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Such an attractiveDepth
Woman, she glides through her life,
Blessing all she sees
With her presence and kindness,
As rivers nourish valleys.
She follows her heartDewdrops
Trusting quiet compassion
As her sole logic,
Never speaking a cruel word,
Her depths unfathomable.
She discerns the truthBounty
And cannot be fooled by art,
Even of high form –
Her vision penetrates all
As sunlight bejewels dewdrops.
She never hurries
But does everything on time,
Feeding the hungry,
Healing the sick, offering
The bounty of earth to all.
A man so charming,Visions
Almost irresistible,
Both brave and cocky,
Earns praise for his leadership,
Blame for lack of steadfastness.
The fine young poetScalpels
Inflames imagination
With wondrous visions,
Yet without strong roots in earth
His dreams float like stray balloons.
He employs logicMule
As surgeons wield sharp scalpels,
Dissecting all problems
Without respect to feelings,
Defending the cruelest deeds.
He never wavers,
Never lets a promise go
Without fulfillment,
Yet no stiff-necked mule could more
Stubbornly refuse to change.
The cherry blossoms
Crowning hardwoods announce Spring
With rich pink splendor
Till humble May winds loose them,
Drop them, scatter them to green.
Head between pillows,Cringe
An arcing sickle of pain
From left eye to ear,
A nauseated sternum,
One more day of life lopped off.
The headache’s dupe seeksIce Pick
Fetal peace in barren womb
Of warm soft blankets,
With no birth to celebrate,
Only the slow dying day.
If a hot ice pick
Had been thrust through the left eye
As far as the ear,
The cruel pain would make some sense,
Unlike migraine’s cold logic.
Reminds me of that Seinfeld episode.thats a grate thang to ast n i wood anser it thisaway based on knowin a passel of natives (sum of em are famus, witch ifn i ever git roun to finishin life n pinions of buddy don, hillbilly, i will menchun em by name) ...
But you know, I have never known what it is that is offensive about wooden Indians. I have always thought they were kinda neat looking.
Why is a wooden Indian offensive but a ceramic Buddha is okay?
Just askin'
Award-winning author Pat Cadigan has started the “Match It for Pratchett” campaign, honoring Terry Pratchett. Pratchett, the author of the popular Discworld novels, recently announced that he has been diagnosed with early-onset Alzheimer’s disease. He has donated £500,000 (roughly $1 million) to Alzheimer’s research, and the campaign to match his donation is underway.
Please visit the campaign’s Guide to Giving and donate today.
The child’s confidence,Potion
Like a newly budding sprout
Planted in rich soil,
Gives courage to the timid,
And hope to the dejected.
A magic potionKnot
In a cup borne by a youth:
Such is one’s first love,
An intoxicating brew
Of hope, fear, intimacy.
The child had no doubtsRisk
As he used his sharp dagger
To sever the knots
Of worldly difficulties,
Cutting each to useful lengths.
The trusting young child
Offers his only coin,
Risking everything
On the hope that life is fair,
Learning of good and evil.
His heavy burden,Reunion
A harvest of ten long poles,
More than he can heft
While seeing his way forward,
Wears him down with hard struggle.
The happy parentsVictim
View the family reunion
Amid such bounty,
Places set for each of ten
As all return home in joy.
Playing the martyr?Investor
Or could he be the victim?
Ten blades in his back,
To prove he’s been betrayed,
With knives as dear as jewels.
With ten golden coins
The market thrives, making rich
The charmed investor,
Who permits no change at all,
Fearing he would be undone.
Battered, bruised, unbowed,Wishes
The man leans against his crutch,
Surveying his yield:
Eight crutches from prior trials,
Hard proofs one must be wary.
Nine cups of wishes,Trophies
Arrayed behind the winner
Like sweet dreams come true,
Accomplishments completed,
Provide passing contentment.
The fears of the night,Falcon
Regrets for what might have been,
Shine like nine sharp swords,
Painful trophies she maintains
On her lonely bedroom wall.
The noble lady
Strolls her garden of nine coins,
Falcon on her wrist,
Proof that though she is gracious,
She has the power to kill.
Eight arrows arcingEnds
Across the sky, their targets
Already settled,
A coordinated strike
That allows no turning back.
Everything must end,Bound
The happy circle of friends,
The team of workers,
Its final task completed,
Each of its eight cups drained dry.
Blindfolded and bound,Flow
In a jail of eight sharp swords,
Feeling powerless,
The young woman first accepts
Then overcomes her troubles.
Six wheels completed,
The worker diligently
Hammers the seventh
The eighth awaiting its turn,
The flow of work exalting.
