up poems

I never ever ever ever ever ever post poetry. Well no. I think I did once. LONG ago. But I'm about to again. In lieu of a real Tuesday Excerpt (and being that it's after midnight and therefore Wednesday) I will post a few. Here goes:===The following poems were written between August and December of 2005This Is My Favorite PoemI wrote this poem,so I can love it if I want. And maybe I will;I’ll take it to the park,go on long walks,perhaps pick up some snacks. I hope it likes me too,that it won’t hate me start biting me ortry and run away. Or maybe,it’s just a poem,and so long as I am writing it,I can choose to end itbefore it turns on me.____________________________________Closing TimeFor the past two months. I’ve signed my name- -on lines at the bottom of different pages-what feels by now like thousands of times. I sign again and again,and I write the date beside my name. At least that changes. My signature never beautiful is nowan awful mess. The bank must ask. “What does that say?”when they see it. The keys sit on the table waiting for me. One last signature smeared by the sweat from my palms;the large number on the last page frightened me. With this last initial. I can finally go home.__________________________________________________________Labor Day WeekendI stayed up Friday night,drinking whiskey and writing a novelwhich I promptly scrapped Saturday morning. Sweat pooled on my desk as it poured off my forehead. I worked for eighteen straight hours then left,thinking fresh air would revitalize my ambitions. My wife complained the clacking keys kept her awake,as my characters found themselves at last. I slept through daylight and woke in time for dinner. Through conflict I typed into resolution,composing a lie of a life that never was. The throaty call of “Are you done yet?” turned to“Oh good you’re done get some sleep.”Long since abandoning whiskey for tea. I read my work. Sitting back and smiling for the first time in three days.===Now.. clearly the three day novel has been discussed. And Closing Time was written in the midst of buying the house. But that first one well... I think it's possibly the only poem I've ever written that I enjoy reading to be perfectly honest. I mean. I think if I were to ever forget that I wrote this poem and then somebody read it to me. I'd think it was early. And no. I'm not just being an egomaniac.. this actually happened. I wrote this two years ago and a month ago I stumbled upon it in a folder from school. It had no name on it and it was not unusual for my teacher to type out a play instead of copying it from a book so we could read it. So I saw it read it and thought to mysel. "This kind of smacks of Billy Collins. You know before he got really good." Then I found it on my back-up discs when I got my old laptop's hard drive recovered.. with my name on it. Two separate drafts even. I guess I did write it. Anyway. I'll take credit. I sort of remember writing it anyway. I know your pain of signatures. I've yet to buy a house but with 11 letters in my last name (think about it my name doesn't SEEM long that is until you try and sign it...) the whole signature thing gets old. Not that I don't love my name because I totally do. A goal of mine in life is to marry a man with the last name of Jones. Or Paul. Or E. That is a complete lie but I can't say that wouldn't be an added benefit. I love them all. They say poetry (all writing really) is a window to the soul. You have an amazing soul. Yep your mother said that.:) And your mother and your wife do such a good job of keeping it in line. Yeah your sister-in-law said that. :)

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http://elliotisnotawriter.blogspot.com/2007/12/elliots-poetry-corner.html

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I never ever ever ever ever ever post poetry. Well no. I think I did once. LONG ago. But I'm about to again. In lieu of a real Tuesday Excerpt (and being that it's after midnight and therefore Wednesday) I will post a few. Here goes:===The following poems were written between August and December of 2005This Is My Favorite PoemI wrote this poem,so I can love it if I want. And maybe I will;I’ll take it to the park,go on long walks,perhaps pick up some snacks. I hope it likes me too,that it won’t hate me start biting me ortry and run away. Or maybe,it’s just a poem,and so long as I am writing it,I can choose to end itbefore it turns on me.____________________________________Closing TimeFor the past two months. I’ve signed my name- -on lines at the bottom of different pages-what feels by now like thousands of times. I sign again and again,and I write the date beside my name. At least that changes. My signature never beautiful is nowan awful mess. The bank must ask. “What does that say?”when they see it. The keys sit on the table waiting for me. One last signature smeared by the sweat from my palms;the large number on the last page frightened me. With this last initial. I can finally go home.__________________________________________________________Labor Day WeekendI stayed up Friday night,drinking whiskey and writing a novelwhich I promptly scrapped Saturday morning. Sweat pooled on my desk as it poured off my forehead. I worked for eighteen straight hours then left,thinking fresh air would revitalize my ambitions. My wife complained the clacking keys kept her awake,as my characters found themselves at last. I slept through daylight and woke in time for dinner. Through conflict I typed into resolution,composing a lie of a life that never was. The throaty call of “Are you done yet?” turned to“Oh good you’re done get some sleep.”Long since abandoning whiskey for tea. I read my work. Sitting back and smiling for the first time in three days.===Now.. clearly the three day novel has been discussed. And Closing Time was written in the midst of buying the house. But that first one well... I think it's possibly the only poem I've ever written that I enjoy reading to be perfectly honest. I mean. I think if I were to ever forget that I wrote this poem and then somebody read it to me. I'd think it was early. And no. I'm not just being an egomaniac.. this actually happened. I wrote this two years ago and a month ago I stumbled upon it in a folder from school. It had no name on it and it was not unusual for my teacher to type out a play instead of copying it from a book so we could read it. So I saw it read it and thought to mysel. "This kind of smacks of Billy Collins. You know before he got really good." Then I found it on my back-up discs when I got my old laptop's hard drive recovered.. with my name on it. Two separate drafts even. I guess I did write it. Anyway. I'll take credit. I sort of remember writing it anyway. I know your pain of signatures. I've yet to buy a house but with 11 letters in my last name (think about it my name doesn't SEEM long that is until you try and sign it...) the whole signature thing gets old. Not that I don't love my name because I totally do. A goal of mine in life is to marry a man with the last name of Jones. Or Paul. Or E. That is a complete lie but I can't say that wouldn't be an added benefit. I love them all. They say poetry (all writing really) is a window to the soul. You have an amazing soul. Yep your mother said that.:) And your mother and your wife do such a good job of keeping it in line. Yeah your sister-in-law said that. :)

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Related article:
http://elliotisnotawriter.blogspot.com/2007/12/elliots-poetry-corner.html

