In Memory of soldiers fallen in combat,
and of soldiers who have passed on.
In Honor of those who have served,
and who serve now.
You are the protectors of our very future.
Thank you for your unparalleled courage and strength.
Thank you for your sacrifice.
Because of you, we still have Freedom, and Hope, and Life.
God Bless Every One Of You.
Angels
"We are each of us angels with only one wing, and we can only fly by embracing one another." ~Luciano de Crescenzo
Inimīcus
that reach to slice and cut.
These are ones to turn your ear from,
they seek to thwart you and yours.
You will know them by their ill and muddy yarns:
tales not of the great deeds of another, not of the courageous heart of another,
but only of weaknesses, failures, imperfections and eccentricities.
Do not be fooled by their lament of martyrdom.
You will know them by their rigidity.
Their stories will not cast their perpetrators in a flattering light,
there will be no compassion in their words,
nor acknowledgment of their own transgressions.
They are adamant in their goal to convince;
their words will leave no space for speculation,
their ears will not be open to hear discussion,
their minds will not be seeking any other viewpoint but their own.
Beware of those who seem energized when speaking ill of others,
do not let them sway you.
Find the truth for yourself.
M.Black
Rain
(Kevin, is this the one? It's about T. S. )
M.Black 1987
Rain
Friday blue turns blacker
flying high tonight
and my Gypsy blood flows freely,
Gypsy look so right
Stars like neon pin holes
in the velvet sky
take this broken mind and hide it
I don't wanna cry
Oh, Rain, fall on me,
Oh the pain~ gets so bad that I can't see
I can see Him clearly,
then my eyes are blind
can you help me Lord I'm falling,
I don't wanna die
(can't you hear me calling you...)
M.Black 1987
Rain
Friday blue turns blacker
flying high tonight
and my Gypsy blood flows freely,
Gypsy look so right
Stars like neon pin holes
in the velvet sky
take this broken mind and hide it
I don't wanna cry
Oh, Rain, fall on me,
Oh the pain~ gets so bad that I can't see
I can see Him clearly,
then my eyes are blind
can you help me Lord I'm falling,
I don't wanna die
(can't you hear me calling you...)
J.R.R. Tolkien
Tolkien sings the troll song
Troll Sat Alone on His Seat of Stone
Troll sat alone on his seat of stone,
And munched and mumbled a bare old bone;
For many a year he had gnawed it near,
For meat was hard to come by.
Done by! Gum by!
In a cave in the hills he dwelt alone,
And meat was hard to come by.
Up came Tom with his big boots on.
Said he to Troll: 'Pray, what is yon?
For it looks like the shin o' my nuncle Tim.
As should be a-lyin' in the graveyard.
Caveyard! Paveyard!
This many a year has Tim been gone,
And I thought he were lyin' in the graveyard.'
'My lad,' said Troll, 'this bone I stole.
But what be bones that lie in a hole?
Thy nuncle was dead as a lump o' lead,
Afore I found his shinbone.
Tinbone! Skinbone!
He can spare a share for a poor old troll,
For he don't need his shinbone.'
Said Tom: 'I don't see why the likes o' thee
Without axin' leave should go makin' free
With the shank or the shin o' my father's kin;
So hand the old bone over!
Rover! Trover!
Though dead he be, it belongs to he;
So hand the old bone over!'
'For a couple o' pins,' says Troll, and grins,
'I'll eat thee too, and gnaw thy shins.
A bit o' fresh meat will go down sweet!
I'll try my teeth on thee now.
Hee now! See now!
I'm tired o' gnawing old bones and skins;
I've a mind to dine on thee now.'
But just as he thought his dinner was caught,
He found his hands had hold of naught.
Before he could mind, Tom slipped behind
And gave him the boot to larn him.
Warn him! Darn him!
A bump o' the boot on the seat, Tom thought,
Would be the way to larn him.
But harder than stone is the flesh and bone
Of a troll that sits in the hills alone.
