BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
Men of the woods and lumberjacks,
They judged me by their appropriate tool,
Except as a fellow handled an ax,
They had no way of knowing a fool.
Robert Frost...Two tramps at Mudtime
Sunday, September 03, 2006
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
A pox on all steps but big ones.
Thou'rt my son in any case and I could wish a better, you too might wish a better father.
Neither Thought nor Talk pays the Toll.
...............John Barth, The Sot Weed Factor
A pox on all steps but big ones.
Thou'rt my son in any case and I could wish a better, you too might wish a better father.
Neither Thought nor Talk pays the Toll.
...............John Barth, The Sot Weed Factor
Wednesday, August 30, 2006
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
Living with Pessimism
Every rose has its' thorns--but not every thorn has a rose.
Living with Pessimism
Every rose has its' thorns--but not every thorn has a rose.
Shopenhauer
Monday, August 28, 2006
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
"No man, however strong, can serve ten years as schoolmaster, priest, or senator and remain fit for anything else."
"Life is a narrow valley, and the roads run close together."
.........Henry Adams
I doubt all by habit; and always distrust my own judgment.
.................mek
"No man, however strong, can serve ten years as schoolmaster, priest, or senator and remain fit for anything else."
"Life is a narrow valley, and the roads run close together."
.........Henry Adams
I doubt all by habit; and always distrust my own judgment.
.................mek
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
It is possible for some people to miss their lives as some people miss a plane or train. How can it happen that one day you are young, then another day you come to yourself and your life has passed like a dream?
But how can it be that only with death and dying does the sharp sense of life return?
What is the word for a state which is neither life nor death--a death in life?
I thought that books could tell me how to live, but they did not.
Why is it that without death one misses his life?
........Walker Percy
It is possible for some people to miss their lives as some people miss a plane or train. How can it happen that one day you are young, then another day you come to yourself and your life has passed like a dream?
But how can it be that only with death and dying does the sharp sense of life return?
What is the word for a state which is neither life nor death--a death in life?
I thought that books could tell me how to live, but they did not.
Why is it that without death one misses his life?
........Walker Percy
Sunday, August 27, 2006
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
We live and learn-- but do we get smarter?
Ulotrichan: member of the wooly haired or crisp hair division of mankind.
Leiotrichi: the smooth haired
We live and learn-- but do we get smarter?
Ulotrichan: member of the wooly haired or crisp hair division of mankind.
Leiotrichi: the smooth haired
Friday, August 25, 2006
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
the author's edited version
before the convex mirror
the image magnified
pores, craters ; defects, bigsize.
no knowledge of the sweet, the kind
no forgiveness for the sane. No points
for moderation.
whole life is no insurance plan
but made of error, laugh and pain
Exceptions there are few but as a poet
you can stand on the mighty riverbank
and scream the verses of your closeted refrain.
ss
the author's edited version
before the convex mirror
the image magnified
pores, craters ; defects, bigsize.
no knowledge of the sweet, the kind
no forgiveness for the sane. No points
for moderation.
whole life is no insurance plan
but made of error, laugh and pain
Exceptions there are few but as a poet
you can stand on the mighty riverbank
and scream the verses of your closeted refrain.
ss
Thursday, August 24, 2006
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
SS (St Eve) answers this poem from BusterStronghart, Wednesday, August 23, 2006, below:
In the false terror of suburban nights
He hears the ticking of the clock,
And thinks of childish frights.
The dark conceals his wooden face
Freighted with a thousand weights
Drawn in gray, stained in in white,
Faded too, by time's truthful art.
A poet once, in joy he lived,
As poets may.
But now a tradesman by his choice,
A fatman too, who has lost his voice.
Greed marks that hollow face,
Avarice and sin, cowardice too,
The trade was death for cash,
Death within a gilded coffin,
A suburban grave, a life of lies,
His life lies spreadout on a bankbook raft,
Under a blanket of adultery and of theft,
Somewhere on a stinking sea of convention,
His lonely, sinking craft.
mek
Before the convex mirror the image magnifies
Pores, craters, defects bigsize.
No knowledge of the sweet,
The kind. No forgiveness for the sane.
No points for moderation.
Whole life is no insurance plan
but made of error, laugh and pain.
Exceptions there are few
but as a poet you can stand on the mighty riverbank
and scream the the verses of your closeted refrain.
ss (St Eve)
Editor's comment:
My father would be pleased--my mother would believe it.
mek
SS (St Eve) answers this poem from BusterStronghart, Wednesday, August 23, 2006, below:
In the false terror of suburban nights
He hears the ticking of the clock,
And thinks of childish frights.
The dark conceals his wooden face
Freighted with a thousand weights
Drawn in gray, stained in in white,
Faded too, by time's truthful art.
A poet once, in joy he lived,
As poets may.
But now a tradesman by his choice,
A fatman too, who has lost his voice.
Greed marks that hollow face,
Avarice and sin, cowardice too,
The trade was death for cash,
Death within a gilded coffin,
A suburban grave, a life of lies,
His life lies spreadout on a bankbook raft,
Under a blanket of adultery and of theft,
Somewhere on a stinking sea of convention,
His lonely, sinking craft.
mek
Before the convex mirror the image magnifies
Pores, craters, defects bigsize.
No knowledge of the sweet,
The kind. No forgiveness for the sane.
No points for moderation.
Whole life is no insurance plan
but made of error, laugh and pain.
Exceptions there are few
but as a poet you can stand on the mighty riverbank
and scream the the verses of your closeted refrain.
ss (St Eve)
Editor's comment:
My father would be pleased--my mother would believe it.
mek
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
Each man has his own batch of poems.
