LOOK TO THIS DAY
An Anciant Poem
Listen to the exortation of the dawn!
Look to this day!
for It is life, the very life of life.
In its brief course be all the verites
and realities of your existence.
The bliss of growth, the glory of action,
the splender of beauty; for yesterday is
but a dream and tomorrow Is only a vision;
But today well lived makes every yesterday
a dream of happiness, and every tomorrow a
vision of hope. Look well therefore to this
day! such Is the salutation of the dawn.
There is a bridge connecting heaven and earth
It is called Rainbow Bridge because of its many colours
Just this side of the Rainbow Bridge there is a land of
hills, valleys with lush green grass
When a beloved pet dies, the pet goes to this special place
There is always food and water and warm spring weather
The old and frail are young again
Those who are maimed are made whole again
They play all day with each other
There is only one thing missing
They are not with their special person who loved them on
So each day they run and play until the day comes
when one suddenly stops playing and looks up !
The nose twitches !
The ears are up !
The eyes are staring !
And this one suddenly runs from the group !
You have been seen, and when you and your special friend
you take him or her into your arms and embrace
your face is kissed again and again,
and you look once more into the eyes of your trusting pet
Then you cross the Rainbow Bridge together, never again to be separated
To Autumn - John Keats wrote his ode 'To Autumn' during his stay in Winchester in September 1819.
Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness,
Close bosom-friend of the maturing sun,
Conspiring with him how to load and bless
With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eves run;
To bend with apples the moss'd cottage-trees,
And fill all fruit with ripeness to the core;
To swell the gourd, and plump the hazel shells
With a sweet kernel; to set budding more,
And still more, later flowers for the bees,
Until they think warm days will never cease,
For summer has o'er-brimm'd their clammy cells.
Who hath not seen thee oft amid thy store?
Sometimes whoever seeks abroad may find
Thee sitting careless on a granary floor,
Thy hair soft-lifted by the winnowing wind;
Or on a half-reap'd furrow sound asleep,
Drows'd with the fume of poppies, while thy hook
Spares the next swath and all its twined flowers:
And sometimes like a gleaner thou dost keep
Steady thy laden head across a brook;
Or by a cyder-press, with patient look,
Thou watchest the last oozings hours by hours.
Where are the songs of Spring? Ay, where are they?
Think not of them, thou hast thy music too, -
While barred clouds bloom the soft-dying day,
And touch the stubble-plains with rosy hue;
Then in a wailful choir the small gnats mourn
Among the river sallows, borne aloft
Or sinking as the light wind lives or dies;
And full-grown lambs loud bleat from hilly bourn;
Hedge-crickets sing; and now with treble soft
The red-breast whistles from a garden-croft;
And gathering swallows twitter in the skies.
in the grey light of three
no-one is there
no-one to see
the drunk as he struggles
with lifes mystery
lying face up in the road
good old johhny barleycorn
lent him the wit and the wisdom
that slipped from his lip at eleven
and left him in haste
with no word of goodbye
on a cold hard road
with a double sky.
copyright from my book.
johnny barleycorn is booze if anyone doesnt know!
("They Pass On The Torch of Life")
There's a breathless hush in the Close to-night --
Ten to make and the match to win --
A bumping pitch and a blinding light,
An hour to play and the last man in.
And it's not for the sake of a ribboned coat,
Or the selfish hope of a season's fame,
But his Captain's hand on his shoulder smote --
'Play up! play up! and play the game!'
The sand of the desert is sodden red, --
Red with the wreck of a square that broke; --
The Gatling's jammed and the Colonel dead,
And the regiment blind with dust and smoke.
The river of death has brimmed his banks,
And England's far, and Honour a name,
But the voice of a schoolboy rallies the ranks:
'Play up! play up! and play the game!'
This is the word that year by year,
While in her place the School is set,
Every one of her sons must hear,
And none that hears it dare forget.
This they all with a joyful mind
Bear through life like a torch in flame,
And falling fling to the host behind --
'Play up! play up! and play the game!'
Sir Henry Newbolt (1862-1938)
The following narrative is from KenDrive's website:
In an era of Victorian propriety and emphasis on the seriousness of the protestant work ethic, Sir Henry Newbolt (1862-1938) exemplified and championed both characteristics in both his writing and in deed.
Eminently respectable, Newbolt was a lawyer, novelist, playwright and magazine editor. Above all, he was a poet who championed the virtues of chivalry and sportsmanship combined in the service of the British Empire.
Born in Bilston, Staffordshire, and following studies at Clifton College and Oxford University, Newbolt became a barrister.
Although his first novel, Taken from the Enemy, was published in time for his thirtieth birthday in 1892, Newbolt’s reputation was established in 1897 in a poem written about a schoolboy cricketer who grows up to fight in Africa, Vitai Lampada. There, in the panic of battle the boy is stirred to heroic action by schooldays memories: “his Captain’s hand on his shoulder smote - / Play up! Play up! And play the game!”