As well set your boot to the mountain's root,
For the seat of a troll don't feel it.
Peel it! Heal it!
Old Troll laughed, when he heard Tom groan,
And he knew his toes could feel it.
Tom's leg is game, since home he came,
And his bootless foot is lasting lame;
But Troll don't care, and he's still there
With the bone he boned from its owner.
Doner! Boner!
Troll's old seat is still the same,
And the bone he boned from its owner!
John Ronald Reuel Tolkien
Troll Sat Alone on His Seat of Stone
Troll sat alone on his seat of stone,
And munched and mumbled a bare old bone;
For many a year he had gnawed it near,
For meat was hard to come by.
Done by! Gum by!
In a cave in the hills he dwelt alone,
And meat was hard to come by.
Up came Tom with his big boots on.
Said he to Troll: 'Pray, what is yon?
For it looks like the shin o' my nuncle Tim.
As should be a-lyin' in the graveyard.
Caveyard! Paveyard!
This many a year has Tim been gone,
And I thought he were lyin' in the graveyard.'
'My lad,' said Troll, 'this bone I stole.
But what be bones that lie in a hole?
Thy nuncle was dead as a lump o' lead,
Afore I found his shinbone.
Tinbone! Skinbone!
He can spare a share for a poor old troll,
For he don't need his shinbone.'
Said Tom: 'I don't see why the likes o' thee
Without axin' leave should go makin' free
With the shank or the shin o' my father's kin;
So hand the old bone over!
Rover! Trover!
Though dead he be, it belongs to he;
So hand the old bone over!'
'For a couple o' pins,' says Troll, and grins,
'I'll eat thee too, and gnaw thy shins.
A bit o' fresh meat will go down sweet!
I'll try my teeth on thee now.
Hee now! See now!
I'm tired o' gnawing old bones and skins;
I've a mind to dine on thee now.'
But just as he thought his dinner was caught,
He found his hands had hold of naught.
Before he could mind, Tom slipped behind
And gave him the boot to larn him.
Warn him! Darn him!
A bump o' the boot on the seat, Tom thought,
Would be the way to larn him.
But harder than stone is the flesh and bone
Of a troll that sits in the hills alone.
As well set your boot to the mountain's root,
For the seat of a troll don't feel it.
Peel it! Heal it!
Old Troll laughed, when he heard Tom groan,
And he knew his toes could feel it.
Tom's leg is game, since home he came,
And his bootless foot is lasting lame;
But Troll don't care, and he's still there
With the bone he boned from its owner.
Doner! Boner!
Troll's old seat is still the same,
And the bone he boned from its owner!
John Ronald Reuel Tolkien
First Synthetic Cell Holds Promise for Biodiesel and Green Heating Oil | HeatingOil.com
First Synthetic Cell Holds Promise for Biodiesel and Green Heating Oil | HeatingOil.com
"Dr. Craig Venter shook the scientific world and sparked a fresh debate over bio-ethics when he announced on Thursday that his team had successfully created the first synthetic cell."...
Leaps and bounds... let's try and hold on to this future!
"Dr. Craig Venter shook the scientific world and sparked a fresh debate over bio-ethics when he announced on Thursday that his team had successfully created the first synthetic cell."...
Leaps and bounds... let's try and hold on to this future!
Physicists Achieve Quantum Teleportation Across a Distance of 10 Miles
GET THE **** OUT OF HERE!
How far can you beam information instantaneously? Try 10 miles, according to a study in Nature Photonics that pushes the limits of quantum teleportation to its greatest distance yet. At that distance, the scientists say, one can begin to consider the possibility of someday using quantum teleportation to communicate between the ground and a satellite in orbit.Posted using ShareThis
Beautiful Women Get Cheated On Big Time
If everyone is envious of the beautiful girl, who exactly is treating her like a princess? Besides, "beauty" is so subjective it's not even funny. Ask 10 guys AND girls to rate a random woman's looks, and you will get 10 different answers. (Unless they are allowed to look at the other group members' answers, then they'll do the group-monkey-troupe-whoop and all say they agree.) Looks may be an attraction factor, but when beauty is the main feature that a person is dating someone for, that spells "toy", not "friend". M-O-O-N, that spells friend! A really real romantic relationship would be a lot like if your best friend/brother from another mother suddenly turned into the hotness of your dreams; someone that you are attracted to AND you respect tremendously, AND love to hang out with. A real friend with benefits, you wouldn't want to cheat on them, just like you don't think about replacing your buddy with a "cooler dude"...