One man versus six,Options
He makes his hilltop stand,
Bravely facing those
Who would supplant him by force,
His staff no better than theirs.
Each of seven flasksOutsider
Holds a unique heady brew,
A different future
In each dreamy concoction:
Paralysis of options.
The outsider leavesBlessings
The parade of daily life,
Briefly looking back,
Bearing seven silver swords
As if he could defeat death.
The farmer pauses
For seven golden minutes
To smell sweet onions,
Lean upon his wooden hoe,
And count his many blessings.
The winner parades,Innocence
Colorful standard raised high,
Leading his army
And six flag-bearing champions,
Knowing glory fades quickly.
Children with their bowls,Renewal
None of them identical,
Play their made up games,
Six innocent hungry lambs
Sharing faith they will be fed.
Two hooded figuresBlessings
Their boat laden with six swords,
Cross a murky swamp
That mirrors their strained spirits,
Renewal on the far shore.
Six coins, six figures,
Poor man, rich man, give and take –
No one is secure,
But each can give or receive
According to his blessings.
Three great beakers down,Miser
Their brew spilled on thirsty earth,
Their owner suffers,
Feeling only sharp regret,
Blind to the two that remain.
Stopping at nothingBeggars
To get his way, the miser
Cuts off all his friends,
Desiring only profit,
Claiming five swords, needing one.
With but five pennies,
Two beggars, one lame, both starved,
Wander through harsh snow,
Painfully aware of those
Feasting behind bright windows.
Cargo of three sprouts,Community
His path through massive mountains,
He views from high cliffs
The wide green valley below,
Where he shall plant his future.
Raise we three our cupsBetrayal
In joyful exuberance
To home and friends,
Great adventures, old and new,
The warmth of community.
As if three cruel swordsBread
Had thrust into a beating heart,
Betrayal kills trust,
Whether of friend or lover,
Brother, father, or country.
Risking his three coins(ifn ye wonta make a comment, ye gut to click on 'link' below.)
The wise youth made thoughtful plans,
Hired a team of two,
Drilled until they could not fail,
Earned his daily bread for life.
The two lovers gazeBlindfold
Upon one another, hearts
Like cups overfilled,
Each poured into the other,
Yin and yang’s eternal knot.
A sword in each hand,Flow
The maiden crosses her heart,
Blindfolded by fear
Of what she might feel if she
Let anyone come near.
Juggling two gold coins,
One heads, one tails, the young man
Dances through eternity,
Working hard and yet laughing,
Joyfully merged with life’s flow
A single seedlingSun
Boldly breaks the frost-bound earth
Seeking the sun’s light –
Fragile sprout of unknown fate,
Fearlessly demanding warmth.
The flush of first love,Knife
Meditation’s inner peace,
Spirit’s glowing faith –
All are nourished and grow
In the warm sun of the heart.
The mental knife cutsFarmer
Through the knots of fear and doubt
If its edge is sharpened
On the rough stone of reason
Oiled by experience.
With such abundance(ifn ye wonta make a comment, ye gut to click on 'link' below.)
Does the earth come forth in spring,
A profusion tamed
And nurtured by the farmer,
Humbly bent, sowing, weeding.
Today he had a wide range of observations on the industry, including the Amazon Kindle book reader, which he said would go nowhere largely because Americans have stopped reading.i wood lack to set ye strate on sumthin: people still lacks to read. i know it fer a fack on a counta i leave outta the apartmint ever mornin n git on the bus to ride over to man hattan, witch that thar bus is chock full of folk a'readin thar books with thar em pee three player earphone in thar ears.
“It doesn’t matter how good or bad the product is, the fact is that people don’t read anymore,” he said. “Forty percent of the people in the U.S. read one book or less last year. The whole conception is flawed at the top because people don’t read anymore.”
The Czech healthcare system undergoes a minor revolution on 1 January as patients are asked to pay a small fee each time they visit their doctor.thang is, vaclav (jacks partner) is in the czech republick rite now a'visitin. his dad had to have triple bi-pass surgry, witch everythang cum out jes fine. he dint half to pay nuthin n stayed in the hospitull fer a few weeks!!
The move is part of a widespread reform of the health sector unveiled by the centre-right government.
It is far from popular - a number of leading figures are calling on Czechs not to pay up.
Czechs enjoyed free healthcare during four decades of communist rule and in the past 17 years of capitalism.
But from 1 January, Czech patients will be asked to pay 30 crowns (£0.83; 1.1 euros) for each visit to the doctor, and 60 crowns for each day spent in hospital.
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