Herzog, Sol Bellow
My usual mistake is my greatest one: fearing to make one.
mek
Each man has his own batch of poems.
Herzog, Sol Bellow
My usual mistake is my greatest one: fearing to make one.
mek
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
"Date a jock and all they talk about is sports and sex and sports and sex; date a freak and all they talk about is pot and sex, pot and sex. "
three teenaged girls at the pool.
"Date a jock and all they talk about is sports and sex and sports and sex; date a freak and all they talk about is pot and sex, pot and sex. "
three teenaged girls at the pool.
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
"Understand that a man would have to act as the land where he was born had trained him to do. "
"It's because a fellow is more afraid of the trouble he might have than he ever is of the trouble he's already got. He'll cling to trouble he's used to before he'll risk a change."
Wm. Faulkner, Light in August
"Understand that a man would have to act as the land where he was born had trained him to do. "
"It's because a fellow is more afraid of the trouble he might have than he ever is of the trouble he's already got. He'll cling to trouble he's used to before he'll risk a change."
Wm. Faulkner, Light in August
Wednesday, August 23, 2006
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
In the false terror of suburban nights
He hears the ticking of the clock,
And thinks of childish frights.
The dark conceals his wooden face
Freighted with a thousand weights
Drawn in gray, stained in in white,
Faded too, by time's truthful art.
A poet once, in joy he lived,
As poets may.
But now a tradesman by his choice,
A fatman too, who has lost his voice.
Greed marks that hollow face,
Avarice and sin, cowardice too,
The trade was death for cash,
Death within a gilded coffin,
A suburban grave, a life of lies,
His life lies spreadout on a bankbook raft,
Under a blanket of adultery and of theft,
Somewhere on a stinking sea of convention,
His lonely, sinking craft.
mek
In the false terror of suburban nights
He hears the ticking of the clock,
And thinks of childish frights.
The dark conceals his wooden face
Freighted with a thousand weights
Drawn in gray, stained in in white,
Faded too, by time's truthful art.
A poet once, in joy he lived,
As poets may.
But now a tradesman by his choice,
A fatman too, who has lost his voice.
Greed marks that hollow face,
Avarice and sin, cowardice too,
The trade was death for cash,
Death within a gilded coffin,
A suburban grave, a life of lies,
His life lies spreadout on a bankbook raft,
Under a blanket of adultery and of theft,
Somewhere on a stinking sea of convention,
His lonely, sinking craft.
mek
Wednesday, August 16, 2006
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
In the terror of suburban nights
He hears the ticking of the clock,
And thinks of childish frights.
The dark conceals his wooden face
Freighted with a thousand weights
Drawn in gray, stained in in white,
Faded too, by time's truthful art.
A poet once, in joy he lived,
As poets may
But now a tradesman by his choice,
A fatman too, who has lost his voice.
Greed marks that hollow face,
Avarice and sin, cowardice too,
The trade was death for cash,
Death within a gilded coffin,
A suburban grave, a life of lies,
His life lies spreadout on a bankbook raft,
Somewhere on a sea of convention,
A stinking, sinking craft.
In the terror of suburban nights
He hears the ticking of the clock,
And thinks of childish frights.
The dark conceals his wooden face
Freighted with a thousand weights
Drawn in gray, stained in in white,
Faded too, by time's truthful art.
A poet once, in joy he lived,
As poets may
But now a tradesman by his choice,
A fatman too, who has lost his voice.
Greed marks that hollow face,
Avarice and sin, cowardice too,
The trade was death for cash,
Death within a gilded coffin,
A suburban grave, a life of lies,
His life lies spreadout on a bankbook raft,
Somewhere on a sea of convention,
A stinking, sinking craft.
mek
Friday, August 11, 2006
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
Found on a memorial plate in St. Phillips cemetery, Garrison, NY
Found on a memorial plate in St. Phillips cemetery, Garrison, NY
----Catherine Heuston Ghiselin----
O hand unclasped of unbeholden friend
For thee the no fruits to pluck, no palms for winning,
No triumphs and no labor and no lust,
Only dead yew leaves and a little dust.
Sleep and have sleep for light.
Are the fruits gray like dust, or red like blood?
Are there flowers
At all, or any fruit?
.
1911-1980
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
from a TLS review by William Logan, describing the poetry describing the apprentice poetry of Lawrence Durrell: --" lyrical afflatus of a blowhard."
from a TLS review by William Logan, describing the poetry describing the apprentice poetry of Lawrence Durrell: --" lyrical afflatus of a blowhard."
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
I am a champion balancing act of the world and can now feel the cosmic conflict pulling part of me into the imaginal and spiritual realm as another part of me crashes into the side of the mountain and must deal with the very real parameters of the physical world. Although I may idealize the situation, yet it is important for me to try to see things as they truly are.
I am a champion balancing act of the world and can now feel the cosmic conflict pulling part of me into the imaginal and spiritual realm as another part of me crashes into the side of the mountain and must deal with the very real parameters of the physical world. Although I may idealize the situation, yet it is important for me to try to see things as they truly are.
Thursday, August 10, 2006
BusterStronghart@Gmail.com
The best you can expect in life is to avoid the worst.
I exist in the cemetery of spent and lost hours.
Everything we say is a continuation of what has been said before.
Italo Calvino
The best you can expect in life is to avoid the worst.
I exist in the cemetery of spent and lost hours.
Everything we say is a continuation of what has been said before.
Italo Calvino
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