Apprentice
Thank you.
Gratitude for pointing to my attitude,
I needed your help to find it.
These hidden corners of my heart hide all manner of nasties;
they must be swept from time to time.
The dark hallways of the mind are places for monsters to lurk;
please do shine your torch on them,
tell me where and who and how they are!
You have given my comings and goings much attention,
what of your own tasks have you put aside for me?
I am ever grateful for such thoughtful reflection,
and to think, all I expected from you was a warm cup of tea.
Dancing and singing to thee, dear friend,
I know that is what you wish for me:
to live a life free from worry and pain,
free from slander and glaring disdain.
I can see that you wish for me laughter and celebration,
infinite love, eternal elation!
Each tear in the parchment of my soul that you point out
for me to fix makes a lovelier message to send;
every open wound on my back that you salt
is a hole that hadn't healed, that I can now see to mend.
Tell me! Shout to the world!
Tell everyone of your supposition!
I am grateful for these calumnies.
Each aspersion is a step toward Heaven.
Thank you.
Gratitude for pointing to my attitude,
I needed your help to find it.
These hidden corners of my heart hide all manner of nasties;
they must be swept from time to time.
The dark hallways of the mind are places for monsters to lurk;
please do shine your torch on them,
tell me where and who and how they are!
You have given my comings and goings much attention,
what of your own tasks have you put aside for me?
I am ever grateful for such thoughtful reflection,
and to think, all I expected from you was a warm cup of tea.
Dancing and singing to thee, dear friend,
I know that is what you wish for me:
to live a life free from worry and pain,
free from slander and glaring disdain.
I can see that you wish for me laughter and celebration,
infinite love, eternal elation!
Each tear in the parchment of my soul that you point out
for me to fix makes a lovelier message to send;
every open wound on my back that you salt
is a hole that hadn't healed, that I can now see to mend.
Tell me! Shout to the world!
Tell everyone of your supposition!
I am grateful for these calumnies.
Each aspersion is a step toward Heaven.
Thank you.
Jeremiad
No more climbing, no more fighting, no more hoping for a better day;
I lay down my cards.
I have been beaten.
This time I thought I could make it,
I thought I had closed the door on the devil.
I wanted to believe the angels were with me.
This time I thought I could win.
"Follow your heart, believe in tomorrow, trust the universe" they said.
"It can only get better, you just have to believe in yourself," they said.
"You just have to find your niche" they said.
Maybe this world is comforting for them;
they who carry beautiful memories
of good times, friendship, acclaim and love.
They who have someone to call whenever there are tears,
somewhere to stay whenever they are without shelter,
someone to hold them whenever they need comfort,
someone to applaud them whenever they lift their feet.
They who have not felt the cold of the street.
They who have not felt
the burn of destitution;
the dread of abuse;
the stab of abandonment;
the terror of losing life;
the death of hope.
Not so comforting for those of us with memories full of fear,
struggle, loss and betrayal.
They don't want to look too closely, so they don't. They can't.
They need it to be a bad dream, a dark fantasy that never happened.
No more climbing, no more fighting, no more hoping for a better day;
I lay down my cards.
I have been beaten.
I lay down my cards.
I have been beaten.
This time I thought I could make it,
I thought I had closed the door on the devil.
I wanted to believe the angels were with me.
This time I thought I could win.
"Follow your heart, believe in tomorrow, trust the universe" they said.
"It can only get better, you just have to believe in yourself," they said.
"You just have to find your niche" they said.
