“The Cotter’s Saturday Night” by Robert Burns

My lov’d, much honour’d, much respected friend!
No mercenary bard his homage pays;
With honest pride, I scorn each selfish end,
My dearest meed, a friend’s esteem and praise:
To you I sing, in simple Scottish lays,
The lowly train in life’s sequester’d scene;
The native feelings strong, the guileless ways;
What Aiken in a cottage would have been;
Ah! tho’ his worth unknown, far happier there I ween!

Your poem of the day. For those who are wondering, a “cotter” was a peasant in 19th century Scotland who was allowed to use cot/cottage. Hence the term “cotter” 🙂

God bless you all my darling avidReaders. Have a lovely weekend 🙂 I’m going to be spending time with mine. I suggest you do the same. Take some time to appreciate the people you love.

Anger by Daniel Luke Nelson

Anger fills my heart and soul
Anger takes a mighty toll
Anger lessens but can never leave
Anger you hope to never receive,
Anger stays forever within
Anger acts with the might of all sin
Anger is deadly to all around
Anger gets mad at the thought of sound
Anger is the thoughts in my head
Anger that’s mine all should dread
Anger for me is different from you
Anger you see tells me what to do
Anger will sit and whisper in my ear
Anger he sits and tells me all that you fear,

Anger…
He is here
He’s here to stay
Anger is the hole
In which we lay
Anger is
And Anger will
Always be with us

He is in me, and he is in you
He can make you do
What he wants you to
Anger will make you
Make you cry
Anger can make you
Want to die
Anger can make you
Go insane
Anger….. … A blood filled rain
No more anger
No more…..
Walk to the bright light
Shinning through that door…
Not knowing what’s in store
But even then
Anger lives on
But you… nevermore

I have been thinking a lot about how anger can wound someone and I realized that if we could make love our automatic response instead of anger how different this world would be! I read this and was moved.

God bless all of you, my darling avidReaders!

The Vision Poem

So this guy comes up to me and says,
“What’s the vision? What’s the big idea?” 
I open my mouth and words come out like this…

The Vision?

The vision is JESUS – obsessively, dangerously, undeniably Jesus.
The vision is an army of young people.
You see bones? I see an army. And they are FREE from materialism.

They laugh at 9-5 little prisons. They could eat caviar on Monday and crusts on Tuesday. They wouldn’t even notice. They know the meaning of the Matrix, the way the west was won.

They are mobile like the wind, they belong to the nations. They need no passport. People write their addresses in pencil and wonder at their strange existence.
They are free yet they are slaves of the hurting and
dirty and dying.

What is the vision?

The vision is holiness that hurts the eyes. It makes children laugh and adults angry. It gave up the game of minimum integrity long ago to reach for the stars. It scorns the good and strains for the best. It is dangerously pure.

Light flickers from every secret motive, every private conversation. It loves people away from their suicide leaps, their Satan games. This is an army that will lay down its life for the cause. A million times a day its soldiers choose to lose that they might one day win the great ‘Well done’ of faithful sons and daughters.

Such heroes are as radical on Monday morning as Sunday night. They don’t need fame from names. Instead they grin quietly upwards and hear the crowds chanting
again and again:

“COME ON!”

And this is the sound of the underground. The whisper of history in the making. Foundations shaking. Revolutionaries dreaming once again. Mystery is scheming in whispers. Conspiracy is breathing. This is the sound of the underground

And the army is discipl(in)ed. Young people who beat their bodies into submission.
Every soldier would take a bullet for his comrade at arms. The tattoo on their back boasts, “for me to live is Christ and to die is gain”

Sacrifice fuels the fire of victory in their upward eyes. Winners. Martyrs. Who can stop them? Can hormones hold them back? Can failure succeed? Can fear scare them or death kill them?

And the generation prays like a dying man with groans beyond talking, with warrior cries, sulphuric tears and with great barrow loads of laughter!

Waiting. Watching. 24 – 7 – 365.

