"howe" poems
To know just where your're going
You must know where you've been
You must respect the history
The things others have seen
It's true in all things relative
Be it music, sports or life
If you don't know where you came from
You're just dancing on a knife
Gherig, Ruth and Robinson
May, and Mantle, Seaver too
Respect their contributions
And don't just say Ruth who?
Respect where things have come from
And the players of the past
Because you learn and make things better
It's what makes the **** game last
Jimmy Foxx, Bob Gibson, Kaline
Nestor Chylak and The Goose
They made baseball special
They gave the game a little juice
Orr, Richard and Gretzky
Gordie Howe and Howie Morenz
You have to know about them
You need the beginning to your ends
Bob Baun and Bill Barilko
Connie Smythe and yeah...the Chief
You have to know their history
They're what it is to be a Leaf
The game has changed immensely
Things can not go back in time
But to me...the old alumni
Made the game I know as mine
Respect the ones before you
The ones who laid the groundwork down
The ones who made it special
The non-pretenders to the crown
Elvis, Buddy, Harrison
Played the songs inside their heart
Lennon, Wilson and the rest
They all played a real big part
Every single generation
should learn from the one before
For if they don't know where they've come from
Then what has it all been for?
Nicklaus, Palmer, Bobby Jones
Sarazen and Hogan too
They pushed the gameright to it's limits
Now the pressure's upon you
The new breed are the teachers now
They're the ones to lead the way
When twenty or so years from now
You'll hear somebody say
"Respect who came before you
The ones who made us so **** proud
LIke Nash and , Perry and Taylor Hall
They played the game so loud
Pudge, Jeter, and Verlander
they brought it up a notch
They were there to stretch the limits
Not to just sit by and watch
Rory, Justin Rose and Mahan
Bubba, Dustin and the rest
They are the players of the future
They all respected the games best
So, to know where you are going
You must know where you have been
Respect, past through the future
And all that's happened in between.
May 4, 2012
May 4, 2012 at 4:49 PM UTC
Oh! that my young life were a lasting dream!
My spirit not awakening, till the beam
Of an Eternity should bring the morrow.
Yes! though that long dream were of hopeless sorrow,
’Twere better than the cold reality
Of waking life, to him whose heart must be,
And hath been still, upon the lovely earth,
A chaos of deep passion, from his birth.
But should it be—that dream eternally
Continuing—as dreams have been to me
In my young boyhood—should it thus be given,
’Twere folly still to hope for higher Heaven.
For I have revelled when the sun was bright
I’ the summer sky, in dreams of living light
And loveliness,—have left my very heart
Inclines of my imaginary apart
From mine own home, with beings that have been
Of mine own thought—what more could I have seen?
’Twas once—and only once—and the wild hour
From my remembrance shall not pass—some power
Or spell had bound me—’twas the chilly wind
Came o’er me in the night, and left behind
Its image on my spirit—or the moon
Shone on my slumbers in her lofty noon
Too coldly—or the stars—howe’er it was
That dream was that that night-wind—let it pass.
I have been happy, though in a dream.
I have been happy—and I love the theme:
Dreams! in their vivid coloring of life
As in that fleeting, shadowy, misty strife
Of semblance with reality which brings
To the delirious eye, more lovely things
Of Paradise and Love—and all my own!—
Than young Hope in his sunniest hour hath known.
3.1k
A bed of roses has many a thorn;
Pain, hardships and suff’ring are of earth born.
Life is not a road that runs smooth and straight;
They on whom we shower love may return hate.
Life has many a wild and worthless dream;
Yet, how many a low thing we esteem!
Power and all fade with the breaking dawn;
And with them all bright prospects are withdrawn.
Farewell to thee, o sweet and fragrant flower;
Power and Beauty take leave at Death’s hour.
Howe’er great or grand to men thou may be,
When Death looms o’erhead, no man can save thee.
Fare-thee-well, dear reader, be brave at heart;
Fight the good fight, then with a smile depart.