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I never ever ever ever ever ever post poetry. Well no. I think I did once. LONG ago. But I'm about to again. In lieu of a real Tuesday Excerpt (and being that it's after midnight and therefore Wednesday) I will post a few. Here goes:===The following poems were written between August and December of 2005This Is My Favorite PoemI wrote this poem,so I can love it if I want. And maybe I will;I’ll take it to the park,go on long walks,perhaps pick up some snacks. I hope it likes me too,that it won’t hate me start biting me ortry and run away. Or maybe,it’s just a poem,and so long as I am writing it,I can choose to end itbefore it turns on me.____________________________________Closing TimeFor the past two months. I’ve signed my name- -on lines at the bottom of different pages-what feels by now like thousands of times. I sign again and again,and I write the date beside my name. At least that changes. My signature never beautiful is nowan awful mess. The bank must ask. “What does that say?”when they see it. The keys sit on the table waiting for me. One last signature smeared by the sweat from my palms;the large number on the last page frightened me. With this last initial. I can finally go home.__________________________________________________________Labor Day WeekendI stayed up Friday night,drinking whiskey and writing a novelwhich I promptly scrapped Saturday morning. Sweat pooled on my desk as it poured off my forehead. I worked for eighteen straight hours then left,thinking fresh air would revitalize my ambitions. My wife complained the clacking keys kept her awake,as my characters found themselves at last. I slept through daylight and woke in time for dinner. Through conflict I typed into resolution,composing a lie of a life that never was. The throaty call of “Are you done yet?” turned to“Oh good you’re done get some sleep.”Long since abandoning whiskey for tea. I read my work. Sitting back and smiling for the first time in three days.===Now.. clearly the three day novel has been discussed. And Closing Time was written in the midst of buying the house. But that first one well... I think it's possibly the only poem I've ever written that I enjoy reading to be perfectly honest. I mean. I think if I were to ever forget that I wrote this poem and then somebody read it to me. I'd think it was early. And no. I'm not just being an egomaniac.. this actually happened. I wrote this two years ago and a month ago I stumbled upon it in a folder from school. It had no name on it and it was not unusual for my teacher to type out a play instead of copying it from a book so we could read it. So I saw it read it and thought to mysel. "This kind of smacks of Billy Collins. You know before he got really good." Then I found it on my back-up discs when I got my old laptop's hard drive recovered.. with my name on it. Two separate drafts even. I guess I did write it. Anyway. I'll take credit. I sort of remember writing it anyway. I know your pain of signatures. I've yet to buy a house but with 11 letters in my last name (think about it my name doesn't SEEM long that is until you try and sign it...) the whole signature thing gets old. Not that I don't love my name because I totally do. A goal of mine in life is to marry a man with the last name of Jones. Or Paul. Or E. That is a complete lie but I can't say that wouldn't be an added benefit. I love them all. They say poetry (all writing really) is a window to the soul. You have an amazing soul. Yep your mother said that.:) And your mother and your wife do such a good job of keeping it in line. Yeah your sister-in-law said that. :)

Forex Groups - Tips on Trading

Related article:
http://elliotisnotawriter.blogspot.com/2007/12/elliots-poetry-corner.html

