Head-dibs

"When first the fiery-mantled sun His heavenly race begun to run; Round the earth and ocean blue, His children four the Seasons flew. First, in green apparel dancing, The young Spring smiled with angel grace; Rosy summer next advancing, Rushed into her sire's embrace:- Her blue-haired sire, who bade her keep For ever nearest to his smile, On Calpe's olive-shaded steep, On India's citron-covered isles: More remote and buxom-brown, The Queen of vintage bowed before his throne, A rich pomegranate gemmed her gown, A ripe sheaf bound her zone. But howling Winter fled afar, To hills that prop the polar star . . ." (from "Ode To Winter" by Thomas Campbell, 1777-1844)

Father calls me William, sister calls me Will, Mother calls me Willie, but the fellers call me Bill! Mighty glad I ain't a girl - ruther be a boy, Without them sashes, curls, an' things that's worn by Fauntleroy! Love to chawnk green apples an' go swimmin' in the lake - Hate to take the castor-ile they give for belly-ache! 'Most all the time, the whole year round, there ain't no flies on me, But jest 'fore Christmas I'm as good as I kin be! Got a yeller dog named Sport, sick him on the cat; First thing she knows she doesn't know where she is at! Got a clipper sled, an' when us kids goes out to slide, 'Long comes the grocery cart an' we all hook a ride! But sometimes when the grocery man is worrited an' cross, He reaches at us with his whip, an' larrups up his hoss, An' then I laff an' holler, "Oh, ye never teched me!" But jest 'fore Christmas I'm as good as I kin be! Gran'ma says she hopes that w...

Skeletons, spirits and haunts, Skeletons, spirits and haunts. It's a halloween sale: A nickel a pail For skeletons, spirits and haunts. Skeletons, spirits and haunts, More than most anyone wants. Will you pay for a shock, 'Cause we're quite overstocked On skeletons, spirits and haunts.

A few thoughts and a short reading from Walt Whitman, an early influence on my writing life. "I celebrate myself, and sing myself, And what I assume you shall assume, For every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you. I loafe and invite my soul, I lean and loafe at my ease observing a spear of summer grass. My tongue, every atom of my blood, form’d from this soil, this air, Born here of parents born here from parents the same, and their parents the same, I, now thirty-seven years old in perfect health begin, Hoping to cease not till death." (Song of Myself, 1, Walt Whitman, 1855)

"One dark night,  fired with love's urgent longings  -- ah, the sheer grace! --  I went out unseen,  my house being now all stilled."   (St. John of the Cross, the mid-1500's) One aspect of the "the dark night of the soul" can be described as that time in a person's life when God wants to draw him/her closer to Himself and that person has either no desire for God and resists His wooing or that person hears God's call and follows.  When The Lover calls, the Beloved at first is overwhelmed with unconditional love and may resist, but when at last giving in to the call, the Beloved realizes one has a decision to make, another "dark night," as it were. One must either leave the current state (mind, heart) and steal away "fired with love's urgent longings" or remain in the dark night of separation from God.  The night is also dark because the soul is being led by God into a "night" of uncertainty, ...

Photo Credit: Goshawk Communications Have you gazed on naked grandeur where there’s nothing else to gaze on, Set pieces and drop-curtain scenes galore, Big mountains heaved to heaven, which the blinding sunsets blazon, Black canyons where the rapids rip and roar? Have you swept the visioned valley with the green stream streaking through it, Searched the Vastness for a something you have lost? Have you strung your soul to silence? then for God’s sake go and do it; Hear the challenge, learn the lesson, pay the cost. Have you wandered in the wilderness, the sagebrush desolation, The bunch-grass levels where the cattle graze? Have you whistled bits of rag-time at the end of all creation, And learned to know the desert’s little ways? Have you camped upon the foothills, have you galloped o’er the ranges, Have you roamed the arid sun-lands through and through? Have you chummed up with the mesa? Do you know its moods and changes? Then listen to the Wild — it’s calling you. Have you know...