Maybe this world is comforting for them;
they who carry beautiful memories
of good times, friendship, acclaim and love.
They who have someone to call whenever there are tears,
somewhere to stay whenever they are without shelter,
someone to hold them whenever they need comfort,
someone to applaud them whenever they lift their feet.
They who have not felt the cold of the street.
They who have not felt
the burn of destitution;
the dread of abuse;
the stab of abandonment;
the terror of losing life;
the death of hope.
Not so comforting for those of us with memories full of fear,
struggle, loss and betrayal.
They don't want to look too closely, so they don't. They can't.
They need it to be a bad dream, a dark fantasy that never happened.
No more climbing, no more fighting, no more hoping for a better day;
I lay down my cards.
I have been beaten.
Earth From Space
We are publishing these selected photos and related captions on the Internet to provide a glimpse of this national treasure to the public. This database was compiled by our staff to illustrate some very interesting Earth features and processes, including cities as seen by our Astronauts from space"
NEATO! Click to see the site!
Revelatio
Yes, and yes,
you have been spotted,
but not just now.
The heart always knows when its tears are being used
to salve another's wounds.
From the moment you landed I've known
you were seeking love;
to receive, not to give.
to grieve, not to live.
You were mistaken if you thought your wounds were hidden
beneath your leather coat,
blood knows blood.
Your hands felt warm and sweet on my shattered soul.
My hand I let you take; I let you lead me into your arms.
No cries of protest, you say?
The butterfly makes no sound when a child crushes its wings
in order to get a closer look;
the daisy you picked to brighten your breakfast table
was silent as well.
I needed to feel life, I had been staring into the abyss for too long.
(Seventeen lifetimes, perhaps, how many for you?)
The soles of my feet ache from walking this eternal journey.
Bliss to be so easily tolled; at least until the curtain falls,
alas, I am not so lucky.
You may have forgotten, or perhaps you haven't learned yet:
the face of naivete makes for a most clever disguise.
You may be the Artist, but you are also the Muse.
Orchestrate your maneuvers if you must,
but be mindful that when the conductor turns his back
he does not really hide his movements.
I watch from the left mezzanine;
you can not see me for the glare of the stage lights in your eyes.
I watch because you live where I once lived,
in the sanctuary of trustworthy hands at your back
and faith in your stride:
I seek to find my faith again before the end of this dirty road.
Forgiving thieves and rapists is not such a challenge,
there is a tangible reward, the soul feels its righteousness,
and the lessons gleaned are clear.
But to forgive the ones who took refuge in my warmth
when I was freezing;
who rested their weary head on my shoulder when I was exhausted;
who basked in my praise but dismissed my face;
who feigned comfort to gain my trust, so that they may touch my flesh;
who left me behind after I muddied my robes to help them from the dirt;
who gloried in my applause but could not be bothered to notice my song.
To forgive these is the way to peace, and so I remain quietly in my seat,
watching, learning, forgiving.
When your heart is whole again, then you will remember
why it is wrong to use another heart's tears to salve your wounds,
how it burns soft skin like winter wind.
You will remember that there are none lesser than you,
nor you lesser than they.
And you will walk with your back straight,
and you will not need to avert your eyes any longer.
Your youth hides underneath this burden, it is not lost, not gone,
just waiting for you to heal, and remember what you already knew.
Perhaps I will still be watching;
perhaps my heart will be whole again, too.
you have been spotted,
but not just now.
The heart always knows when its tears are being used
to salve another's wounds.
From the moment you landed I've known
you were seeking love;
to receive, not to give.
to grieve, not to live.
You were mistaken if you thought your wounds were hidden
beneath your leather coat,
blood knows blood.
Your hands felt warm and sweet on my shattered soul.
My hand I let you take; I let you lead me into your arms.
No cries of protest, you say?
The butterfly makes no sound when a child crushes its wings
in order to get a closer look;
the daisy you picked to brighten your breakfast table
was silent as well.
I needed to feel life, I had been staring into the abyss for too long.