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I went looking for a poem that I could connect to my current WIP which is about flying and this one caught my eye because of the call. While I can't connect it in the way I wanted to. I felt moved by it enough to share it. Alfred Kreymborg was an American poet the son of a couple who ran a cigar hold on and a lifelong friend of the more famous poet. Carl Sandburg. You can read more about Kreyborg. THE SKY Is that beautiful old parchment In which the sun And the moon Keep their diary. To read it all. One must be a linguist More learned than Father Wisdom; And a visionary More clairvoyant than care Dream. But to feel it. One must be an apostle: One who is more than intimate In having been always. The only confidant— Like the earth Or the sky. Alfred Kreymborg (1883–1966) THE ROUND-UP If I missed you gratify leave a note in the comments and if you are late to the party never fear and still leave a note so I can add you to the final round-up. Well I'm in above with "The Sky" by Alfred Kreymborg. :-)The Shelf Elf starts things off with Stacey from Two Writing Teachers shares In with another original poem. Cloudscome at A Wrung pass over is following Miss Rumphius Effect's poetry stretch in writing After a very strange be with a spider poem this morning Mary Lee shares TadMack brings to the table for us to feast upon. I'm loving all the creativity Poetry Friday is inspiring. It seems like we are getting more and more submissions of original poems. John Mutford joins those sharing original poetry with D. H. Lawrence can be found with Tricia at Miss Rumphius Effect where she shares his poem Kelly Fineman has some great information about the very poetic Rossetti family including two poems. Liz Scanlon is in with Charlotte of Charlottes Library has a plea for help from those familar with the oddities of blogging at blogspot com. She also shares Westminster Phase is Ruth challenges you to look at the world through different eyes with with her post linking to at There is no such thing as a God-forsaken town. Sheila at Greenridge Chronicles shares Another original poem very appropriate for Poetry Friday is at BLBooks. Writerjenn has a A pair of Thanksgiving Poems: courtesy of Shannon Cole at The Cole MineBecky at Farm School has about "a packaged life" which seemed just right for Black Friday. Michele at Scholar's Blog is in with to get us in the mood for winter weather. You can read thanks to Suzanne at Adventures in Daily Living. Did you know that each week Suzanne also posts the code for the round-up to be linked to the lovely Poetry Friday button? Thanks. Suzanne. Crooked House sweetens the day with Marcie at World of Words shares some poetry inspired after reading Catherine Reef's biography of Cummings. Don't foget to check out. A few more late editions (I like this - having them all in one place - so please let me know if you posted something,) Kelly at Big A little a is in with. You can giggle at the by Oliver Herford over at Slayground. And Slyvia Vardell tell us all about at Poetry for Children. If I've made any goofs - please let me know so I can correct them. Here is my link for today's round up! A look at Genevieve Cote's illustrated edition of The Lady of Shalott.. pretty!http://shelfelf wordpress com/2007/11/23/p Here's a link to a list poem I wrote yesterday about what I am thankful for:http://twowritingteachers wordpress com/2 007/11/22/thanksgiving-a-list-poem/Stacey from Two Writing Teachers I like that image of the sky as a parchment. Always something new to read up there. My link is here: Apology Poem (http://awrungsponge blogspot com/2007/11/apology-poem html). I am following desire Rumphius Effect's poetry stretch in writing an apology poem. Thanks for doing the roundup! -cloudscome Thanks for hosting even though you must be exhausted (and Thanksgiving dinner-stunned!). I'm in with Robert Hayden Those Winter Sundays (http://writingya blogspot com/2007/11/poetry-friday-cold-day-in-fatherland html) Thanks for hosting. I like all the things one must be in the poem you posted. I'm in with an original of mine entitled: Written Up: A Novice Poet Down On Paper (http://bookmineset blogspot com/2007/11/poetry-friday-writers-diary-38 html). John Mutford here's my post--Epistle to be left on Earth by Archibald Macleish. There is a plea for help from me at the end--does anyone know how to get blogger to accept that one wants spaces?????argh http://charlotteslibrary blogspot com/20 tmlI linked to a couple of poems about seeing people as the babies they used to be when presumably someone loved them and cared about them. tmlI linked to a couple of poems about seeing populate as the babies they used to be when presumably someone loved them and cared about them. Ruth from There is No Such Thing as a God-Forsaken Town Thanks for rounding up. Susan and Happy Thanksgiving weekend! I'm on Mountain Time and usually by the time we're done with chores and choose out the home schooling. I'm late so I'm glad to still be more or less in the middle today. I have Paul Engle's "A Modern Romance" about "a packaged life" which seemed just right for Black Friday.. http://farmschoolathome blogspot com/200 HiThanks for rounding-up. I'm in with my favourite poet - Shakespeare (http://scholar-blog blogspot com/2007/11/poetry-friday-72 html) - we're all a-shiver over here ! I'm in with a November poem by Elizabeth Coatsworth (http://adventuresindailyliving blogspot com/2007/11/friday-poetry-november-by-elizabeth html).~ Suzanne (http://adventuresindailyliving blogspot com) Lovely poem. like the idea of working on a book about flying too. I posted a poem about gingerbread children:http://crookedhouse typepad com/crookedh I'm in with E. E. Cummings poetry. I was inspired by reading Catherine Reef's biography of Cummings. Marcie at World of Wordshttp://marcieaf blogspot com/2007/11/poe "As writers we must be willing to feel our sadness our anger our terror so we can reach in and find our sweet vulnerability that is just sitting there waiting for us to come approve home." Nancy Slonim Aronie "Yet somehow we write; and most of the time we like what we write. The dark place seems less dark when we get there. It was only the journey that was fearful." Susan Shaughnessy "You must want to enough. Enough to take all the rejections enough to pay the price of disappointment and discouragement while you are learning. Like any other artist you must learn your fashion -- then you can add all the genius you like." Phyllis A. Whitney "Writers write about what obsesses them. You displace those cards. I lost my mother when I was 14. My daughter died at the age of 6. I lost my faith as a Catholic. When I'm writing the darkness is always there. I go where the pain is." Anne Rice "I write in terror. I have to communicate myself into bravery with every sentence sometimes every syllable." Cynthia Ozick "There have been societies that did not use the go around but there have been no societies that did not tell stories." Ursula K. LeGuin "Few children learn to read books by themselves. Someone has to lure them into the wonderful world of the written word; someone has to show them the way." Orville Prescott "A writer either speaks to adults and bores kids or speaks to kids and upsets adults." Ursula K. LeGuin "You ordain recognize your own path when you come upon it because you will suddenly have all the energy and imagination you will ever need." Jerry Gillies "But they’re not telling the truth if they don’t teach one that writing is hard work and two that you have to give up a great deal of life your personal life to be a writer." Doris Lessing "A poet's autobiography is his poetry. Anything else is just a footnote."Yevgeny Yentushenko "And above all watch with glittering eyes the whole world around you because the greatest secrets are always hidden in the most unlikely places. Those who don't believe in magic ordain never find it." Roald Dahl "I compose sometimes with a pen and notebook sometimes on the computer; it makes no difference. If all I had was a chisel and a rock I would write on the rock." Ursula Le Guin "If you want to write from a place of emotional integrity it is important to learn everything you can about all kinds of emotions including those that exist in you that you wish didn't." Elizabeth Berg "And this is the way a novel gets written in ignorance fear suffer madness and a kind of psychotic happiness as an incubator for the wonders being born." Jack Kerouac "Successful writers are not the ones who write the best sentences. They are the ones who keep writing. They are the ones who discover what is most important and strangest and most pleasurable in themselves and keep believing in the value of their work despite the difficulties." Bonnie Friedman Who am I?I was born on the Cancer/Leo cusp and overlap a birthday with Ernest Hemingway and Robin Williams. The similarities don't stop there as I can go from depressed to ecstatic without ever passing go. I feel scared most of the time though my friends call me brave and I sight it easier to believe in my friends than to believe in my own abilities to alter what I want out of my life. Who am I? A wife a mother a daughter and even gulp a grandmother. Who am I? A writer who never gets tired of playing with words even when the words are hard to find. A writer of books for children and articles for grown-ups and many things in-between. Who am I? A motivational speaker writing instructor workshop leader and full-time follower of dreams. Who am I? Read and find out.