Aug 21, 2018
Aug 21, 2018 at 4:36 AM UTC
Howe's Final version
Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord:
He is trampling out the vintage where the grapes of wrath are stored;
He hath loosed the fatal lightning of his terrible swift sword:
His Truth is marching on.
I have seen Him in the watch-fires of a hundred circling camps;
They have builded Him an altar in the evening dews and damps;
I can read His righteous sentence by the dim and flaring lamps.
His Day is marching on.
I have read a fiery gospel, writ in burnished rows of steel:
'As ye deal with my contemners, so with you my grace shall deal;
Let the Hero, born of woman, crush the serpent with his heel,
Since God is marching on.'
He has sounded forth the trumpet that shall never call retreat;
He is sifting out the hearts of men before his judgment-seat:
Oh! be swift, my soul, to answer Him! be jubilant, my feet!
Our God is marching on.
In the beauty of the lilies Christ was born across the sea,
With a glory in his ***** that transfigures you and me:
As he died to make men holy, let us die to make men free,
While God is marching on.
2. Howe's First Manuscript Version
Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord.
He is trampling out the wine press, where the grapes of wrath are stored,
He hath loosed the fateful lightnings of his terrible swift sword,
His truth is marching on.
I have seen him in the watchfires of an hundred circling camps
They have builded him an altar in the evening dews and damps,
I can read His righteous sentence by the dim and flaring lamps,
His day is marching on.
I have read a burning Gospel writ in fiery rows of steel,
As ye deal with my contemners, so with you my grace shall deal
Let the hero born of woman, crush the serpent with his heel,
Our God is marching on.
He has sounded out the trumpet that shall never call retreat,
He has waked the earth's dull sorrow with a high ecstatic beat,
Oh! be swift my soul to answer him, be jubilant my feet
Our God is marching on.
In the whiteness of the lilies he was born across the sea
With a glory in his ***** that shines out on you and me,
As he died to make men holy, let us die to make men free,
Our God is marching on.
He is coming like the glory of the morning on the wave
He is wisdom to the mighty, he is sucour to the brave
So the world shall be his footstool, and the soul of Time his slave
Our God is marching on.
2.6k
Slashers Defined
In response to my piece, Slashers, it was requested that maybe I could
reveal at least which band or other info these great guitar players performed for to gain their claim to fame. I don't want to spend too much
time on this defintion, but will give what info I think is pertinent. If you do not know some of the names I have presented to you, and you are a blues,
rock, jazz, fusion guitar fan, I suggest you take the time to listen to some of their work. I have included some of my favorite incredible fusion players that do not have a super star following, but are renowned in their group of fans, probably mostly musicians to some degree.
If you are a frustrated guitar player like I am, do not listen to the likes of Holdsworth, Johnson, Gambale, or Morse unless you love being tortured.
Anyway on with the show.
Eric Clapton – Yardbirds, Cream, Blind Faith, Derek and the Dominos.
Jimmy Page – Yardbirds, Led Zeppe, The Honeydrippers, The Firm
Jimi Hendrix – not only what is, but, what could have been
Alan Holdsworth – Solo jazz fusion player – hot
Steve Howe – Yes, Asia - Progressive rock, jazz –
Bill Nelson – BeBop Deluxe, Solo
Terry Kath – Chicago (25 or 6 to 4) – another sad early departure
Ted Nugent – Amboy Dukes, **** Yankees – The madman
Jim Krueger – Dave Mason Band – solo progressive rock
Eddy Van Halen – Van Halen
Ritchie Blackmore – Deep Purple, Rainbow
Jerry Doucette – Doucette (Mama let him play)
Eric Johnson – Solo – New Age, jazz
Frank Gambale – Australian- Jazz, fusion, rock
Goerge Benson – Jazz
Larry Carlton – Jazz, new age rock
Marc Farner - Grand Funk Railroad
Peter Frampton – Humble Pie, solo
Joe Satriani - New age – solo
Johnny A. - jazz, new age – solo
Danny Gatton – jazz, rockabilly – solo
Chet Atkins – jazz, country
John Mayer – Pop, blues – solo
Neal Schon – Journey
Steve Lukather – Toto
Masyoshi Takanaka – New age, jazz – Japanese solo
Lee Ritnour – Jazz, new age – solo
Leslie West - Mountain, West Bruce & Laing
Monty Montgomery – jazz, blues (accoustic you have never heard)
Wes Montgomery – jazz 40's – 50's
Phil Keaggy – New age Christian
Robin Trower – Procul Harem
Brian May – Queen
Rick Derringer – Montrose, Edgar Winter Group, Steely Dan
Robin Ford – John Mayall, Chick Corea, solo jazz, fusion, blues
Carlos Santana – Santana
Ronnie Montrose – Montrose
Steve Morse – Dixie Dregs, Kansas, solo jazz, fusion
Trevor Rabin – Yes, solo new age
Gomer LePoet...
