BusterStronghart@Gmail.com

memo

No one chooses his own story.

Black & White for Faces.. B&W looks into the soul, it looks into the eyes, and through the eyes into the soul.

BusterStronghart@Gmail.com

Forgotten Days

You think I forgot
The bed and those yellowed sheets.
The iron bedstead,
The whiskey bottle on the nightstand,
Quiet music from the next room.

Your dress on the floor,
That fragrance of only you,
The sighs of oak leaves
Caressing the window pane.

And your whispers in my ear.
Did I bite, or was it you?

That, at last, I have forgot.

mek

BusterStronghart@Gmail.com

On Growing Old

Be with me, Beauty, for the fire is dying;
My dog and I are old, too old for roving.
Man, whose young passion sets the spindrift flying,
Is soon too lame to march, too cold for loving.
I take the book and gather to the fire,
Turning old yellow leaves; minute by minute
The clock ticks to my heart. A withered wire,
Moves a thin ghost of music in the spinet.
I cannot sail your seas, I cannot wander
Your corn-land, nor your hill-land, nor your valleys
Ever again, nor share the battle yonder
Where the young knight the broken squadron rallies.
Only stay quiet while my mind remembers
The beauty of fire from the beauty of embers.

Beauty, have pity! for the strong have power,
The rich their wealth, the beautiful their grace,
Summer of man its sunlight and its flower.
Spring-time of man, all April in a face.
Only, as in the jostling in the Strand,
Where the mob thrusts, or loiters, or is loud,
The beggar with the saucer in his hand
Asks only a penny from the passing crowd,
So, from this glittering world with all its fashion,
Its fire, and play of men, its stir, its march,
Let me have wisdom, Beauty, wisdom and passion,
Bread to the soul, rain when the summers parch.
Give me but these, and though the darkness close
Even the night will blossom as the rose.

John Masefield

BusterStronghart@Gmail.com

"Calm is all Nature as a Resting Wheel."




Calm is all nature as a resting wheel.
The kine are couched upon the dewy grass;
The horse alone, seen dimly as I pass,
Is cropping audibly his later meal:
Dark is the ground; a slumber seems to steal
O'er vale, and mountain, and the starless sky.

Now, in this blank of things, a harmony,
Home-felt, and home-created, comes to heal
That grief for which the senses still supply
Fresh food; for only then, when memory
Is hushed, am I at rest. My Friends! restrain
Those busy cares that would allay my pain;
Oh! leave me to myself, nor let me feel
The officious touch that makes me droop again.



William Wordsworth

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"When I was young, I used to think that money was the most important thing in life. Now that I am old, I know that it is."  

Oscar Wilde

BUT

"A wise man should have money in his head, But not in his heart."

Jonathan Swift. 

from "The Church & the Fiction Writer"

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from "The Church & the Fiction Writer"

What the Catholic fiction writer must realize is that those who question [the faith] are not insane at all, they are not utterly foolish and irrelevant,  they are not utterly foolish and irrelevant, they are for the most part acting according to their lights. What he must get over is that they don't have the complete light.

Flannery O'Conner

BusterStronghart@Gmail.com

Thinking of my Father

Yesterday was a wonderful blue sky day.

I saw pelicans fishing while I swam

In spring sea water, still cool,

The summer warm soon to come. 

Like you, I swam out far

And the beach seemed out of reach

I cried because you are gone,

But all you gave me 

Runs always in my blood.

mek  Aug 5,  2010

BusterStronghart@Gmail.com

Dreams


Here we are all, by day; by night we're hurl'd
By dreams, each one into a several world.

Robert Herrick