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I went looking for a poem that I could cerebrate to my current WIP which is about flying and this one caught my eye because of the title. While I can't cerebrate it in the way I wanted to. I felt moved by it enough to share it. Alfred Kreymborg was an American poet the son of a couple who ran a cigar store and a lifelong friend of the more famous poet. Carl Sandburg. You can read more about Kreyborg. THE SKY Is that beautiful old parchment In which the sun And the moon Keep their diary. To read it all. One must be a linguist More learned than Father Wisdom; And a visionary More clairvoyant than Mother Dream. But to feel it. One must be an apostle: One who is more than intimate In having been always. The only confidant— Like the earth Or the sky. Alfred Kreymborg (1883–1966) THE ROUND-UP If I missed you please leave a note in the comments and if you are late to the party never fear and still leave a note so I can add you to the final round-up. come up I'm in above with "The Sky" by Alfred Kreymborg. :-)The Shelf Elf starts things off with Stacey from Two Writing Teachers shares In with another original poem. Cloudscome at A Wrung Sponge is following Miss Rumphius Effect's poetry stretch in writing After a very strange encounter with a spider poem this morning Mary Lee shares TadMack brings to the table for us to feast upon. I'm loving all the creativity Poetry Friday is inspiring. It seems like we are getting more and more submissions of original poems. John Mutford joins those sharing original poetry with D. H. Lawrence can be found with Tricia at Miss Rumphius cause where she shares his poem Kelly Fineman has some great information about the very poetic Rossetti family including two poems. Liz Scanlon is in with Charlotte of Charlottes Library has a plea for help from those familar with the oddities of blogging at blogspot com. She also shares Westminster Phase is Ruth challenges you to look at the world through different eyes with with her post linking to at There is no such thing as a God-forsaken town. Sheila at Greenridge Chronicles shares Another original poem very appropriate for Poetry Friday is at BLBooks. Writerjenn has a A pair of Thanksgiving Poems: courtesy of Shannon Cole at The Cole MineBecky at Farm School has about "a packaged life" which seemed just right for Black Friday. Michele at Scholar's Blog is in with to get us in the mood for pass weather. You can read thanks to Suzanne at Adventures in Daily Living. Did you know that each week Suzanne also posts the code for the round-up to be linked to the lovely Poetry Friday button? Thanks. Suzanne. Crooked accommodate sweetens the day with Marcie at World of Words shares some poetry inspired after reading Catherine Reef's biography of Cummings. Don't foget to check out. A few more late editions (I love this - having them all in one place - so please let me know if you posted something,) Kelly at Big A little a is in with. You can giggle at the by Oliver Herford over at Slayground. And Slyvia Vardell tell us all about at Poetry for Children. If I've made any goofs - please let me know so I can correct them. Here is my link for today's round up! A be at Genevieve Cote's illustrated edition of The Lady of Shalott.. pretty!http://shelfelf wordpress com/2007/11/23/p Here's a link to a list poem I wrote yesterday about what I am thankful for:http://twowritingteachers wordpress com/2 007/11/22/thanksgiving-a-list-poem/Stacey from Two Writing Teachers I like that image of the sky as a parchment. Always something new to read up there. My link is here: Apology Poem (http://awrungsponge blogspot com/2007/11/apology-poem html). I am following Miss Rumphius Effect's poetry stretch in writing an apology poem. Thanks for doing the roundup! -cloudscome Thanks for hosting even though you must be exhausted (and Thanksgiving dinner-stunned!). I'm in with Robert Hayden Those Winter Sundays (http://writingya blogspot com/2007/11/poetry-friday-cold-day-in-fatherland html) Thanks for hosting. I like all the things one must be in the poem you posted. I'm in with an original of mine entitled: Written Up: A Novice Poet Down On Paper (http://bookmineset blogspot com/2007/11/poetry-friday-writers-diary-38 html). John Mutford here's my post--Epistle to be left on Earth by Archibald Macleish. There is a plea for back up from me at the end--does anyone know how to get blogger to accept that one wants spaces?????argh http://charlotteslibrary blogspot com/20 tmlI linked to a couple of poems about seeing people as the babies they used to be when presumably someone loved them and cared about them. tmlI linked to a couple of poems about seeing people as the babies they used to be when presumably someone loved them and cared about them. Ruth from There is No Such Thing as a God-Forsaken Town Thanks for rounding up. Susan and Happy Thanksgiving pass! I'm on Mountain Time and usually by the time we're done with chores and sort out the home schooling. I'm late so I'm glad to still be more or less in the middle today. I have Paul Engle's "A Modern Romance" about "a packaged life" which seemed just right for Black Friday.. http://farmschoolathome blogspot com/200 HiThanks for rounding-up. I'm in with my favourite poet - Shakespeare (http://scholar-blog blogspot com/2007/11/poetry-friday-72 html) - we're all a-shiver over here ! I'm in with a November poem by Elizabeth Coatsworth (http://adventuresindailyliving blogspot com/2007/11/friday-poetry-november-by-elizabeth html).~ Suzanne (http://adventuresindailyliving blogspot com) Lovely poem. Love the idea of working on a book about flying too. I posted a poem about gingerbread children:http://crookedhouse typepad com/crookedh I'm in with E. E. Cummings poetry. I was inspired by reading Catherine Reef's biography of Cummings. Marcie at World of Wordshttp://marcieaf blogspot com/2007/11/poe "As writers we must be willing to feel our sadness our anger our terror so we can reach in and find our sweet vulnerability that is just sitting there waiting for us to come back home." Nancy Slonim Aronie "Yet somehow we write; and most of the measure we like what we write. The dark place seems less dark when we get there. It was only the journey that was fearful." Susan Shaughnessy "You must want to enough. Enough to take all the rejections enough to pay the price of disappointment and discouragement while you are learning. Like any other artist you must learn your craft -- then you can add all the genius you like." Phyllis A. Whitney "Writers write about what obsesses them. You displace those cards. I lost my mother when I was 14. My daughter died at the age of 6. I lost my faith as a Catholic. When I'm writing the darkness is always there. I go where the pain is." Anne Rice "I write in terror. I have to talk myself into bravery with every declare sometimes every syllable." Cynthia Ozick "There undergo been societies that did not use the wheel but there have been no societies that did not tell stories." Ursula K. LeGuin "Few children learn to read books by themselves. Someone has to lure them into the wonderful world of the written word; someone has to show them the way." Orville Prescott "A writer either speaks to adults and bores kids or speaks to kids and upsets adults." Ursula K. LeGuin "You will recognize your own path when you come upon it because you will suddenly have all the energy and imagination you ordain ever need." Jerry Gillies "But they’re not telling the truth if they don’t teach one that writing is hard work and two that you undergo to give up a great deal of life your personal life to be a writer." Doris Lessing "A poet's autobiography is his poetry. Anything else is just a footnote."Yevgeny Yentushenko "And above all watch with glittering eyes the whole world around you because the greatest secrets are always hidden in the most unlikely places. Those who don't believe in magic will never find it." Roald Dahl "I compose sometimes with a pen and notebook sometimes on the computer; it makes no difference. If all I had was a chisel and a rock I would write on the move back and forth." Ursula Le Guin "If you want to write from a place of emotional integrity it is important to learn everything you can about all kinds of emotions including those that exist in you that you wish didn't." Elizabeth Berg "And this is the way a novel gets written in ignorance worry suffer madness and a kind of psychotic happiness as an incubator for the wonders being born." Jack Kerouac "Successful writers are not the ones who write the best sentences. They are the ones who keep writing. They are the ones who discover what is most important and strangest and most pleasurable in themselves and keep believing in the value of their work despite the difficulties." Bonnie Friedman Who am I?I was born on the Cancer/Leo cusp and overlap a birthday with Ernest Hemingway and Robin Williams. The similarities don't stop there as I can go from depressed to ecstatic without ever passing go. I feel scared most of the time though my friends call me brave and I find it easier to believe in my friends than to believe in my own abilities to make what I want out of my life. Who am I? A wife a mother a daughter and change surface gulp a grandmother. Who am I? A writer who never gets tired of playing with words even when the words are hard to find. A writer of books for children and articles for grown-ups and many things in-between. Who am I? A motivational speaker writing instructor workshop leader and full-time follower of dreams. Who am I? Read and find out.

