THE TYGER

.

Tyger, Tyger, burning bright,

In the forests of the night;

What immortal hand or eye,

Could frame thy fearful symmetry?

In what distant deeps or skies,

Burnt the fire in thine eyes?

On what wings dare he aspire?
What the hand, dare seize the fire?

And what shoulder, and what art,
Could twist the sinews of thy heart?
And when thy heart began to beat,
What dread hand? And what dread feet?

What the hammer? What the chain?
In what furnace was thy brain?
What the anvil? What dread grasp?
Dare its deadly terrors clasp?

When the stars threw down their spears,
And watered heaven with their tears:
Did he smile His work to see?
Did he who made the lamb make thee?

Tyger, Tyger, burning bright,
In the forests of the night:
What immortal hand or eye,
Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?

~ William Blake

DYING SPIRIT

.

Your mind is closed.
Your eyes are dead.
Is it the money,
Or what he said?
Your life in tatters;
A mess of lies.
I watch you fade,
As your spirit dies.

~ C. Spies

SYMPHONY OF LIFE

 .


The chatter of the morning birds.
The beating of my head.
The songs of long forgotten times.
The whispers of the dead.
The clanging of the midday bells.
The murmur of the breeze.
The crackling of the camp fire.
The rustling of the trees.
The honking of the ferry boat.
The screeching of the train.
The howling of the stormy seas.
The patter of the rain.
These are the melodies of life,
That whisper from within.
Listen and you'll always hear
Our little planet sing.

~ C. Spies

THE DASH

.


I read of a man who stood to speak
At the funeral of his friend.
He referred to the dates on her tombstone
From the beginning... to the end.

He noted that first came the date of her birth,
And spoke of the following date with tears.
But he said what mattered most of all
Was the dash between those years.

For that dash represents all the time
That she spent alive on earth...
And now only those who loved her 
Know what that little line is worth.

For it matters not, how much we own,
The cars... the house... the cash.
What matters is how we live and love
And how we spend our dash.

So think about this long and hard...
Are there things you'd like to change?
For you never know how much time is left,
That can still be rearranged.

If we could just slow down enough
To consider what's true and real,
And always try to understand
The way other people feel.

And be less quick to anger,
And show appreciation more,
And love the people in our lives
Like we've never loved before.

If we treat each other with respect,
And more often wear a smile...
Remembering that this special dash
Might only last a little while.

So, when your eulogy's being read
With your life's actions to rehash...
Whould you be proud of the things thay say
About how you spent your dash?

~ Linda Ellis

FAMILY TREE

.


Lost in a tree that has no trunk,
Or leaves of which to speak.
Ever surrounded by people I know,
In passing, but not in truth.

I know them in a casual way;
No more than just the time of day.
And yet I must speak so fondly
Of these people I know not?

In this tree that is no tree? No.
The way I think of you
Is determined by the way you act,
Not by who you are.

~ C. Spies

JABBERWOCKY

.

'Twas brillig, and the slithy toves

Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:

All mimsy were the borogroves,

And the mome raths ourgrabe.

"Beware the Jabberwock, my son!

The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!

Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun

The frumious Bandersnatch!"

He took his vorpal sword in hand:

Long time the manxome foe he sought -

So rested he by the Tumtum tree,

And stood a while in thought.

And, as in uffish thought he stood,

The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame,

Came whiffling through the tulgey wood,

And burbled as it came!

One, two! One, two! And through and through 

The vorpal blade went snicker-snack!

He left it dead, and with its head

He went galumphing back.

"And, hast thou slain the Jabberwock?

Come to my arms, my beamish boy!

O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!"

He chortled in his joy.

'Twas brillig and the slithy toves

Did gyre and gimble in the wabe;

All mimsy were the borogoves,

And the mome raths outgrabe.

~ Lewis Carroll

THERE WAS A YOUNG LADY OF NIGER

There was a young lady of Niger

Who smiled as she rode on a tiger;

They returned from the ride

With the lady inside,

And the smile on the face of the tiger.

~ William Cosmo Monkhouse