(Seventeen lifetimes, perhaps, how many for you?)
The soles of my feet ache from walking this eternal journey.
Bliss to be so easily tolled; at least until the curtain falls,
alas, I am not so lucky.
You may have forgotten, or perhaps you haven't learned yet:
the face of naivete makes for a most clever disguise.
You may be the Artist, but you are also the Muse.
Orchestrate your maneuvers if you must,
but be mindful that when the conductor turns his back
he does not really hide his movements.
I watch from the left mezzanine;
you can not see me for the glare of the stage lights in your eyes.
I watch because you live where I once lived,
in the sanctuary of trustworthy hands at your back
and faith in your stride:
I seek to find my faith again before the end of this dirty road.
Forgiving thieves and rapists is not such a challenge,
there is a tangible reward, the soul feels its righteousness,
and the lessons gleaned are clear.
But to forgive the ones who took refuge in my warmth
when I was freezing;
who rested their weary head on my shoulder when I was exhausted;
who basked in my praise but dismissed my face;
who feigned comfort to gain my trust, so that they may touch my flesh;
who left me behind after I muddied my robes to help them from the dirt;
who gloried in my applause but could not be bothered to notice my song.
To forgive these is the way to peace, and so I remain quietly in my seat,
watching, learning, forgiving.
When your heart is whole again, then you will remember
why it is wrong to use another heart's tears to salve your wounds,
how it burns soft skin like winter wind.
You will remember that there are none lesser than you,
nor you lesser than they.
And you will walk with your back straight,
and you will not need to avert your eyes any longer.
Your youth hides underneath this burden, it is not lost, not gone,
just waiting for you to heal, and remember what you already knew.
Perhaps I will still be watching;
perhaps my heart will be whole again, too.
Emeline
Skipping boldly through the mud puddles in your new red shoes
and Sunday dress;
barretts falling askew, soft locks escaping valiantly from their chignon prison.
The lace on your white socks is speckled now with brown;
they will be upset with you, again.
Why don't they understand how the rain water feels so cool on your skin?
You know why the horses gallop straight through the mire,
wild, strident, dashing, crashing,
like a herd of lightning bolts!
Why don't they see your fierce Arabian heart?
You are Daughter.
Fierce is not a word they want you to hold.
Nor Wild, nor Valiant, nor Strident, nor Bold.
It is what they have been, for centuries, told.
They have a place for you, Daughter.
You are molded for It,
not It for you.
And to be kind, they believe it is all for the best;
(it is what they have been, for centuries, told).
Flower of youth, stem of passion, leaves of grass: root of pain.
They do not recognize your father's fortitude
that lives in your soul.
His fervid spirit blazes fire in your eyes;
unheeded, misconstrued;
it does not go with your outfit, my dear.
Your fingers clench with your father's rage
as the world unveils each new cruelty;
your teeth grind with your father's anguish
each time you fall short in your missions;
your heart breaks with your father's torment
to hear the cries of the suffering.
Those that came before had a place for your mother as well.
She was Daughter then, as you are, now.
She has forgotten the days of galloping as a thunderous wild thing,
one with the wind and the earth and the rain,
charging forth and powerful as a cyclone.
She was called down from her fearless climb up the mountain face,
following the steps of those who they had called "noble".
She was chastised for heeding the call to fight for the weak and the afflicted;
dismissed when she shouted for justice;
frowned on when she danced splendidly in the rays of the sun.
The years smooth the mind's sharp edges.
Time rearranges the stories to render them totable burdens:
from leatherbound epics to light paperbacks.
She has forgotten the days before they bound her corset so tightly
it took her breath away.
There will be more rain, dark clouds are gathering above your head now.
Be sure that the rain will be cold, but your skin will welcome it.
There will be tumultuous thunder to sing along with at the top of your voice,
and lightning, resplendent in its fury, coarsing across the sky, to race against,
and driving wind to fly with as it cleanses the gloom from your wings.