Jun 10, 2010
Jun 10, 2010 at 1:19 PM UTC
What The Heart Of The Young Man Said To The Psalmist
Tell me not, in mournful numbers,
Life is but an empty dream!—
For the soul is dead that slumbers,
And things are not what they seem.
Life is real! Life is earnest!
And the grave is not its goal;
Dust thou art, to dust returnest,
Was not spoken of the soul.
Not enjoyment, and not sorrow,
Is our destined end or way;
But to act, that each to-morrow
Find us farther than to-day.
Art is long, and Time is fleeting,
And our hearts, though stout and brave,
Still, like muffled drums, are beating
Funeral marches to the grave.
In the world’s broad field of battle,
In the bivouac of Life,
Be not like dumb, driven cattle!
Be a hero in the strife!
Trust no future, howe’er pleasant!
Let the dead Past bury its dead!
Act,—act in the living present!
Heart within, and God o’erhead!
Lives of great men all remind us
We can make our lives sublime,
And departing, leave behind us
Footprints on the sands of time;
Footprints, that perhaps another,
Sailing o’er life’s solemn main,
A forlorn and shipwrecked brother,
Seeing, shall take heart again.
Let us, then, be up and doing,
With a heart for any fate;
Still achieving, still pursuing,
Learn to labor and to wait.
1.8k
As we very reluctantly parted, he queried whether he was just another of my whims. Ignorantly, I replied I guessed so, provided we never saw each other again. Erm. Months later the fire is still burning brightly in the absence of any good reason. Interesting eh? Needing a topic as usual, and weary of nature tributes (hahaha, can you believe it?!) I tackled this beloved thread, writing it in the present tense as if from our first days then altering to the present in the second (linked) sonnet.
(sonnet #'s CCCCXLVIII, CCCCXLIX)
You play my heartstrings like a puppeteer
Methinks. Quite deftly pluck and gently twang
To immelod'ous strains whilst I half hang
'Twixt hope and fear, life's balance near
Precar'ous in that cur'ous dance. By mere
Sweet words or grim I'm tossed, a boomerang
That can't be lost to you though ev'ry pang
Estranges reason in this game too dear.
All yours because those unseen chords have caught
My heart that like a harp you seem to use,
As sans my will, in strumming half distraught
Or with such ecstasies, howe'er you choose
You ply, in your winds varied whims 'non fraught,
This hapless leaf. To what end? Just t'amuse?
# II
To what end? Just t'amuse, we tried romance?
Who fell in love? I did. Did you? In vain?
Oh, why'd we play that game? What now remains?
Behold: a live coal, frosted black, whose stance
Seems quite the opposite; wherein the dance
Of Love's hot passion plays anon, aye reigns
Sans you, and any reason. Its refrain
Nigh hopeless, sings your name where none supplants.
Because you knew it would. You told me so.
And while I scoffed, that's how it goes, I see.
Who ******* that hopeful thread, oh sweetness Beau?
'Twas "love at first sight," a rare golden key.
That never quite died but e'er seems to glow.
At least that's how it 'pears in Love's debris.
08Jan12
D67a,b
May 10, 2017
May 10, 2017 at 6:00 PM UTC
MARION! why that pensive brow?
What disgust to life hast thou?
Change that discontented air;
Frowns become not one so fair.