“Play up! Play up! And play the game!” – words that have become famous through the years - symbolised Newbolt’s view that war should be fought in the same spirit as school sports.
The poem was well received both critically and publicly at the time, and his work underwent a further revival at the outbreak of the First World War, when optimism was high; however as gloom set in, Newbolt’s verse consequently suffered in popularity.
Newbolt came to dislike his most famous poem Vitai Lampada. During a 1923 speaking tour of Canada he was constantly called upon to recite the poem: “it’s a kind of Frankenstein’s Monster that I created thirty years ago,” he complained.
The poem retained its popularity in Canada long after it fell out of favour in Britain.
Do not mistake solitude for loneliness,
For solitude brings its own friends.
It can bring peace and understanding,
The joyous sound of children laughing Echoing across the years.
The clink of glasses, Raised in ceremonious hope,
A fingertip touch, that meant so much more.
Solitude has time for you,
It can say, Take me home And I will lie with you While you warm your heart In the embers of desire.
It will stand by your side As you watch your first sunrise And still be fresh As that same sun then slips into the pocket Of the coat, worn by night.
- But beware of its rival, For loneliness has no peace.
It cannot understand the joy of solitude.
It will place its hand over the mouths of children And you will try, but fail To hear the laughter that belongs to you.
Its glass lies empty Dashed on the rock of truth,
Its embers have grown cold And leave you shivering As a helpless puppy Who trembles in fear. You stand alone at sunrise,
For loneliness shuns the light of day Preferring its pocket of darkness, Unwilling to see the dawn of truth - So be on your way with solitude
And give no thought to loneliness and its life
Found on the Campaign to end loneliness website
When the good Lord was creating Mothers, he was into his sixth day of overtime when an angel appeared and said; ‘You are doing a lot of fiddling around on this one,’
and the Lord said; ‘Have you read the specification on this order?
She has to be completely washable, but not plastic...have one hundred and eight movable parts – all replaceable…run on black coffee and leftovers...have a lap that disappears when she stands up...a kiss that can cure anything from a broken leg to a disappointed love affair…and six pairs of hands.’
The angel shook her head slowly and said; ‘Six pairs of hands?
‘It’s not the hands that are causing me problems’ said the Lord. ‘It’s the three pairs of eyes that mothers have to have’
‘That’s on the standard model?’ asked the angel.
The Lord nodded. ‘One pair that sees through the doors when she
asks ‘What are you children doing in there?’ when she already knows.
Another in the back of her head that see what she shouldn’t but what she has to know. And of course, the ones in front that can look at a child when he gets himself into trouble and say ‘I understand and I love you’ without so much as uttering a word.’
‘Lord’ said the angel, touching him gently, ‘Go to bed. Tomorrow is
‘I can’t. I am so close now. I already have one who heals herself when she is sick, can feed a family of six on a pound of mince and can get a nine-year old to have a bath’ said the Lord.
The Angel circled the model very slowly. ‘It’s too soft’, she sighed.
‘But tough’ said the Lord excitedly. ‘You cannot imagine what this
mother can do and endure.’
‘Can it think?’
‘Not only think, but it can reason and compromise’ said the Creator.
Finally, the angel bent over and ran her finger across the cheek.
‘There’s a leak’, she said.
‘It is not a leak’, replied the Lord, ‘It’s a tear’
‘What is it for?’
‘It is for joy, sadness, disappointment, pain, loneliness and pride’.
‘You’re a genius’ said the angel.
looked sombre – ‘I didn’t put it there.’
This poem by Erma Bombeck was read at a recent family memorial service for a lovely lady who devoted her life to her six children. Please share with your Mothers while you can.
Address to a Haggis
Fair fa' your honest, sonsie face,
The groaning trencher there ye fill,
His knife see rustic Labour dight,
Then, horn for horn, they stretch an strive:
Is there that owre his French ragout,
Poor devil! see him owre his trash,
But mark the Rustic, haggis-fed,
Ye Pow'rs, wha mak mankind your care,
I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o'er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host of golden daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.
Continuous as the stars that shine
and twinkle on the Milky Way,
They stretched in never-ending line
along the margin of a bay:
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
tossing their heads in sprightly dance.
The waves beside them danced; but they
Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:
A poet could not but be gay,
in such a jocund company:
I gazed - and gazed - but little thought
what wealth the show to me had brought:
For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils.
Gone though you have, I heard your voice today.
Gone since you have, grief too in time will go,
Or share space with old joy; it must be so.
Rest then in peace, but spare us some elation.
Death cannot put down every conversation.
Over and out, as you once used to say?
Not on your life. You're on this line to stay.