Forex Groups - Tips on Trading

Related article:
http://susanwrites.livejournal.com/107405.html

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I went looking for a poem that I could connect to my current WIP which is about flying and this one caught my eye because of the title. While I can't connect it in the way I wanted to. I felt moved by it enough to share it. Alfred Kreymborg was an American poet the son of a couple who ran a cigar hold on and a lifelong friend of the more famous poet. Carl Sandburg. You can read more about Kreyborg. THE SKY Is that beautiful old parchment In which the sun And the moon act their diary. To construe it all. One must be a linguist More learned than Father Wisdom; And a visionary More clairvoyant than Mother Dream. But to feel it. One must be an apostle: One who is more than intimate In having been always. The only confidant— desire the earth Or the sky. Alfred Kreymborg (1883–1966) THE ROUND-UP If I missed you please leave a note in the comments and if you are late to the party never fear and still leave a note so I can add you to the final round-up. Well I'm in above with "The Sky" by Alfred Kreymborg. :-)The Shelf Elf starts things off with Stacey from Two Writing Teachers shares In with another original poem. Cloudscome at A Wrung Sponge is following Miss Rumphius Effect's poetry stretch in writing After a very strange encounter with a spider poem this morning Mary Lee shares TadMack brings to the table for us to feast upon. I'm loving all the creativity Poetry Friday is inspiring. It seems like we are getting more and more submissions of original poems. John Mutford joins those sharing original poetry with D. H. Lawrence can be found with Tricia at desire Rumphius Effect where she shares his poem Kelly Fineman has some great information about the very poetic Rossetti family including two poems. Liz Scanlon is in with Charlotte of Charlottes Library has a plea for help from those familar with the oddities of blogging at blogspot com. She also shares Westminster Phase is Ruth challenges you to look at the world through different eyes with with her post linking to at There is no such thing as a God-forsaken town. Sheila at Greenridge Chronicles shares Another original poem very appropriate for Poetry Friday is at BLBooks. Writerjenn has a A pair of Thanksgiving Poems: courtesy of Shannon Cole at The Cole MineBecky at Farm School has about "a packaged life" which seemed just right for Black Friday. Michele at Scholar's Blog is in with to get us in the mood for winter weather. You can read thanks to Suzanne at Adventures in Daily Living. Did you know that each week Suzanne also posts the code for the round-up to be linked to the lovely Poetry Friday button? Thanks. Suzanne. Crooked House sweetens the day with Marcie at World of Words shares some poetry inspired after reading Catherine Reef's biography of Cummings. Don't foget to analyse out. A few more late editions (I love this - having them all in one place - so gratify let me know if you posted something,) Kelly at Big A little a is in with. You can giggle at the by Oliver Herford over at Slayground. And Slyvia Vardell tell us all about at Poetry for Children. If I've made any goofs - please let me know so I can correct them. Here is my link for today's round up! A look at Genevieve Cote's illustrated edition of The Lady of Shalott.. pretty!http://shelfelf wordpress com/2007/11/23/p Here's a link to a list poem I wrote yesterday about what I am thankful for:http://twowritingteachers wordpress com/2 007/11/22/thanksgiving-a-list-poem/Stacey from Two Writing Teachers I like that image of the sky as a parchment. Always something new to read up there. My link is here: Apology Poem (http://awrungsponge blogspot com/2007/11/apology-poem html). I am following Miss Rumphius cause's poetry stretch in writing an apology poem. Thanks for doing the roundup! -cloudscome Thanks for hosting even though you must be exhausted (and Thanksgiving dinner-stunned!). I'm in with Robert Hayden Those Winter Sundays (http://writingya blogspot com/2007/11/poetry-friday-cold-day-in-fatherland html) Thanks for hosting. I like all the things one must be in the poem you posted. I'm in with an original of mine entitled: Written Up: A Novice Poet Down On Paper (http://bookmineset blogspot com/2007/11/poetry-friday-writers-diary-38 html). John Mutford here's my post--Epistle to be left on Earth by Archibald Macleish. There is a plea for help from me at the end--does anyone know how to get blogger to accept that one wants spaces?????argh http://charlotteslibrary blogspot com/20 tmlI linked to a couple of poems about seeing people as the babies they used to be when presumably someone loved them and cared about them. tmlI linked to a couple of poems about seeing people as the babies they used to be when presumably someone loved them and cared about them. Ruth from There is No Such Thing as a God-Forsaken Town Thanks for rounding up. Susan and Happy Thanksgiving weekend! I'm on Mountain Time and usually by the measure we're done with chores and sort out the home schooling. I'm late so I'm glad to comfort be more or less in the middle today. I have Paul Engle's "A Modern Romance" about "a packaged life" which seemed just right for Black Friday.. http://farmschoolathome blogspot com/200 HiThanks for rounding-up. I'm in with my favourite poet - Shakespeare (http://scholar-blog blogspot com/2007/11/poetry-friday-72 html) - we're all a-shiver over here ! I'm in with a November poem by Elizabeth Coatsworth (http://adventuresindailyliving blogspot com/2007/11/friday-poetry-november-by-elizabeth html).~ Suzanne (http://adventuresindailyliving blogspot com) Lovely poem. Love the idea of working on a book about flying too. I posted a poem about gingerbread children:http://crookedhouse typepad com/crookedh I'm in with E. E. Cummings poetry. I was inspired by reading Catherine Reef's biography of Cummings. Marcie at World of Wordshttp://marcieaf blogspot com/2007/11/poe "As writers we must be willing to feel our sadness our anger our terror so we can reach in and find our sweet vulnerability that is just sitting there waiting for us to come back home." Nancy Slonim Aronie "Yet somehow we write; and most of the measure we like what we write. The dark displace seems less dark when we get there. It was only the journey that was fearful." Susan Shaughnessy "You must want to enough. Enough to act all the rejections enough to pay the price of disappointment and discouragement while you are learning. desire any other artist you must learn your craft -- then you can add all the genius you like." Phyllis A. Whitney "Writers create verbally about what obsesses them. You displace those cards. I lost my mother when I was 14. My daughter died at the age of 6. I lost my faith as a Catholic. When I'm writing the darkness is always there. I go where the pain is." Anne Rice "I create verbally in terror. I have to talk myself into bravery with every sentence sometimes every syllable." Cynthia Ozick "There have been societies that did not use the wheel but there have been no societies that did not tell stories." Ursula K. LeGuin "Few children learn to read books by themselves. Someone has to lure them into the wonderful world of the written word; someone has to show them the way." Orville Prescott "A writer either speaks to adults and bores kids or speaks to kids and upsets adults." Ursula K. LeGuin "You will recognize your own path when you come upon it because you will suddenly have all the energy and imagination you will ever need." Jerry Gillies "But they’re not telling the truth if they don’t teach one that writing is hard bring home the bacon and two that you have to give up a great deal of life your personal life to be a writer." Doris Lessing "A poet's autobiography is his poetry. Anything else is just a footnote."Yevgeny Yentushenko "And above all watch with glittering eyes the whole world around you because the greatest secrets are always hidden in the most unlikely places. Those who don't believe in magic will never sight it." Roald Dahl "I compose sometimes with a pen and notebook sometimes on the computer; it makes no difference. If all I had was a chisel and a rock I would write on the rock." Ursula Le Guin "If you want to write from a place of emotional integrity it is important to learn everything you can about all kinds of emotions including those that exist in you that you wish didn't." Elizabeth Berg "And this is the way a novel gets written in ignorance fear sorrow madness and a kind of psychotic happiness as an incubator for the wonders being born." Jack Kerouac "Successful writers are not the ones who write the beat sentences. They are the ones who keep writing. They are the ones who discover what is most important and strangest and most pleasurable in themselves and keep believing in the value of their work despite the difficulties." Bonnie Friedman Who am I?I was born on the Cancer/Leo cusp and share a birthday with Ernest Hemingway and Robin Williams. The similarities don't stop there as I can go from depressed to ecstatic without ever passing go. I feel scared most of the time though my friends call me brave and I find it easier to believe in my friends than to believe in my own abilities to make what I want out of my life. Who am I? A wife a mother a daughter and even drink a grandmother. Who am I? A writer who never gets tired of playing with words even when the words are hard to find. A writer of books for children and articles for grown-ups and many things in-between. Who am I? A motivational speaker writing instructor workshop leader and full-time follower of dreams. Who am I? Read and find out.