What would you like on your headstone? What would your epitaph be? I pray mine would not be some trite witticism but something that says, "Yep! Without doubt, that's him." Edgar Lee Masters pondered life and death in his poem, "George Gray." I have studied many times  The marble which was chiseled for me--  A boat with a furled sail at rest in a harbor.  In truth it pictures not my destination  But my life.  For love was offered me and I shrank from its disillusionment;  Sorrow knocked at my door, but I was afraid;  Ambition called to me, but I dreaded the chances.  Yet all the while I hungered for meaning in my life.  And now I know that we must lift the sail  And catch the winds of destiny  Wherever they drive the boat.  To put meaning in one’s life may end in madness,  But life without meaning is the torture  Of restlessness and vague desire--  It is a boat longing f...

There is a saying, “favor is the currency of God.” If favor were the result of fate or destiny then due to the impersonality of fate or destiny, favor becomes meaningless. If favor were the outcome of a game or even good deeds, then favor would be a wage. Favor is the “currency” of God, a blessing. The life of Sir John Davies (1569 - 1626), the English Renaissance lawyer and parliamentarian under Queen Elizabeth (and late contemporary of Sir Philip Sidney) is a wonderful illustration of one who received this blessing of favor. Davies wrote and published in 1599 a book called  Nosce Te Ipsum , or “Know Thyself.” When Davies was presented to King James (yes, the same King James of the 1611 Bible) Davies was already a favorite of Queen Elizabeth. When King James inquired if the man before him was the author of the  Nosce Te Ipsum , the King "embraced him and conceived a considerable liking for him." Davies was later appointed to be Solicitor General for Ireland when he was ...

Through the woodland, through the valley Comes a horseman wild and free Tilting at the windmills passing Who can the brave young horseman be He is wild but he is mellow He is strong but he is weak He is cruel but he is gentle He is wise but he is meek  Reaching for his saddlebag He takes a battered book into his hand Standing like a prophet bold He shouts across the ocean to the shore Till he can shout no more  I have come o'er moor and mountain Like the hawk upon the wing I was once a shining knight Who was the guardian of a king I have searched the whole world over Looking for a place to sleep I have seen the strong survive And I have seen the lean grown weak  See the children of the earth Who wake to find the table bare See the gentry in the country Riding off to take the air Reaching for his saddlebag He takes a rusty sword into his hand Then striking up a knightly pose He shouts across the ocean to the shore Till he can shout no more See the ...

source: wikipedia Out of the night that covers me,  Black as the pit from pole to pole, I thank whatever gods may be For my unconquerable soul. In the fell clutch of circumstance I have not winced nor cried aloud. Under the bludgeonings of chance My head is bloody, but unbowed. Beyond this place of wrath and tears Looms but the Horror of the shade, And yet the menace of the years Finds and shall find me unafraid. It matters not how strait the gate, How charged with punishments the scroll, I am the master of my fate, I am the captain of my soul.

An old man, going a lone highway, Came, at the evening, cold and gray, To a chasm, vast, and deep, and wide, Through which was flowing a sullen tide. The old man crossed in the twilight dim; The sullen stream had no fear for him; But he turned, when safe on the other side, And built a bridge to span the tide. “Old man,” said a fellow pilgrim, near, “You are wasting strength with building here; Your journey will end with the ending day; You never again will pass this way; You’ve crossed the chasm, deep and wide- Why build you this bridge at the evening tide?” The builder lifted his old gray head: “Good friend, in the path I have come,” he said, “There followeth after me today, A youth, whose feet must pass this way. This chasm, that has been naught to me, To that fair-haired youth may a pitfall be. He, too, must cross in the twilight dim; Good friend, I am building this bridge for him.”

Yesterday we considered Robert W. Service's poem, " The Men Who Don't Fit In. " Today's meditation focuses on another of Service's poem that harmonizes well with "the rolling stone" of a man who has his own place in the world, the man who is not like the rest. What separates the Quitter from the Winner? It's not motivation. Motivation is external, it is easy. Quitting is easy. Finishing is hard. One person may feel moved by this or that but the very same sentiment may not even touch another person. Motivation comes and goes. No, what keeps a man moving forward is discipline. Discipline is like a blade and every choice a man makes either dulls the blade or keeps it sharp. Discipline and strength go hand-in-hand. Think about how this truth surfaces in Service's poem, "The Quitter." When you're lost in the Wild, and you're scared as a child, And Death looks you bang in the eye, And you're sore as a boil, it...