Whatever it takes they will give: Breaking the rules. Shaking mediocrity from its cosy little hide. Laying down their rights and their precious little wrongs, laughing at labels, fasting essentials. The advertisers cannot mould them. Hollywood cannot hold them. Peer-pressure is powerless to shake their resolve at late night parties before the cockerel cries.

They are incredibly cool, dangerously attractive inside.

On the outside? They hardly care. They wear clothes like costumes to communicate and celebrate but never to hide. Would they surrender their image or their popularity? They would lay down their very lives – swap seats with the man on death row – guilty as hell. A throne for an electric chair.

With blood and sweat and many tears, with sleepless nights and fruitless days, they pray as if it all depends on God and live as if it all depends on them.

Their DNA chooses JESUS. (He breathes out, they breathe in.) Their subconscious sings. They had a blood transfusion with Jesus. Their words make demons scream in shopping centres.

Don’t you hear them coming? Herald the weirdos! Summon the losers and the freaks. Here come the frightened and forgotten with fire in their eyes. They walk tall and trees applaud, skyscrapers bow, mountains are dwarfed by these children of another dimension.

Their prayers summon the hounds of heaven and invoke the ancient dream of Eden.

And this vision will be. It will come to pass; it will come easily; it will come soon. How do I know? Because this is the longing of creation itself, the groaning of the Spirit, the very dream of God. My tomorrow is his today. My distant hope is his 3D. And my feeble, whispered, faithless prayer invokes a thunderous, resounding, bone-shaking great ‘Amen!’ from countless angels, from heroes of the faith, from Christ himself. And he is the original dreamer, the ultimate winner.

Guaranteed.

All rights for this poem go to #visionfilm.

God bless you all my fearless avidReaders!

The Mansion of My Childhood

By MO H. SAIDI

For Tristan

I

My father was tall, plump, old and cruel.
            When he was late returning home, we’d
                        joke that he’d been taken to the morgue.

A story teller, he often would say, God
            Loves good tales with happy endings:
                        The Holy Book’s stories, Layla and Majnun.

II

My grandfather was a bearded man.
            He looked like the Sistine God
                        His face gleamed with candor.

An ayatollah, he believed Allah is afflicted
            With insomnia no angel can cure—He’s
                        a riddle, a challenge for mankind, God’s

grace can be purchased in every bazaar.
            He’d say, “Don’t pray for me, do it for Him.
                        When He’s jaded, He may stage a deluge.”

III

My father would visit my grandfather
            once a month—the city was an hour’s drive
                        away. Grandfather had strong arms

But his legs were paralyzed.
            He had fully memorized the Book of Kings
                        and the Koran. For a good tip, I’d listen

to him for hours and the follow the lines.
            Only rarely did he err. He let me correct
                        the slips because I was his favorite grandson.

IV

My childhood house was a mansion
            I was the shortest kid on the block. They
                        all knew my name; I only the teacher’s.

When grandfather would visit us, he’d
            bring us softballs, candies, silver coins.
                        Even before his stroke, he was always weak

in his legs, would limp along and tire quickly.
            On his last visit, he struggled and wrote
Icannotcontrolmyhand, and he dropped the pen.

V

I would look at my father in awe.
            He was tall, strong and voracious
                        too old to live to see my diploma.

Loud and uncouth, he was a lamb
            under Mother’s shadow. To leave more
                        time for prayer, they both had forbidden chess,

reading or writing poetry in our house.
            I always dreamed to be a writer. They
                        preached that I should become a mullah.

We made peace: they burned the chess board
            and the pieces; I buried the Holy Book. As I
                        prepared to leave town, a call shook the house.

VI

I heard the unbearable news—my hero
was dead—we rushed to his hometown.
                        The city was confused. A black holiday.

The waves of men in black marched
            in the streets. His house teemed with mourners
                        waiting for the feast. The servants served

Bread, rice, and cheese. High on the roof
            the muezzin was hard at work with booming
                        calls. In the chaos of the funeral procession,

I muttered his favorite line as I looked
            at his open casket. Life is a mansion
                        of ice, how could I avoid the sun?