And after the storm there will be glorious sun again to warm and bless your weary crown.
There will always be sun again.
You are Daughter.
They love you, there is no doubt, as their very own souls.
Their hearts are not made of iron,
but girded against battles past and future; battles you have not seen.
They carry scars, hidden from your eyes,
buried under layers of armor, some unknown even to themselves.
The world builds cages for Daughters,
gilding the bars to fool women and taunt men.
They will say it is the way things are, as if that is a reason.
(It is what they have been, for centuries, told).
The choice is yours, to walk through the gate,
to let it close behind you, to let it lock you inside.
Or to fight with your father's devotion, your mother's verve,
your own intensity.
They may have built a cage for you,
but if you look closer, you may see that they have built it
from the inside.
Go forth with intent, Daughter,
make your vision clear as the sky after the storm.
Go forth with resolution.
Go forth with love.
M. Black
and Sunday dress;
barretts falling askew, soft locks escaping valiantly from their chignon prison.
The lace on your white socks is speckled now with brown;
they will be upset with you, again.
Why don't they understand how the rain water feels so cool on your skin?
You know why the horses gallop straight through the mire,
wild, strident, dashing, crashing,
like a herd of lightning bolts!
Why don't they see your fierce Arabian heart?
You are Daughter.
Fierce is not a word they want you to hold.
Nor Wild, nor Valiant, nor Strident, nor Bold.
It is what they have been, for centuries, told.
They have a place for you, Daughter.
You are molded for It,
not It for you.
And to be kind, they believe it is all for the best;
(it is what they have been, for centuries, told).
Flower of youth, stem of passion, leaves of grass: root of pain.
They do not recognize your father's fortitude
that lives in your soul.
His fervid spirit blazes fire in your eyes;
unheeded, misconstrued;
it does not go with your outfit, my dear.
Your fingers clench with your father's rage
as the world unveils each new cruelty;
your teeth grind with your father's anguish
each time you fall short in your missions;
your heart breaks with your father's torment
to hear the cries of the suffering.
Those that came before had a place for your mother as well.
She was Daughter then, as you are, now.
She has forgotten the days of galloping as a thunderous wild thing,
one with the wind and the earth and the rain,
charging forth and powerful as a cyclone.
She was called down from her fearless climb up the mountain face,
following the steps of those who they had called "noble".
She was chastised for heeding the call to fight for the weak and the afflicted;
dismissed when she shouted for justice;
frowned on when she danced splendidly in the rays of the sun.
The years smooth the mind's sharp edges.
Time rearranges the stories to render them totable burdens:
from leatherbound epics to light paperbacks.
She has forgotten the days before they bound her corset so tightly
it took her breath away.
There will be more rain, dark clouds are gathering above your head now.
Be sure that the rain will be cold, but your skin will welcome it.
There will be tumultuous thunder to sing along with at the top of your voice,
and lightning, resplendent in its fury, coarsing across the sky, to race against,
and driving wind to fly with as it cleanses the gloom from your wings.
And after the storm there will be glorious sun again to warm and bless your weary crown.
There will always be sun again.
You are Daughter.
They love you, there is no doubt, as their very own souls.
Their hearts are not made of iron,
but girded against battles past and future; battles you have not seen.
They carry scars, hidden from your eyes,
buried under layers of armor, some unknown even to themselves.
The world builds cages for Daughters,
gilding the bars to fool women and taunt men.
They will say it is the way things are, as if that is a reason.
(It is what they have been, for centuries, told).
The choice is yours, to walk through the gate,
to let it close behind you, to let it lock you inside.
Or to fight with your father's devotion, your mother's verve,
your own intensity.
They may have built a cage for you,
but if you look closer, you may see that they have built it
from the inside.
Go forth with intent, Daughter,
make your vision clear as the sky after the storm.
Go forth with resolution.
Go forth with love.