Robert W. Service (1874 - 1958) a.k.a "the Canadian Kipling" and "the Bard of the Yukon" held this perspective: "The only society I like is that which is rough and tough - and the tougher the better. That's where you get down to bedrock and meet human people." Service's poem, "The Men Who Don't Fit In" tells the story of restless men who make their own kind of mark in the world. One detail not to miss: watch as Service moves from plural to singular, culling one man out of the herd (as it were) who makes the realization that he's not only grown old, but there's more life to live--but how will he do it? Makes me wonder if this poem influenced Stan Wilson to write, "can't lose my way, all directions are the same when i'm travelin' . . . I'm just a rolling stone ." Enjoy Robert W. Service's poem recited in the video (below), filmed with creative interpretation by Christopher Herwig while hikin...

copyright JWilson. Charleston Harbor Sunset and evening star,  And one clear call for me! And may there be no moaning of the bar, When I put out to sea, But such a tide as moving seems asleep, Too full for sound and foam, When that which drew from out the boundless deep Turns again home. Twilight and evening bell, And after that the dark! And may there be no sadness of farewell, When I embark; For tho' from out our bourne of Time and Place The flood may bear me far, I hope to see my Pilot face to face When I have crost the bar.

copyright JWilson, Charleston Harbor I must go down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky, And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by; And the wheel’s kick and the wind’s song and the white sail’s shaking, And a grey mist on the sea’s face, and a grey dawn breaking. I must go down to the seas again, for the call of the running tide Is a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied; And all I ask is a windy day with the white clouds flying, And the flung spray and the blown spume, and the sea-gulls crying. I must go down to the seas again, to the vagrant gypsy life, To the gull’s way and the whale’s way where the wind’s like a whetted knife; And all I ask is a merry yarn from a laughing fellow-rover, And quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long trick’s over.

The guys over at The Art of Manliness posted this collection of " 20 Classic Poems Every Man Should Read ."  I believe the primary reason poetry remains a timeless effective literary device in all cultures for the simple reason that many things are best said in through poetry; in other words, narrative cannot convey the depth of meaning mastered by poetry. Besides, poetry keeps a guy from getting calloused over and keeps him feeling. I'm glad to recall how a few of these poems were introduced into my own life, even memorized at a very young age. What follows are a few comments on a handful of personally significant poems from the list (above) along with a few choice lines. Ulysses (Tennyson):   life is for the living, so live it to the full.  "I cannot rest from travel: I will drink life to the lees . . .  Come, my friends,‘T is not too late to seek a newer world. Push off, and sitting well in order smite The sounding furrows; for my purpose holds T...

Yesterday we thought about happiness and found that the first state of all things is the highest good  of all things. In other words, the first state of all creation is happiness. When reading and thinking of The Bird for yesterday's post, the following poem came to mind and I feel I would be remiss if I did not stop to allow the poem to elaborate on that picture of the happiness of The Bird. (Side note: might there be more to Skynyrd's "Freebird" than meets the eye ear?). Caged Bird (by Maya Angelou) A free bird leaps on the back of the wind and floats downstream till the current ends and dips his wing in the orange sun rays and dares to claim the sky. But a bird that stalks down his narrow cage can seldom see through his bars of rage his wings are clipped and his feet are tied so he opens his throat to sing. The caged bird sings with a fearful trill of things unknown but longed for still and his tune is heard on the distant hill for the cag...

I don't know about you, but I'll never watch this scene the same way again. How musical! How lyrical! The rhythm of the scene! What genius! (ht: Boing Boing)

January 20, 1961, John F. Kennedy was inaugurated the 35th President of the United States. At the inauguration, poet Robert Frost read his poem , "The Gift Outright" The land was ours before we were the land’s. She was our land more than a hundred years Before we were her people. She was ours In Massachusetts, in Virginia, But we were England’s, still colonials, Possessing what we still were unpossessed by, Possessed by what we now no more possessed. Something we were withholding made us weak Until we found out that it was ourselves We were withholding from our land of living, And forthwith found salvation in surrender. Such as we were we gave ourselves outright (The deed of gift was many deeds of war) To the land vaguely realizing westward, But still unstoried, artless, unenhanced, Such as she was, such as she would become. January 29, 1963, Robert Frost died. The impact "The Gift Outright" made on JFK was so significant that on October 26, 1963, Kennedy deli...