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Roses are red,

Violets are blue.

Fuck Emily Oster,

And fuck amnesty too.

Hey, they haven’t won, I really love that poem.

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"All Some Kind Of Dream"

I saw my brother in a stranger's face

I saw my sister in a smile

My mother's laughter in a far off place

My father's footsteps in each mile

I thought I knew who my neighbour was

We didn't need to be redeemed

Oh, what could I have been thinking of?

Was it all some kind of dream?

I saw my country in the hungry eyes

Of a million refugees

Between the rocks and the rising tide

As they were tossed across the sea

There was a time when we were them

Just as now they all are we

Was there an hour when we took them in?

Or was it all some kind of dream?

I saw the children in the holding pens

I saw the families ripped apart

And though I try I cannot begin

To know what it did inside their hearts

There was a time when we held them close

And weren't so cruel, low, and mean

And we did good unto the least of those

Or was it all some kind of dream?

I saw justice with a tattered hem

I saw compassion on the run

But I saw dignity in spite of them

I prayed its day would finally come

There was a time when we chose our sides

And we refused to live between

We rose to fight for what we knew was right

Or was it all some kind of dream?

Last night I lay in my true love's bed

And she lay there close beside

And we lay thinking 'bout what lay ahead

And wondering if the sun would rise

For it seems that these are darker days

Than any others that we've seen

Oh, how we wished that we weren't wide awake

And this was all some kind of dream

Josh Ritter

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Nov 1, 2022Liked by Celia Farber

Tea at the Palaz of Hoon

by Wallace Stevens

Not less because in purple I descended

The western day through what you called

The loneliest air, not less was I myself.

What was the ointment sprinkled on my beard?

What were the hymns that buzzed beside my ears?

What was the sea whose tide swept through me there?

Out of my mind the golden ointment rained,

And my ears made the blowing hymns they heard.

I was myself the compass of that sea:

I was the world in which I walked, and what I saw

Or heard or felt came not but from myself;

And there I found myself more truly and more strange.

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Nov 1, 2022Liked by Celia Farber

Celia, you are so right about poetry. Even now I have sentimental tears falling for the beauty of the human heart to be able to reach another.

This sentence from a priceless book entitled "They Mystical City of God": The stone tends to move whithersoever its own weight draws it, that is to its centre of attraction; love is the weight of the heart, drawing it to its centre, namely, to that which it loves."

This is why I can wake each day and be.

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Nov 1, 2022Liked by Celia Farber

"November," by Thomas Hood (1799-1845)

No sun — no moon!

No morn — no noon —

No dawn — no dusk — no proper time of day.

No warmth, no cheerfulness, no healthful ease,

No comfortable feel in any member —

No shade, no shine, no butterflies, no bees,

No fruits, no flowers, no leaves, no birds! —

November!

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Why poetry?...this: "In my country, tender proofs of spring and badly dressed birds are preferred to far-off goals."

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If it don't bother nobody

We can all be happy and free

The Rule of Freedom to be

In a free country

We can all be happy and free

The Rule of Freedom is meant to be

Rule of Freedom for you and me

The Rule of Freedom from

Sea to shining sea

Sea to shining

Sea to shining

Sea to shining

Sea

A ha

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Nov 1, 2022Liked by Celia Farber

“Truth waits for dawn beside a candle...”

Beautiful

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Love this.

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Nov 1, 2022Liked by Celia Farber

i was just thinking this exact thought!!!

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Nov 1, 2022Liked by Celia Farber

Celia ,

I have something here that I really want to share with you, and of course with all of your readers

https://youtu.be/4Mc0kwROHRU

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(Because I would be intrigued by your opinion )

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Nov 1, 2022Liked by Celia Farber

That was wonderfully haunting;

It is occurring to me that the ambiguity of meaning of poetry - is a very potent fuel for an ever expanding and creative interpretative state-

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Celia, it sounds like a little thing but from my vantage point it is huge the meaning of love is disguised by its overuse love is a sacred condition and is inappropriate and confusing for young brains to hear the word tossed about indiscriminately old brains have already been stripped and so it goes thank you for your diligence and warm nature! Health mike

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OH HOW I LOVE THIS!

Poetry is pure bliss!

Defying the total slavery agenda of the globalists,

POETRY IS ONE OF THE BEST WAYS TO RESIST! COMPUTER AI ALGORITHMS CAN'T DO THIS!

HUMANITY WILL PERSIST!

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Come see real

Flowers

Of this painful world.

~Basho

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Poet's Obligation

To whoever is not listening to the sea

this Friday morning, to whoever is cooped up

in house or office, factory or woman

or street or mine or harsh prison cell:

to him I come, and, without speaking or looking,

I arrive and open the door of his prison,

and a vibration starts up, vague and insistent,

a great fragment of thunder sets in motion

the rumble of the planet and the foam,

the raucous rivers of the ocean flood,

the star vibrates swiftly in its corona,

and the sea is beating, dying and continuing.

So, drawn on by my destiny,

I ceaselessly must listen to and keep

the sea's lamenting in my awareness,

I must feel the crash of the hard water

and gather it up in a perpetual cup

so that, wherever those in prison may be,

wherever they suffer the autumn's castigation,

I may be there with an errant wave,

I may move, passing through windows,

and hearing me, eyes will glance upward

saying "How can I reach the sea?"

And I shall broadcast, saying nothing,

the starry echoes of the wave,

a breaking up of foam and of quicksand,

a rustling of salt withdrawing,

the grey cry of sea-birds on the coast.

So, through me, freedom and the sea

will make their answer to the shuttered heart.

Pablo Neruda

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