As a rule I try to keep the people in my life unnamed in this blog. I’ve had a few family members get upset in the early days and after the bitching and complaining was over I set a new policy. No family members names or photographs will ever be used. I’ve managed to follow that policy religiously for years until today. I appreciate poetry and try to experience as much of it as I can from a variety of poets. Today I’m going to reproduce a letter written by Kahlil Gibran from his collection of love letters. It is titled “To Mary”. It touched me deeply. I hope you enjoy it.
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I love the valley in winter, Mary, when we sit by the fire, with the fragrance of burnt evergreen cypress filling the house and snow falling outside, the wind blowing [it], the ice-lamps hanging outside the window-panes, and the distant sound of the river and the voice of the white storm uniting in our ears.
But if my little loved-one were not near me there would be no valley, no snow, no fragrance of cypress bough, no crystal lamps of ice, no river song, no awe inspiring storm . . . Let all these things vanish if my blessed little one be far from them and from me.
I’m happy to share this little bit of emotion from a superb writer.
Limericks are the best. I’ve been reading them for years and writing a great many of my own. My limerick archives go all the way back to 1879. I did discover that posting some of those really old ones requires a bit of a rewrite. Some of the profanities back then were just gratuitous and actually detracted from the overall entertainment value. I may have softened the language a little but they’re still a fun read. Todays selections are related specifically to younger women. Don’t complain to me about the content, the people who wrote these have been dead a very long time.
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A bather whose clothing was strewed
By winds that left her quite nude,
Saw a man come along,
And unless we are wrong
You expected this line to be lewd. (1944)
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A lady athletic and handsome
Got wedged in her sleeping room transom.
When she offered much gold
For release, she was told
That the view was worth more than the ransom. (1944)
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There was a young maid from Madras
Who had a magnificent ass;
Not rounded and pink,
As you’d probably think,
It was gray, had long ears, and ate grass. (1940)
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I’m tempted to post a few of my own limericks but unfortunately they’re very rude and sexual explicit. I may rewrite them someday but not today. Instead I offer up a rather lame poem of mine written about my first sexual experience, to show all of you what a freaking romantic I’m not. LOL
I feel like celebrating today due primarily to four consecutive days with no rain and being able to sleep at night without an electric blanket. It’s mid-June and winter keeps trying to hang on and I’m sick of it. Here are four moderately suggestive limericks I would rate at PG-13. Keep the kids away while you read them. Let’s get started.
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There once was a horny old witch With a motorized dildo which She would use with delight All day and into the night Twenty bucks at Abercrombie and Fitch.
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Nymphomaniacal Alice Used a dynamite stick for a phallus. They found her vagina In North Carolina, And her ass-hole in Buckingham Palace
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There was a young woman of Croft Who played with herself in a loft, Having reasoned that candles Would never cause scandals, Besides which it never went soft.
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An agreeable young girl named Miss Doves Likes to masturbate the men that she loves. She’ll use her bare fist If the fellows insist But she really prefers to wear gloves.
I’ve always been attracted to graveyards. There’s no better place to paint, sketch or write than the peaceful quietness of a graveyard. It’s one of the few places still left where someone can go and relax without interferences from the rest of the living human race. I once lived in a city called Lakeville in Massachusetts and for many years I was known far and wide by the police departments and many citizens as someone who was consistently haunting local graveyards. In the Plymouth area there are still tombstones from the 1600’s with some truly bizarre epithets and poetry. I just takes a little time and dedication to find them. Todays post will contain what some people would consider morbid information and that’s true, it is a little morbid but it’s still interesting. Being the kind and generous soul that I am, I’m willing to share.
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“Haircut!” Last words of famous gangster Albert Anastasia in 1957 while getting a trim.
“Smite my womb.” Spoken by Agrippina, mother of Nero, to the assassins sent to kill her by her son.
“The strongest.” Uttered by Alexander the Great when asked who should succeed him.
“The executioner is, I believe, an expert . . . and my neck is very slender. Oh God, have pity on my soul, . . . ” as she was beheaded.
“I hope so.” Stated by Andrew Carnegie, steel magnet and philanthropist, to his wife who’d just wished him a good night:
Epithets
Burlington, Massachusetts
Sacred to the memory of Anthony Drake,
Who died for peace and quietness sake;
His wife was constantly scolding and scoffin’,
So he sought for repose in a twelve dollar coffin.
Would you consider yourself a superstitious person? Most people don’t think they are but when questioned further the truth always comes out. Superstition comes in a number of forms but today I want to talk about the number 13. We are a technological people creating devices and accomplishments that boggle the mind. Why is it that there are no buildings in this country with a 13th floor. That fact is absolutely ridiculous for a modern country leading the world in so many areas. Here are some other examples of how stupid and superstitious we really are.
The fear of the number 13 or “triskaidekaphobia” seems to have been around a long time. Viking mythology claims thirteen guests were seated at Loki’s Valhalla feast. Also, there were thirteen attendees at the Last Supper.