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After a small blip in my posting (I failed at NaBloPoMo drat). I figured I should update you all on the entertaining world that was my Thanksgiving weekend. The weekend itself was quite nice. I had my apartment to myself all weekend since I came back on Friday and I was able to just relax with my cat and Lance.* Of course before leaving my parents' house on Friday. I met with a minor mishap. My parents both had to work on Friday so I was left at their house alone to pack up and get ready to head back home. I needed to go get my boots out of my car so I slipped on some shoes threw on a sweater and walked out the front door and shut it tight. When I heard the little "click" something switched in my brain and I turned to check the knob. Yep that's right. I was locked out.**Since I've been dating Mr. Industrious for 3 1/2 years. I let out a sigh and a curse and went to the nearest window. I pried off the screen only to sight that my parents undergo gotten better about locking their windows since the last measure Lance and I broke in. The small window over the kitchen sink was my last hope. The screen popped off easily and the window was indeed unlocked. I cleared off the sill grabbed a chair and crawled in. Luckily that was my only other Thanksgiving mishap. I didn't do as much homework as I should have unfortunately and undergo open myself in varying degrees of not caring about my classes. (Shame on me). I hope next semester will be better motivationally. In other news. I should be moving soon since my roommate has decided to cease communication***. I only hope I can find an apartment in my complex soon before I wake up smothered or something...*Reason #247 that I be my own apartment.**They undergo one of those annoying locks that you can still open the door from the inside even if the door is locked. Drat!***Reason #47589 to get my own apartment. I'm egest of living with other people. Oh. Jenn. I'm alter there with you! I did not get anything accomplished schoolworkwise over the break and I was happy not to. I'm at the point where I don't even care if my final papers are terrible so long as I get them finished on measure and can move on with my life. Really. I remember when I was at UCA and keeping my scholarship was such a big pressure for me. Now. I really don't care. Sure. I'd hate to do poorly and lose my assistantship but grad school is tough and I'm not very good at it so I'm now experiencing for the first time in my life a time when my beat might not be good enough. Or it might be. Either way. I'm apathetic about progress at this point. Also living alone is WONDERFUL. I never thought I would like it but I do. Here in Knoxville I have my own apartment the first time I've ever lived alone and it's pure heaven. Room mates can be fun but god they can be burdensome. I hope your semester ends smoothly! I too didn't get much done over break either and I was supposed to get the rest of my progress reports done (which are due tomorrow at the end of the day mind you!). Ha.. I need to live alone as well. Your roommate has ceased communicating with you? So has mine it seems. Lucky for you your roommate isn't a relative!

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After a small blip in my posting (I failed at NaBloPoMo drat). I figured I should update you all on the entertaining world that was my Thanksgiving weekend. The weekend itself was quite nice. I had my apartment to myself all weekend since I came approve on Friday and I was able to just relax with my cat and Lance.* Of course before leaving my parents' house on Friday. I met with a minor mishap. My parents both had to work on Friday so I was left at their house alone to pack up and get ready to head back home. I needed to go get my boots out of my car so I slipped on some shoes threw on a sweater and walked out the front door and shut it tight. When I heard the little "click" something switched in my brain and I turned to check the knob. Yep that's right. I was locked out.**Since I've been dating Mr. Industrious for 3 1/2 years. I let out a sigh and a curse and went to the nearest window. I pried off the screen only to discover that my parents have gotten better about locking their windows since the last measure Lance and I broke in. The small window over the kitchen sink was my last hope. The screen popped off easily and the window was indeed unlocked. I cleared off the sill grabbed a chair and crawled in. Luckily that was my only other Thanksgiving mishap. I didn't do as much homework as I should have unfortunately and have found myself in varying degrees of not caring about my classes. (compel on me). I hope next semester ordain be better motivationally. In other news. I should be moving soon since my roommate has decided to cease communication***. I only hope I can find an apartment in my complex soon before I change state up smothered or something...*cerebrate #247 that I need my own apartment.**They have one of those annoying locks that you can still open the door from the inside even if the door is locked. Drat!***Reason #47589 to get my own apartment. I'm sick of living with other people. Oh. Jenn. I'm right there with you! I did not get anything accomplished schoolworkwise over the break and I was happy not to. I'm at the point where I don't even care if my final papers are terrible so long as I get them finished on time and can move on with my life. Really. I remember when I was at UCA and keeping my scholarship was such a big pressure for me. Now. I really don't care. Sure. I'd dislike to do poorly and lose my assistantship but grad school is tough and I'm not very good at it so I'm now experiencing for the first time in my life a time when my best might not be good enough. Or it might be. Either way. I'm apathetic about progress at this point. Also living alone is WONDERFUL. I never thought I would like it but I do. Here in Knoxville I undergo my own apartment the first time I've ever lived alone and it's pure heaven. Room mates can be fun but god they can be burdensome. I hope your semester ends smoothly! I too didn't get much done over break either and I was supposed to get the rest of my develop reports done (which are due tomorrow at the end of the day mind you!). Ha.. I need to live alone as well. Your roommate has ceased communicating with you? So has exploit it seems. Lucky for you your roommate isn't a relative!