’Tis not Love disturbs thy rest,
Love’s a stranger to thy breast:
He, in dimpling smiles, appears,
Or mourns in sweetly timid tears;
Or bends the languid eyelid down,
But shuns the cold forbidding ‘frown’.
Then resume thy former fire,
Some will love, and all admire!
While that icy aspect chills us,
Nought but cool Indiff’rence thrills us.
Would’st thou wand’ring hearts beguile,
Smile, at least, or seem to smile;
Eyes like thine were never meant
To hide their orbs in dark restraint;
Spite of all thou fain wouldst say,
Still in truant beams they play.
Thy lips—but here my modest Muse
Her impulse chaste must needs refuse:
She blushes, curtsies, frowns,—in short She
Dreads lest the Subject should transport me;
And flying off, in search of Reason,
Brings Prudence back in proper season.
All I shall, therefore, say (whate’er
I think, is neither here nor there,)
Is, that such lips, of looks endearing,
Were form’d for better things than sneering.
Of soothing compliments divested,
Advice at least’s disinterested;
Such is my artless song to thee,
From all the flow of Flatt’ry free;
Counsel like mine is as a brother’s,
My heart is given to some others;
That is to say, unskill’d to cozen,
It shares itself among a dozen.
Marion, adieu! oh, pr’ythee slight not
This warning, though it may delight not;
And, lest my precepts be displeasing,
To those who think remonstrance teazing,
At once I’ll tell thee our opinion,
Concerning Woman’s soft Dominion:
Howe’er we gaze, with admiration,
On eyes of blue or lips carnation;
Howe’er the flowing locks attract us,
Howe’er those beauties may distract us;
Still fickle, we are prone to rove,
These cannot fix our souls to love;
It is not too severe a stricture,
To say they form a pretty picture;
But would’st thou see the secret chain,
Which binds us in your humble train,
To hail you Queens of all Creation,
Know, in a word, ’tis Animation.
1.3k
Tell me not, in mournful numbers,
Life is but an empty dream!
For the soul is dead that slumbers,
And things things are not what they seem.
Life is real! Life is earnest!
And the grave is not its goal;
Dust thou art, to dust returnest,
Was not spoken of the soul.
Not enjoyment, and not sorrow
Is our destined end or way;
But to act, that each to-morrow
Find us farther than to-day.
Art is long, and Time is fleeting,
And our hearts, though stout and brave,
Still, like muffled drums, are beating
Funeral marches to the grave.
In the world's broad field of battle,
In the bivouac of Life,
Be not like dumb, driven cattle!
Be a hero in the strife!
Trust no Future, howe'er pleasant!
Let the dead Past bury its dead!
Act, - act in the living Present!
Heart within, and God o'erhead!
Lives of great men all remind us
We can make our lives sublime,
And, departing, leave behind us
Footprints on the sands of time; -
Footprints, that perhaps another,
Sailing o'er life's solemn main,
A forlorn and shipwrecked brother,
Seeing, shall take heart again.
Let us, then be up and doing,
With a heart for any fate;
Still achieving, still pursuing,
Learn to labor and to wait.
My favorite poem
Jan 1, 2015
Jan 1, 2015 at 12:23 AM UTC
What The Heart Of The Young Man Said To The Psalmist.
Tell me not, in mournful numbers,
Life is but an empty dream!
For the soul is dead that slumbers,
And things are not what they seem.
Life is real! Life is earnest!
And the grave is not its goal;
Dust thou art, to dust returnest,
Was not spoken of the soul.
Not enjoyment, and not sorrow,
Is our destined end or way;
But to act, that each to-morrow
Find us farther than to-day.
Art is long, and Time is fleeting,
And our hearts, though stout and brave,
Still, like muffled drums, are beating
Funeral marches to the grave.
In the world’s broad field of battle,
In the bivouac of Life,
Be not like dumb, driven cattle!
Be a hero in the strife!
Trust no Future, howe’er pleasant!
Let the dead Past bury its dead!
Act,— act in the living Present!
Heart within, and God o’erhead!