Your daily dose of poetry. God bless you all my darling avidReaders 🙂

EDEN, THEN AND NOW

RUTH STONE

In ’29 before the dust storms
sandblasted Indianapolis,
we believed in the milk company.
Milk came in glass bottles.
We spread dye-colored butter,
now connected to cancer.
We worked seven to seven
with no overtime pay;
pledged allegiance every day,
pitied the starving Armenians.
One morning in the midst of plenty,
there were folks out of context,
who were living on nothing.
Some slept in shacks
on the banks of the river.
This phenomenon investors said
would pass away.
My father worked for the daily paper.
He was a union printer;
lead slugs and blue smoke.
He worked with hot lead
at a two-ton machine,
in a low-slung seat;
a green-billed cap
pulled low on his forehead.
He gave my mother a dollar a day.
You could say we were rich.
This was the Jazz Age.
All over the country
the dispossessed wandered
with their hungry children,
harassed by the law.
When the market broke, bad losers
jumped out of windows.
It was time to lay an elegant table,
as it is now; corporate paradise;
the apple before the rot caved in.
It was the same worm
eating the same fruit.
In fact, the same Eden.

Freedom

NABANITA KANUNGO

It would try to lisp a dumbness sometimes—
the language of welts rising slowly on the panes,
a cracked blur of riot-torn air,
confused which year it was.

The last time it made a sound was when
it crinkled on its way into a bin,
a great plot of justice. I wasn’t born, then;
my father was.

It must have been whole once,
for you could still conceive it like a dream,
a gloriously illegitimate thing, though;
until a country was torn out of its heart one day
and you saw its impaled ghost in the moon.

My grandfather told me we had slept so long
with a flag over us, we couldn’t run when
machetes poked us awake amidst still-dreaming heads
rolling in the streets like marbles struck in game.

There was nowhere to go and we went nowhere,
with its face slumped on our backs
and history books that said what had happened is the past,

until sixty years later, a community’s threats betraying
her voice, a poor nun requested me
to leave my month-old job in a convent
where I’d studied since childhood.

I keep trying to find its shape in photographs, old letters,
the wind of stories trapped in some cancerous throat, dying …

a tattered roof in the stars, a tent flying off
with meanings barely gathered into a heap.

TUPAC SHAKUR “THE ROSE THAT GREW FROM CONCRETE”

Did you hear about the rose that grew
from a crack in the concrete?
Proving nature’s law is wrong it
learned to walk with out having feet.

Funny it seems, but by keeping it’s dreams,
it learned to breathe fresh air.

Long live the rose that grew from concrete
when no one else ever cared.

This poem really spoke to me today. Roses are beautiful and strong–strong enough to grow in the harshest of environments. This is a type of our lives. Whatever comes our way, we must never let the concrete in our lives stop the rose in us from blooming.

God bless you all, my darling avidReaders

OCTAVIO PAZ “THE STREET”

It’s a long and silent street.
I walk in the dark and trip and fall
and get up and step blindly
on the mute stones and dry leaves
and someone behind me is also walking:
if I stop, he stops;
if I run, he runs. I turn around: no one.
Everything is black, there is no exit,
and I turn and turn corners
that always lead to the street
where no one waits for me, no one follows,
where I follow a man who trips
and gets up and says when he sees me: no one.

Your poem of the day.

God bless you all, my darling avidReaders

The Raven; Edgar Allan Poe

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
`’Tis some visitor,’ I muttered, `tapping at my chamber door –
Only this, and nothing more.’

Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December,
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
Eagerly I wished the morrow; – vainly I had sought to borrow
From my books surcease of sorrow – sorrow for the lost Lenore –
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore –
Nameless here for evermore.

And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain
Thrilled me – filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating
`’Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door –
Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door; –
This it is, and nothing more,’

Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
`Sir,’ said I, `or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,
And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,
That I scarce was sure I heard you’ – here I opened wide the door; –
Darkness there, and nothing more.

Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before;
But the silence was unbroken, and the darkness gave no token,
And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, `Lenore!’
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, `Lenore!’
Merely this and nothing more.

Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,
Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.
`Surely,’ said I, `surely that is something at my window lattice;
Let me see then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore –
Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore; –
‘Tis the wind and nothing more!’

Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,
In there stepped a stately raven of the saintly days of yore.
Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;
But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door –
Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door –
Perched, and sat, and nothing more.

Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,
`Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou,’ I said, `art sure no craven.
Ghastly grim and ancient raven wandering from the nightly shore –
Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night’s Plutonian shore!’
Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.’

Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,
Though its answer little meaning – little relevancy bore;
For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door –
Bird or beast above the sculptured bust above his chamber door,
With such name as `Nevermore.’

But the raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only,
That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
Nothing further then he uttered – not a feather then he fluttered –
Till I scarcely more than muttered `Other friends have flown before –
On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before.’
Then the bird said, `Nevermore.’

Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
`Doubtless,’ said I, `what it utters is its only stock and store,
Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful disaster
Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore –
Till the dirges of his hope that melancholy burden bore
Of “Never-nevermore.”‘

But the raven still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling,
Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird and bust and door;
Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking
Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore –
What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore
Meant in croaking `Nevermore.’

This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom’s core;
This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining
On the cushion’s velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o’er,
But whose velvet violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o’er,
She shall press, ah, nevermore!

Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
Swung by Seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor.
`Wretch,’ I cried, `thy God hath lent thee – by these angels he has sent thee
Respite – respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore!
Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe, and forget this lost Lenore!’
Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.’

`Prophet!’ said I, `thing of evil! – prophet still, if bird or devil! –
Whether tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,
Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted –
On this home by horror haunted – tell me truly, I implore –
Is there – is there balm in Gilead? – tell me – tell me, I implore!’
Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.’

`Prophet!’ said I, `thing of evil! – prophet still, if bird or devil!
By that Heaven that bends above us – by that God we both adore –
Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,
It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore –
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden, whom the angels name Lenore?’
Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.’

`Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!’ I shrieked upstarting –
`Get thee back into the tempest and the Night’s Plutonian shore!
Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!
Leave my loneliness unbroken! – quit the bust above my door!
Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!’
Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.’

And the raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon’s that is dreaming,
And the lamp-light o’er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
Shall be lifted – nevermore!

Never Gonna Be Alone; Nickelback

Time, is going by, so much faster than I,
And I’m starting to regret not spending all of it with you.
Now I’m, wondering why, I’ve kept this bottled inside,
So I’m starting to regret not telling all of it to you.
So if I haven’t yet, I’ve gotta let you know,

You’re never gonna be alone!
From this moment on, if you ever feel like letting go,
I won’t let you fall,
You’re never gonna be alone!
I’ll hold you ’till the hurt is gone.

And now, as long as I can, I’m holding on with both hands,
Cause forever I believe that there’s nothing I could need but you,
So if I haven’t yet, I’ve gotta let you know,

You’re never gonna be alone!
From this moment on, if you ever feel like letting go,
I won’t let you fall,
When all hope is gone
I know that you can carry on
We’re gonna take the world on
I’ll hold you ’till the hurt is gone

Oh,
You’ve gotta live every single day,
Like it’s the only one, what if tomorrow never comes?
Don’t let it slip away,
Could be our only one, you know it’s only just begun
Every single day,
May be our only one, what if tomorrow never comes?
Tomorrow never comes

Time, is going by, so much faster than I,
And I’m starting to regret not telling all of this to you.

You’re never gonna be alone!
From this moment on, if you ever feel like letting go,
I won’t let you fall,
When all hope is gone
I know that you can carry on
We’re gonna take the world on
I’ll hold you ’till the hurt is gone

I’m gonna be there all the way,
I won’t be missing one more day,
I’m gonna be there always,
I won’t be missing one more day.

The most gorgeous love song. I cry every time I hear it.

God bless all of you. Wherever you are and whatever you’re feeling, remember YOU. ARE. NOT. ALONE. We are all going through things daily.

I love all of you, dearly.