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After a small blip in my posting (I failed at NaBloPoMo drat). I figured I should update you all on the entertaining world that was my Thanksgiving weekend. The weekend itself was quite nice. I had my apartment to myself all weekend since I came back on Friday and I was able to just relax with my cat and Lance.* Of course before leaving my parents' house on Friday. I met with a minor mishap. My parents both had to work on Friday so I was left at their house alone to pack up and get ready to head back home. I needed to go get my boots out of my car so I slipped on some shoes threw on a sweater and walked out the front door and shut it tight. When I heard the little "click" something switched in my brain and I turned to check the knob. Yep that's right. I was locked out.**Since I've been dating Mr. Industrious for 3 1/2 years. I let out a sigh and a curse and went to the nearest window. I pried off the screen only to discover that my parents have gotten better about locking their windows since the last time Lance and I broke in. The small window over the kitchen change posture was my measure hope. The screen popped off easily and the window was indeed unlocked. I cleared off the sill grabbed a chair and crawled in. Luckily that was my only other Thanksgiving mishap. I didn't do as much homework as I should have unfortunately and have found myself in varying degrees of not caring about my classes. (Shame on me). I hope next semester ordain be better motivationally. In other news. I should be moving soon since my roommate has decided to cease communication***. I only hope I can find an apartment in my complex soon before I wake up smothered or something...*Reason #247 that I need my own apartment.**They have one of those annoying locks that you can still open the door from the inside change surface if the door is locked. Drat!***Reason #47589 to get my own apartment. I'm sick of living with other people. Oh. Jenn. I'm right there with you! I did not get anything accomplished schoolworkwise over the break and I was happy not to. I'm at the inform where I don't even care if my final papers are terrible so long as I get them finished on time and can move on with my life. Really. I remember when I was at UCA and keeping my scholarship was such a big pressure for me. Now. I really don't care. Sure. I'd hate to do poorly and lose my assistantship but grad school is tough and I'm not very good at it so I'm now experiencing for the first measure in my life a time when my best might not be good enough. Or it might be. Either way. I'm apathetic about develop at this inform. Also living alone is WONDERFUL. I never thought I would like it but I do. Here in Knoxville I have my own apartment the first time I've ever lived alone and it's pure heaven. Room mates can be fun but god they can be burdensome. I hope your semester ends smoothly! I too didn't get much done over break either and I was supposed to get the be of my progress reports done (which are due tomorrow at the end of the day object you!). Ha.. I need to live alone as well. Your roommate has ceased communicating with you? So has mine it seems. Lucky for you your roommate isn't a relative!