Lives of great men all remind us
We can make our lives sublime,
And, departing, leave behind us
Footprints on the sands of time;
Footprints, that perhaps another,
Sailing o’er life’s solemn main,
A forlorn and shipwrecked brother,
Seeing, shall take heart again.
Let us, then, be up and doing,
With a heart for any fate;
Still achieving, still pursuing,
Learn to labor and to wait.
~Henry Wadsworth Longfellow 1807—1882~
Dec 20, 2012
Dec 20, 2012 at 4:33 PM UTC
The churl in spirit, up or down
Along the scale of ranks, thro' all,
To him who grasps a golden ball,
By blood a king, at heart a clown;
The churl in spirit, howe'er he veil
His want in forms for fashion's sake,
Will let his coltish nature break
At seasons thro' the gilded pale:
For who can always act? but he,
To whom a thousand memories call,
Not being less but more than all
The gentleness he seem'd to be,
Best seem'd the thing he was, and join'd
Each office of the social hour
To noble manners, as the flower
And native growth of noble mind;
Nor ever narrowness or spite,
Or villain fancy fleeting by,
Drew in the expression of an eye,
Where God and Nature met in light;
And thus he bore without abuse
The grand old name of gentleman,
Defamed by every charlatan,
And soil'd with all ignoble use.
1.1k
Oh! did those eyes, instead of fire,
With bright, but mild affection shine:
Though they might kindle less desire,
Love, more than mortal, would be thine.
For thou art form’d so heavenly fair,
Howe’er those orbs may wildly beam,
We must admire, but still despair;
That fatal glance forbids esteem.
When Nature stamp’d thy beauteous birth,
So much perfection in thee shone,
She fear’d that, too divine for earth,
The skies might claim thee for their own.
Therefore, to guard her dearest work,
Lest angels might dispute the prize,
She bade a secret lightning lurk,
Within those once celestial eyes.
These might the boldest Sylph appall,
When gleaming with meridian blaze;
Thy beauty must enrapture all;
But who can dare thine ardent gaze?
’Tis said that Berenice’s hair,
In stars adorns the vault of heaven;
But they would ne’er permit thee there,
Thou wouldst so far outshine the seven.
For did those eyes as planets roll,
Thy sister-lights would scarce appear:
E’en suns, which systems now controul,
Would twinkle dimly through their sphere.
1.1k
Not the moon itself, but the light that fell from it
reflected off the papery wings of moths
I almost mistook for shooting stars.
“Surely that’s not the ending”
Lauren slurped her soda noisily
as the credits began to roll.
“Shirley doesn’t live here”
was my only reply.
Cars began moving backwards
in my window, while pebbles
hurled themselves toward my windshield
as if to say
“Don’t. You’re not ready for this”.
My heart that had jumped during
the movie explosions not 5 minutes
earlier, was now oddly still.
Quietly shouting its disapproval.
Lauren didn’t make a sound
when we passed the street to her house
nor when my tires left gravel
and began rolling on sand.
Nor did she make a sound
when my tires hit the water
coming in from the lake ahead
as the car plunged into
the black black depths
and I could no longer control
our descent.
A moth fluttered against my window
trapped, as the moonlight disappeared.
It looked nothing like a shooting star now.
“Surely this is unfair to the moth”
my heart tried.
“Surely doesn’t live here”.
May 1, 2012
May 1, 2012 at 9:11 AM UTC
*** tak ta tuci pregnant bi ** gaye hone
thuhanu kuj ni pata ehna thoughts naal kini fatdi he
dil daily karda he ki thuhdae office de samne aawa
te ake dekha u nu
but control kr lenda ha kisi na kisi tarah
daily raat nu 2 mint kharar bus stand te ruk ke janda ha,
ki thuhade ghar wal nu jawa ya na jawa.
dil ena krda ki shyad chatt te tuci khade howe te me dekh lawa
but fer dimag kenda chad rehn de dilla.
kyu tang krna us nu
oh kushi kushi apni life spend kr rahi he
ta usdi life kyu spoil krni
Yaar I want to see you.
fati hoi a meri
thuhanu bilkul bi fikar ni andi?
ki kiwe reh reha hona me?
daily ronda ha
daily yaad andi he thuhadi.