M. Black
Iron Man 2
Ahhh, Robert Downey Jr., voice of my generation-- err, age group would be more accurate, with a bit of even more specific NYC-New Haven dryness and sarcasm, absolutely loved it, cracked up from beginning to end. The effects were, of course, fantastic and believable, the story was interesting and enjoyable, but the dialogue is why I am going to see it again. Good company too, went to see it with a good friend, which always sweetens the experience.
"You try to be faithful
And sometimes you're cruel.
You are mine. Then, you leave.
Without you, I can't cope.
And when you take the lead,
I become your footstep.
Your absence leaves a void.
Without you, I can't cope.
You have disturbed my sleep,
You have wrecked my image.
You have set me apart.
Without you, I can't cope."
— Mawlana Jalal-al-Din Rumi
And sometimes you're cruel.
You are mine. Then, you leave.
Without you, I can't cope.
And when you take the lead,
I become your footstep.
Your absence leaves a void.
Without you, I can't cope.
You have disturbed my sleep,
You have wrecked my image.
You have set me apart.
Without you, I can't cope."
— Mawlana Jalal-al-Din Rumi
Rabbit
Through the backyard,
over the cobblestones,
around the Wisteria arbor,
past the tire swing,
under the gärdesgård,
inside the hidden culvert,
upside the graveled ditch,
down the dirt road,
across the horse pasture,
behind the cedar grove,
beside the osprey nest,
along the glittering shoreline,
onto the macadem highway,
above the brackish river,
beneath the shimmering stars,
after the boarding house,
below the willow tree,
within the sage mist,
wrapped in candle spirit,
inside the stove fire warmth,
out of the cold,
away from the noise,
into your world.
~M.Black
over the cobblestones,
around the Wisteria arbor,
past the tire swing,
under the gärdesgård,
inside the hidden culvert,
upside the graveled ditch,
down the dirt road,
across the horse pasture,
behind the cedar grove,
beside the osprey nest,
along the glittering shoreline,
onto the macadem highway,
above the brackish river,
beneath the shimmering stars,
after the boarding house,
below the willow tree,
within the sage mist,
wrapped in candle spirit,
inside the stove fire warmth,
out of the cold,
away from the noise,
into your world.
photo:James Doyle
"Rabbit In Your Yard"
"Rabbit In Your Yard"
~M.Black
Fire Over Thunder
Swiftly go, do not stay your hand now,
these are not times of speculation and idle discussions.
The sun is waning faster than you can run to catch your shadow.
It will come up again tomorrow,
but the world it lights will not be the same.
Make your jaw set, your eyes glaring, your brow resolute.
There is no one else who will step in, it is you who must be the one.
There will be no speeches stirring your heart to courage;
there will be no proclamations of great expectations
to spark your faith.
Do not listen for warm voices to whisper your soul to love!
There will only be the pressure of silence in your ears.
Teach your own soul to love with mission: fierce! Relentless!
Charge ahead without pause, without doubt;
stampede!
Burn the Soulfire!
Do not be miserly, do not spare fuel,
Stoke it high, blaze it hotter! You will need it.
Your hands must bear the pain from holding the reins,
these are your horses.
No one else knows how to drive them.
Bear your teeth now, these are days of grit;
Go swiftly!
M.Black
these are not times of speculation and idle discussions.
The sun is waning faster than you can run to catch your shadow.
It will come up again tomorrow,
but the world it lights will not be the same.
Make your jaw set, your eyes glaring, your brow resolute.
There is no one else who will step in, it is you who must be the one.
There will be no speeches stirring your heart to courage;
there will be no proclamations of great expectations
to spark your faith.
Do not listen for warm voices to whisper your soul to love!
There will only be the pressure of silence in your ears.
Teach your own soul to love with mission: fierce! Relentless!
Charge ahead without pause, without doubt;
stampede!
Burn the Soulfire!
Do not be miserly, do not spare fuel,
Stoke it high, blaze it hotter! You will need it.
Your hands must bear the pain from holding the reins,
these are your horses.
No one else knows how to drive them.
Bear your teeth now, these are days of grit;
Go swiftly!
M.Black
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