck on the surface
Reached that space inside
Where we can age in grace.
Leave the thorn and pluck the rose,
you go in search of grief.
Old Age will creep up on you
when your heart does not expect it
(Bernadetto Pamphili)
Geras - God of old age in Greek mythology
Her voice is like clear water
That drips upon a stone
In forests far and silent
Where Quiet plays alone.

Her thoughts are like the lotus
Abloom by sacred streams
Beneath the temple arches
Where Quiet sits and dreams.

Her kisses are the roses
That glow while dusk is deep
In Persian garden closes
Where Quiet falls asleep.
If you've never been in love
How can you know the pain
Of true, gut wrenching heartbreak
You'll suffer time and time again

Keep emotion at a distance
Don't get all sad when you see rain
For, if you've never been in love
You can never know the pain

Just how many kinds of heartbreak
Do I have to suffer through?
Just why does every heartbreak
bring me running back to you?
I've lost count of all the breakups
and the make ups I've been through
Tell me, why does every heartbreak
bring me running back to you?

There's an empty kind of something
That I just can not explain
It's a feeling comes with heartbreak
It's a void, but there is pain

Your head is stuck on empty
Your heart it feels the same
If you've never loved another
You'll think that you have gone insane

You grow a little stronger
With every broken heart
Just get out and push through it
That's the best way you can start

If you've never been in love
How can you know the pain
Remember, like the weather
There's always sunshine after rain

Just how many kinds of heartbreak
Do I have to suffer through?
Just why does every heartbreak
bring me running back to you?
I've lost count of all the breakups
and the make ups I've been through
Tell me, why does every heartbreak
bring me running back to you?
 Jun 2014 Janet Brown
T. S. Eliot
The Naming of Cats is a difficult matter,
It isn’t just one of your holiday games;
You may think at first I’m as mad as a hatter
When I tell you, a cat must have THREE DIFFERENT NAMES.
First of all, there’s the name that the family use daily,
Such as Peter, Augustus, Alonzo or James,
Such as Victor or Jonathan, George or Bill Bailey—
All of them sensible everyday names.
There are fancier names if you think they sound sweeter,
Some for the gentlemen, some for the dames:
Such as Plato, Admetus, Electra, Demeter—
But all of them sensible everyday names.
But I tell you, a cat needs a name that’s particular,
A name that’s peculiar, and more dignified,
Else how can he keep up his tail perpendicular,
Or spread out his whiskers, or cherish his pride?
Of names of this kind, I can give you a quorum,
Such as Munkustrap, Quaxo, or Coricopat,
Such as Bombalurina, or else Jellylorum-
Names that never belong to more than one cat.
But above and beyond there’s still one name left over,
And that is the name that you never will guess;
The name that no human research can discover—
But THE CAT HIMSELF KNOWS, and will never confess.
When you notice a cat in profound meditation,
The reason, I tell you, is always the same:
His mind is engaged in a rapt contemplation
Of the thought, of the thought, of the thought of his name:
His ineffable effable
Effanineffable
Deep and inscrutable singular Name.
 Jun 2014 Janet Brown
T. S. Eliot
Miss Helen Slingsby was my maiden aunt,
And lived in a small house near a fashionable square
Cared for by servants to the number of four.
Now when she died there was silence in heaven
And silence at her end of the street.
The shutters were drawn and the undertaker wiped his feet—
He was aware that this sort of thing had occurred before.
The dogs were handsomely provided for,
But shortly afterwards the parrot died too.
The Dresden clock continued ticking on the mantelpiece,
And the footman sat upon the dining-table
Holding the second housemaid on his knees—
Who had always been so careful while her mistress lived.
 Jun 2014 Janet Brown
T. S. Eliot
Bustopher Jones is not skin and bones—
In fact, he’s remarkably fat.
He doesn’t haunt pubs—he has eight or nine clubs,
For he’s the St. James’s Street Cat!
He’s the Cat we all greet as he walks down the street
In his coat of fastidious black:
No commonplace mousers have such well-cut trousers
Or such an impreccable back.
In the whole of St. James’s the smartest of names is
The name of this Brummell of Cats;
And we’re all of us proud to be nodded or bowed to
By Bustopher Jones in white spats!

His visits are occasional to the Senior Educational
And it is against the rules
For any one Cat to belong both to that
And the Joint Superior Schools.

For a similar reason, when game is in season
He is found, not at Fox’s, but Blimpy’s;
He is frequently seen at the gay Stage and Screen
Which is famous for winkles and shrimps.
In the season of venison he gives his ben’son
To the Pothunter’s succulent bones;
And just before noon’s not a moment too soon
To drop in for a drink at the Drones.
When he’s seen in a hurry there’s probably curry
At the Siamese—or at the Glutton;
If he looks full of gloom then he’s lunched at the Tomb
On cabbage, rice pudding and mutton.

So, much in this way, passes Bustopher’s day-
At one club or another he’s found.
It can be no surprise that under our eyes
He has grown unmistakably round.
He’s a twenty-five pounder, or I am a bounder,
And he’s putting on weight every day:
But he’s so well preserved because he’s observed
All his life a routine, so he’ll say.
Or, to put it in rhyme: “I shall last out my time”
Is the word of this stoutest of Cats.
It must and it shall be Spring in Pall Mall
While Bustopher Jones wears white spats!
 Jun 2014 Janet Brown
r
Caroline
 Jun 2014 Janet Brown
r
Caroline loves the ocean.  
Her soul sails on a Carolina breeze.
But her music's in the mountains,
and her heart's back home
where it needs to be.

I'm stuck here
in a Carolina wind,
wading in the ocean
with my heart in Tennessee,
and my mind on Caroline.

Carolina's got everything
a man could want.
Everything he needs.
It's got the mountains and the ocean.
It has a Carolina breeze.

He has everything but Caroline;
everything but Tennessee.

r ~ 6/22/14
\•/\
  |     Carolina ocean breeze
/ \
 Jun 2014 Janet Brown
SG Holter
I read it in the skies.
Clouds part before my eyes
Tomorrow.
For today, I will
Let it rain.

Watch dark clouds turn lighter
With each drop
Upon the forever careless
Grounds.

Let it all free itself.
Wind dries. Sun warms.
Grass grows.
Love shifts.

Blue skies are as common
As air.
 Jun 2014 Janet Brown
B J Clement
The fundamental truth in all things lies
where honesty says that it should be.
at the heart of every one,
at the heart of you and me.
 Jun 2014 Janet Brown
B J Clement
On the margins of the lake- I see, by the shady bowers,
downy ducklings eating water lilly flowers.
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