Friday is also considered an unlucky because it was day of the crucifixion. It is claimed that Adam and Eve also ate the forbidden fruit on a Friday. That would surely make Friday the 13th a double whammy.
Winston Churchill, former British prime minister, never traveled on a Friday the 13th unless absolutely necessary.
Graham Chapman of Monty Python fame arranged to be buried on the 13th hour of Friday, October 13th, 1989.
Benny Goodman and former vice-president Hubert Humphrey died on Friday the 13th.
Months that begin on a Sunday will always have a Friday the 13th.
On March 13, 1992, a violent earthquake in Turkey killed more than a thousand people.
In 1972 on a Friday, a plane crashed in the Andes without food and water compelling the survivors to turn to cannibalism to stay alive.
On Friday, October 13, 1307, King Philip IV of France ordered the arrest and torture of all members of the Knights Templar on charges of heresy.
German bombs hit Buckingham Palace on Friday, September 13th, 1940, during World War II.
I thought today I’d share a few samples of poetry written by children. I love good poetry, but it seems to me that the poems written by the young are much more genuine that some of the not-so-wonderful professional poets. I prefer simple and beautiful poetry like the following. The subject of these poems is SUMMER.
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By Gillian Sellers, Age 9, England
Summer is golden,
Summer is green,
The freshly cut grass.
Down, down, down, we go, from the peak of the hill,
This is a perfect day for a truck load of silliness. First let’s look over some truly stupid and published newspaper headlines.
CHILD’S STOOL GREAT FOR USE IN THE GARDEN
SOVIET VIRGIN LANDS SHORT OF GOAL AGAIN
DEALERS WILL HEAR CAR TALK AT NOON
ENRAGED COW INJURES FARMER WITH AX
MAN RUN OVER BY FREIGHT TRAIN DIES
Next are a few actual classified ads that made me smile.
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Joining nudist colony, must sell washer & dryer – $300.00
Tired of cleaning yourself? Let me do it.
Dog for sale: eats anything and is fond of children.
Used Cars: Why go elsewhere to be cheated? Come here first.
Man wanted to work in explosive factory. Must be willing to travel.
Quotes and Malaprops from actual high school and college exams on the subject of Music Appreciation
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The principal singer of nineteenth-century opera was called the pre-Madonna.
Agnes Dei was a woman composer famous for her church music.
A trumpet is an instrument when it is not an elephant sound.
When electric currents go through them, guitars start making sounds. So would anybody.
Just about any animal skin can be stretched over a frame to make a pleasant sound once the animal is removed.
And finally, a serious quote from a serious Playboy playmate, Barbie Benton.
(Not PETA Approved)
“I believe that minks are raised to be turned into fur coats and if we didn’t wear fur coats, those little animals would never have been born. So is it better not to have been born, or to have lived for one or two years to have been turned into a fur coat. I don’t know.”
It’s just another weird and wonderful week here in Maine. So far, we’ve had a snowstorm, then an earthquake, then a windstorm, then some rain, and a dose of black ice for good measure. It’s no wonder I hate to leave the house. Today’s post is yet another visit through the “limericktime tunnel“. These limericks were probably compiled sometime in the mid 1970’s and then published in the early 1980’s. I love looking back to search for a few interesting and funny gems that need to be redistributed to the newer generations. Enjoy!
Now that the new year has begun and the obligatory resolutions have been posted, I thought it would be nice to return to one of the mainstays of this blog, LIMERICKS! I have a large and varied collection but today I’ll be reaching way back to 1979 for some inspiration. I hope you enjoy them.
There are times that self-reflection can be a dangerous and disappointing endeavor. As you get older you will tend to spend a great deal of time reviewing your life. If you’re a truthful person (at least to yourself) you may discover a number of things that aren’t all that wonderful. I thought for most of my life that I was quite the romantic. I was never going to be a Don Juan, but I thought I was able to hold my own in that department. I’ve finally came to the realization that I may have been mistaken. After all my years of reading, writing, and talking with thousands of people, it finally became clear that I was somewhat lacking in that area. Today’s post is a short collection of poetry by some well-known people whose romantic writings put mine to shame.
By Franz Kafka, “From A Letter to Milena Jesenska”
I am just walking around here between
the line (of my letter), under the light
of your eyes, in the breath of your
mouth as in a beautiful happy day.
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By Lorrie Moore, 1957
Need: Something to lift you from your boots
out into the sky, something to make you like
little things again, to whirl around the
curves of your ears and muss up your hair
and call you every day.
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By Elizabeth Jennings, 1916, from “Absence”.
It was because the place was just the same
that made your absence seem a savage force.
For under all the gentleness there came
an earthquake tremor: fountains, birds
and grass were shaken by my thinking
of your name.
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By Ralph Waldo Emerson, from “Thine Eyes Still Shined.”
everyuselessthing.com 