But serioulsy u r stone heart
kash me bi ban jawa dubara ewe da
pehla changa bhalwa ban gea c
jado jalandhar to bad breakup hoea c
*** sala pata nai ki ** gea
us time bi 6-8 months lagge c recovery lai
but is time sala ** hi nai reha
menu bi dasdo ewe da ki kara me
ki bhul jawa u nu
jiwe tuci bhul gaye
@@
! !
! !
Aug 2, 2018
Aug 2, 2018 at 2:10 AM UTC
"A Psalm of Life" by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (1807-1882)
What the heart of the young man said to the Psalmist
Tell me not, in mournful numbers,
Life is but an empty dream!
For the soul is dead that slumbers,
And things are not what they seem.
Life is real! Life is earnest!
And the grave is not its goal;
Dust thou art, to dust returnest,
Was not spoken of the soul.
Not enjoyment, and not sorrow,
Is our destined end or way;
But to act, that each tomorrow
Find us farther than today.
Art is long, and Time is fleeting,
And our hearts, though stout and brave,
Still, like muffled drums, are beating
Funeral marches to the grave.
In the world’s broad field of battle,
In the bivouac of Life,
Be not like dumb, driven cattle!
Be a hero in the strife!A_Psalm_of_Life
Trust no Future, howe’er pleasant!
Let the dead Past bury its dead!
Act,—act in the living Present!
Heart within, and God o’erhead!
Lives of great men all remind us
We can make our lives sublime,
And, departing, leave behind us
Footprints on the sands of time;—
Footprints, that perhaps another,
Sailing o’er life’s solemn main,
A forlorn and shipwrecked brother,
Seeing, shall take heart again.
Let us, then, be up and doing,
With a heart for any fate;
Still achieving, still pursuing,
Learn to labor and to wait.
Oct 2, 2018
Oct 2, 2018 at 5:23 PM UTC
Hands trembled but their hearts did not
on that Independence Day.
When they signed the Declaration
many signed their lives away.
Some signers died in prison
or sank in poverty.
Several closed their eyes on life
before final victory.
One man, Clark, of New Jersey
deserves a special nod.
He suffered much for Liberty
at the hands of Howe and God.
His two sons were imprisoned,
floating on the New York tide.
Deprived of food and water
what could they do but die.
The British were true devils
and said they'd be set free.
If their father would come out for King
and recant Libery.
If he betrayed his sacred trust
He might well save his sons.
If he recanted they'd be free-
what would you have done?
His answer echoes down through time,
Their proposal he denied.
Our document was signed in blood and thrones must be defied.
Jul 4, 2013
Jul 4, 2013 at 8:07 AM UTC
Estranging those dusts of the morn
Truth be restored; peace be reborn;
Eyes can reflect each grief and gloom,
Scrutinize me 'fore world's doom.
Ne'er build fences for your heart!
Mark my footsteps o'er my past,
Hold me nothing than your parlance
Thus, adore me — except my tongue.
For eterne time may show my lies;
Howe'er, don't mourn upon each night
Open those eyes for who I am:
Then behoove me — except my tongue.
For future may seize you to change
But my persev'rance lasts no ends;
Bestow love with mere words to drown
And cherish me — except my tongue.
You're my breath, my ears and my voice
Tho 'tis diff'cult to be your choice,
I'll exult to all things I've done
If I'll be loved — except my tongue.