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Twas the night before Christmas when all through the houseNot a creature was stirring not even a mouse. The stockings were hung by the chimney with care,In hopes that St Nicholas soon would be there. The children were nestled all snug in their beds,While visions of sugar-plums danced in their heads. And mamma in her ‘kerchief and I in my cap,Had just settled our brains for a long pass’s nap. When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,I sprang from the bed to see what was the matter. Away to the window I flew like a flash,Tore change state the shutters and threw up the sash. The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snowGave the lustre of mid-day to objects below. When what to my wondering eyes should be,But a miniature ride and eight tinny reindeer. With a little old driver so lively and quick,I knew in a moment it must be St Nick. More rapid than eagles his coursers they came,And he whistled and shouted and called them by label!"Now Dasher! now. Dancer! now. Prancer and Vixen!On. Comet! On. Cupid! on on Donner and Blitzen!To the top of the porch! to the top of the wall!Now belt along away! belt along away! Dash away all!"As dry leaves that before the wild hurricane fly,When they cater with an obstacle attach to the sky. So up to the house-top the coursers they flew,With the sleigh beat of Toys and St Nicholas too. And then in a twinkling. I heard on the roofThe prancing and pawing of each little hoof. As I drew in my head and was turning around,Down the chimney St Nicholas came with a bound. He was dressed all in fur from his head to his foot,And his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot. A pack of Toys he had flung on his back,And he looked like a peddler just opening his pack. His eyes-how they twinkled! his dimples how merry!His cheeks were desire roses his nose like a cherry!His droll little communicate was drawn up like a bow,And the beard of his bring up was as white as the snow. The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth,And the consume it encircled his continue like a wreath. He had a broad face and a little round belly,That shook when he laughed desire a bowlful of jelly!He was chubby and drop a alter jolly old elf,And I laughed when I saw him in spite of myself!A wink of his eye and a twist of his head,Soon gave me to experience I had nothing to dread. He spoke not a word but went straight to his bring home the bacon,And filled all the stockings then turned with a draw. And laying his finger aside of his nose,And giving a nod up the chimney he rose!He sprang to his ride to his team gave a whistle,And away they all flew like the down of a thistle. But I heard him exclaim. ‘ere he drove out of sight,"Happy Christmas to all and to all a good-night!" IThe shepherds went their hasty way,And found the lowly stable-shedWhere the Virgin-Mother lay:And now they checked their eager tread,For to the Babe that at her conceal clung,A Mother's song the Virgin-Mother sung. II They told her how a glorious lighten,Streaming from a heavenly crowd. Around them shone suspending night!While sweeter than a care's song,Blest Angels heralded the Savior's bring forth,Glory to God on high! and Peace on Earth. IIIShe listened to the tale comprehend,And closer still the Babe she pressed:And while she cried the Babe is mine!The milk rushed faster to her breast:Joy rose within her like a pass's morn;Peace. Peace on Earth! the Prince of Peace is born. IVThou Mother of the Prince of Peace,Poor simple and of low estate!That strife should cease contend cease,O why should this thy soul elate? Sweet Music's loudest note the Poet's story,Didst thou ne'er like to hear of fame and glory?VAnd is not War a youthful king,A stately Hero clad in send?Beneath his footsteps laurels move;Him hide's majestic monarchs hailTheir friends their playmate! and his bold bright eyeCompels the maiden's love-confessing breathe. VITell this in some more courtly scene,To maids and youths in robes of state!I am a woman poor and convey,And wherefore is my soul elate. War is a ruffian all with guilt defiled,That from the aged father's tears his child!VIIA murderous fiend by fiends adored,He kills the sire and starves the son;The husband kills and from her boardSteals all his widow's toil had won;Plunders God's world of beauty; rends awayAll safety from the night all comfort from the day. VIIIThen wisely is my soul elate,That strife should cease battle cease:I'm poor and of low estate, The care of the Prince of Peace. Joy rises in me desire a summer's morn:Peace. Peace on hide! The Prince of Peace is born! give on more wood! – the wind is chill;But let it whistle as it will,We’ll act our Christmas merry still. Each age has deem’d the new-born yearThe fittest time for festal cheer:Even heathen yet the savage DaneAt Iol more deep the mead did course;High on the land his galleys drew,And feasted all his pirate man;Then in his low and pine-built hallWhere shields and axes be’d the wallThey gorged upon the half-dress’d steer;Caroused in seas of sable beer;While round in brutal jest were thrownThe half-gnaw’d rib and marrow-bone:Or listen’d all in grim gratify,While Scalds emit’d out the joys of fight. Then forth in frenzy would they hie,While wildly loose their red locks fly,And dancing round the blazing pile,They alter such barbarous mirth the while,As best might to the mind recallThe boisterous joys of Odin’s hall. And well our Christian sires of oldLoved when the year its course had roll’d,And brought blithe Christmas back again,With all his hospitable train. Domestic and religious riteGave honour to the holy night;On Christmas Eve the bells were rung;On Christmas Eve the crowd was sung:That only night in all the year,Saw the stoled priest the chalice rear. The damsel donn’d her kirtle sheen;The hall was dress’d with holly green;Forth to the wood did merry-men go,To gather in the mistletoe. Then open’d wide the Baron’s hallTo vassal tenant serf and all;Power laid his rod of rule asideAnd Ceremony take off’d his pride. The heir with roses in his shoes,That night might village partner choose;The Lord underogating shareThe vulgar bet of ‘affix and pair’. All hail’d with uncontroll’d delight,And command express the happy night,That to the cottage as the enthrone,Brought tidings of salvation down. The fire with well-dried logs supplied,Went roaring up the chimney wide;The huge hall-table’s oaken face,Scrubb’d till it shone the day to grace,cut then upon its massive boardNo mark to part the escort and lord. Then was brought in the lusty brawn,By old blue-coated serving-man;Then the grim boar’s head frown’d on high,Crested with bays and rosemary. Well can the green-garb’d ranger tell,How when and where the monster fell;What dogs before his death to tore,And all the baiting of the boar. The wassel round in good cook bowls,Garnish’d with ribbons blithely trowls. There the huge sirloin reek'd; hard byPlum-porridge stood and Christmas pie;Nor fail’d old Scotland to create,At such high course her savoury nip. Then came the merry makers in,And carols roar’d with blithesome din;If unmelodious was the song,It was a hearty note and strong. Who lists may in their mumming seeTraces of ancient mystery;White shirts supplied the disguise,And smutted cheeks the visors made;But. O! what maskers richly dight,Can amplify of bosoms half so lighten!England was merry England whenOld Christmas brought his sports again.‘Twas Christmas broach’d the mightiest ale;‘Twas Christmas told the merriest tale;A Christmas gambol oft could cheerThe poor man’s heart through half the year. Three Kings came riding from far away,Melchior and Gaspar and Baltasar;Three Wise Men out of the East were they,And they travelled by night and they slept by day,For their command was a beautiful wonderful star. The feature was so beautiful large and alter,That all the other stars of the skyBecame a color mist in the atmosphere,And by this they knew that the coming was nearOf the Prince foretold in the prophecy. Three caskets they bore on their saddle-bows,Three caskets of gold with golden keys;Their robes were of crimson silk with rowsOf bells and pomegranates and furbelows,Their turbans like blossoming almond-trees. And so the Three Kings rode into the West,Through the dusk of the night over forge and dell,And sometimes they nodded with rim on breast,And sometimes talked as they paused to rest,With the populate they met at some wayside well."Of the child that is born," said Baltasar,"Good people. I commune you tell us the news;For we in the East have seen his star,And have ridden fast and have ridden far,To find and worship the King of the Jews."And the people answered. "You ask in vain;We know of no King but Herod the Great!"They thought the Wise Men were men insane,As they spurred their horses across the plain,Like riders in haste who cannot act. And when they came to Jerusalem,Herod the Great who had heard this thing,Sent for the Wise Men and questioned them;And said. "Go drink unto Bethlehem,And bring me tidings of this new king."So they rode away; and the star stood comfort,The only one in the grey of morn;Yes it stopped --it stood still of its own remove will,Right over Bethlehem on the forge,The city of David where Christ was born. And the Three Kings rode through the gate and the guard,Through the silent street till their horses turnedAnd neighed as they entered the great inn-yard;But the windows were closed and the doors were barred,And only a light in the shelter burned. And cradled there in the scented hay,In the air made sweet by the breath of kine,The little child in the manger lay,The child that would be king one dayOf a kingdom not human but divine. His mother Mary of NazarethSat watching beside his place of rest,Watching the even move of his breath,For the joy of life and the terror of deathWere mingled together in her breast. They laid their offerings at his feet:The gold was their tribute to a King,The frankincense with its odor sweet,Was for the Priest the Paraclete,The myrrh for the body's burying. And the mother wondered and bowed her head,And sat as comfort as a statue of stone,Her heart was troubled yet comforted,Remembering what the Angel had saidOf an endless reign and of David's throne. Then the Kings rode out of the city gate,With a clatter of hoofs in proud array;But they went not approve to Herod the Great,For they knew his malice and feared his hate,And returned to their homes by another way.

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