"John Applegate was fast asleep; and Temperance Olden, too."
Timothy 

(new jersey, 1918)
Its quiet graves were made for peace till Gabriel blows his horn.
    Those wise old elms could hear no cry
    Of all that distant agony—
Only the red-winged blackbird, and the rustle of thick ripe corn.        

The blue jay, perched upon that bronze, with bright unweeting eye
   Could never read the names that signed
   The noblest charter of mankind;
But all of them were names we knew beneath our English skies.

And on the low gray headstones, with their crumbling weather-stains,
   —Though cardinal birds, like drops of blood,
   Flickered across the haunted wood,—
The names you’d see were names that woke like flowers in English lanes

John Applegate was fast asleep; and Temperance Olden, too.
   And David Worth had quite forgot
   If Hannah’s lips were red or not;
And Prudence veiled her eyes at last, as Prudence ought to do.

And when, across that patch of heaven, that small blue leaf-edged space
   At times, a droning airplane went,
   No flicker of astonishment
Could lift the heavy eyelids on one gossip’s upturned face.

For William Speakman could not tell—so thick the grasses grow—
   If that strange humming in the sky
   Meant that the Judgment Day were nigh,
Or if ’twere but the summer bees that blundered to and fro.

And then, across the breathless wood, a Bell began to sound,
   The only Bell that wakes the dead,
   And Stockton Signer raised his head,
And called to all the deacons in the ancient burial-ground.

“The Bell, the Bell is ringing! Give me back my rusty sword.
   Though I thought the wars were done,
   Though I thought our peace was won,
Yet I signed the Declaration, and the dead must keep their word.

“There’s only one great ghost I know could make that ’larum ring.
   It’s the captain that we knew
   In the ancient buff and blue,
It’s our Englishman, George Washington, who fought the German king!”

So the sunset saw them mustering beneath their brooding boughs,
   Ancient shadows of our sires,
   Kindling with the ancient fires,
While the old cracked Bell to southward shook the shadowy meeting house.

~Alfred Noyes 1880—1958~

"Temperance, you have it built in."
jeffrey conyers 

Everything, the Fruit of the Spirit is.
You are.
I know it.
Seen you show it.
Temperance, you have it built in.
Meekness, is the humbleness of your heart.
Faith, you adapted to it to a tee.
The kingdom of Christ means a lot.

Everything, the Fruit of the Spirit is.
You are.

Your goodness.
Your goodness comes from your caring soul.
You placed it, as everyone goal.

Your gentleness, shows in your kindness.
And when longsuffering comes to you.
You shows your patience in dealing with it.

I just know.
You are everything the Fruit of the Spirit is.

Ask to describe joy?
I point to you.
Even when simple words would do.

Quiet peace, is your ability to avoid conflicts.
Or let others get you caught up.

And since you love me unconditionally.
I know, you are love.
I see it in your eyes.
And feel it in your love.
Nine qualities that laws can't govern.

But others can apply.

"re endlessly castigated for our lack of temperance"
Omnis Atrum 

With our passion all spent they would have us repent our consent
with blind zealotry they refuse to relent opposing our mergence
so when curing prurience leave one percent of passion unspent.

As we share these moments and begin our physical ascent
be aware that they will not capitulate in calling for our penance
with our passion all spent they would have us repent our consent.

Remember this simple covenant in order to circumvent
the condemnation of our actions as unforgivable flagrance
so when curing prurience leave one percent of passion unspent.

In these sheets we have long forgotten the virgin's lament
because the silent weeping is drowned out by our cadence
with our passion all spent they would have us repent our consent.

By our mutual pleasure we have earned their unrelenting resent
and we are endlessly castigated for our lack of temperance
so when curing prurience leave one percent of passion unspent.

The cries of fanatics prove their opposition to be hellbent
they would prefer that we endure the torment of abstinence
with our passion all spent they would have us repent our consent
so when curing prurience leave one percent of passion unspent.

"But the temperance I am left with"
Every Morning Reborn 

Threat and Crisis
Theses are words I have accepted

I deserve nothing else...
But the temperance I am left with

Life's rare and divine ecstasies
Snatched by the apathetic

Thieving currents

"ding vigilant and possessing an refined temperance to it. It was next to a KFC and a liquo"
Anna Lo 

Today, on the way to dinner, I saw a church. "Worship at 9:00", it said on that board, standing vigilant and possessing an refined temperance to it. It was next to a KFC and a liquor shop.

"humid temperance in your tussled hair"
Third Eye Candy 

humid temperance in your tussled hair
you are fair to begin with
a more wholesome lust-
my loins could pray too.
you give this
gravitas -
while withholding a miracle of aftermaths.
you're spot on.
manifest this for me...
bring out the outcasts of your hinterlands and small tokens.
bring out your fists so that i  may comfort them
with too warm kisses.
let me languish in your paradox
swollen with joy
totally into it,

let me love you like like like like daybreak mending.

i'll size you up
on a pedestal
and catch
you

like a lover.

try me.

"The sobriety: My failed temperance"
Keely Hartman 

Can you tell me what's real in Life?
and what's still sacred
Are there angels and does God create us just to experiment,
another silly little game He plays?
Does anyone else wonder what really matters,
other than me
Me with the bad grades
The broken curfews: My worried mom
The cheated the the heartbreaks: The Karma to come
The sobriety: My failed temperance
The sex: Desperate attempts to feel something again
Do all the small mistakes I create really effect the way the Sun shines on all the insects, the bees and the grasshoppers
Do my regrets expand outward, rippling the waters of some man-made lake, of a boat, of a man
Of a beer in a blue cooler, melting in the heat
Or does this fisherman simply roll his eyes at another stoned teenager
Wasting another summer afternoon,
dipping her toes in the shallows.

Mid-February
Did the tadpoles, now long decayed and dead, shoved into stolen straws in the corner of Gaby's yard
Did those tadpoles mean the whole World to the momma frogs when a million eggs hatched
Instead of a million and one?
And does Ms. Macker still remember the fluffy blond first grader and wonder who she grew up to be
In five minutes, in five days, in five years
Will I remember the Boy that makes me smile and laugh
Will I remember the looks and inside jokes and seconds between alternating breathes
Or will I forget,
sitting in my grandparents house, reading a new romance, oblivious to You
Right across the street,
like you have been for years now.

There's something demeaning in the snobbish way Kings and Queens raise their noses and raise their crowns
Knowing they will be discussed forevermore by a history teacher,
a history teacher to an intent, rebellious girl who lusts to be a famous princess so that someday, the teacher will say her name with the same kind of passion
How do the thousands of babies allow themselves to born
Knowing never the knowledge of those thousands dying in the same second
Where will all the true experience go?

And will a mother still love her child after he's murdered millions of other mother's children?
including the:
Old and the babies
The teacher and his student
The King and the Queen
The Boy and the girl
The frogs and the tadpoles
The stoner and the fisherman
The bees and the grasshoppers
The angels and God
Will someone still question when all is dead and gone?

After all that, can you still tell me what's real in Life?

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