Oct 19, 2011
Oct 19, 2011 at 6:02 AM UTC
I HAVE been reading the poems of
Marie Howe, "What the Living Do"
A woman, oldest of many children
Abused by her father
And abandoned by the death of a beloved brother
Her poetry is mostly beautiful, melancholy thought
on these topics
And yet, she manages to bring spirit, love, and
hope where I would only look for despair
In the margins of her poem "Prayer" someone
has written in pencil:
1. I want to write about god and suffering and
how the trees endure/what we/don't want--
the long dead months before the apple blossoms
2. I've been thinking about how the Sorrow of men
is different from the sorrow of women,
tonight i don't know how
3. I have been thinking that maybe I will release
myself from all this pain, before i read to the end
4. And it went on like that through the night we made
up until we could pretend it was morning
Feb 29, 2012
Feb 29, 2012 at 6:44 AM UTC
I am addicted to you
I cannot get enough
When you are gone,
I get headaches
I get chills
I cant think
I cant breathe
And when you leave
I shiver
I am cold
I need your heart
I need your smile to warm me
I need your touch to keep me sane
You are my medicine
I need to pop you like pills
I need your medicine
I cant even decide
What is right
Howe do i spel?
** I am hopelessly addicted
I am hopelessly attached**
Mar 19, 2011
Mar 19, 2011 at 8:29 PM UTC
Jude's rant…. Why sitcoms have ruined our lives.
I am really expletive mad at the networks
all they dish out night after night
is ****** sitcoms that stink worse
than a blocked toilet in an Irish bar
on a Sunday morning.
Have you seen what it takes
to make a twelve season hit sitcom.?
I have spent five minutes writing one.
here it is.
it's called
My husband's a total ******
Characters
Soulful Simon the husband and father.
he is a cat whipped half excuse of a man
whose job it is to always be ******** up
and to submissively take perma **** from his
****** preachy wife.
Donna
His overbearing wife
who makes a full time career position
staying at home doing absolutely nothing.
Except over managing her two bratty kids
and think up reasons
to cut down on soulful Simon's
meagre *** diet
which consist of
Saturday night mercy ***
Donna is also the disciplinarian handing out
punishments to the bratty kids.
like no iPad for twenty minutes
for calling soulful Simon a worthless ****
This is the main lesson of the show
but I find it a confusing message
Of
if you tell the ****** truth
you lose your iPad for twenty minutes.
Important character traits in show.
father
A total buffoon and useless idiot
that has no say or power in the house.
in days of yore he would wear Harlequin
suit and have a bell on his cap.
Mother
a nasty passive aggressive *****
who controls most the money
and all the ***
She must be smart and always right.
She was only wrong once
that was when she was right
and thought she was wrong.
Children
must act like know it all adults
god knows no one else does.
important notes
the laugh machine
must be packed with
Energizer batteries.
if they fail
then the viewers at home
will find out
no one else is laughing either.
Authors note
This carefully scripted
hit plot for sitcom
copyrighted by Jude Kyrie.
I do not want
to see this on the network
without my
One million Dollar
per episode stipend.
cc my lawyers
Dewey Screwem and Howe
Mar 24, 2016
Mar 24, 2016 at 2:53 PM UTC
Morning 3:43 am
*** bi bhulekha jeha pe reha
Lag reha jiwe koi dhokh jeha ** reha mera naal
Jiwe eh ik supna ja hi howe
Jiwe eh sach he hi nai
Ik jhuthi jahi umeed haje bi lagai beth ha
Ik jutha jeha veham haje bi pali betha ha
Sab kuj sach hunde hoye bi
Sab kuj juth jeha lag reha he
Kiwe keh da
Kiwe bhul ja
Bus *** ik tera hi asra he
*** bus maut da hi aasra he
Jul 11, 2019
Jul 11, 2019 at 6:16 PM UTC
I've heard it told all things must pass
Our days profound, yet, fragile still,
Are trapped within a tender glass
Though sands so ardorously mass
And like the tears of Chronus spill,
Good times must all, one day, drift pass
Though ever-fervently amassed,
Howe'er meticulously filled,
We're bound by that same hour-glass
It's never reverent, never crass,
It's bound by neither good nor ill,
Resolved instead to see us pass
Its master's bound within its grasp
For none can flee its solemn will
As Saturn, too, is cased in glass
We fear to see our sands fly fast
And falling faster, bid them still,
Though in our hands they quickly pass
But neither future, present, past
Can work to find this truth distilled:
It's in our hands to turn the glass
Life's a drink, though quickly passed,
I think I'll pour another glass.
Jun 29, 2013
Jun 29, 2013 at 12:26 PM UTC