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yitwail
Community Member

Poetry

I made an art thread here once, and then a Jazz thread. So perhaps a poetry thread would balance all that. Here's one of my favorite poems from probably my favorite poet -- he really doesn't need an introduction, but he and I have the same initials.

 

Bright star, would I were stedfast as thou art—
Not in lone splendour hung aloft the night
And watching, with eternal lids apart,
Like nature’s patient, sleepless Eremite,
The moving waters at their priestlike task
Of pure ablution round earth’s human shores,
Or gazing on the new soft-fallen mask
Of snow upon the mountains and the moors—
No—yet still stedfast, still unchangeable,
Pillow’d upon my fair love’s ripening breast,
To feel for ever its soft fall and swell,
Awake for ever in a sweet unrest,
Still, still to hear her tender-taken breath,
And so live ever—or else swoon to death.

__________________________________________________
"No good deed goes unpunished." -- Clare Boothe Luce
41 REPLIES 41
m_terrazas
Community Member

I don't like poetry much, but there is a Spanish poet that I like, Antonio Machado.
Perhaps because it does not seem to me poetry, it seems to me musical prose.

One more English Romantic poet, then must find something quite different.

 

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 be but 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.

__________________________________________________
"No good deed goes unpunished." -- Clare Boothe Luce
yitwail
Community Member

Maria, this poem by Lorca I encountered in a Spanish class long ago...

 

Córdoba.
Lejana y sola.
 
Jaca negra, luna grande,
y aceitunas en mi alforja.
Aunque sepa los caminos
yo nunca llegaré a Córdoba.
 
Por el llano, por el viento,
jaca negra, luna roja.
La muerte me está mirando
desde las torres de Córdoba.
 
¡Ay qué camino tan largo!
¡Ay mi jaca valerosa!
¡Ay que la muerte me espera,
antes de llegar a Córdoba!
 
Córdoba.
Lejana y sola.
__________________________________________________
"No good deed goes unpunished." -- Clare Boothe Luce

From the book "Campos de Castilla" by Antonio Machado

 

Al olmo viejo, hendido por el rayo
y en su mitad podrido,
con las lluvias de abril y el sol de mayo
algunas hojas verdes le han salido.

¡El olmo centenario en la colina
que lame el Duero! Un musgo amarillento
le mancha la corteza blanquecina
al tronco carcomido y polvoriento.

No será, cual los álamos cantores
que guardan el camino y la ribera,
habitado de pardos ruiseñores.

Ejército de hormigas en hilera
va trepando por él, y en sus entrañas
urden sus telas grises las arañas.

Antes que te derribe, olmo del Duero,
con su hacha el leñador, y el carpintero
te convierta en melena de campana,
lanza de carro o yugo de carreta;
antes que rojo en el hogar, mañana,
ardas en alguna mísera caseta,
al borde de un camino;
antes que te descuaje un torbellino
y tronche el soplo de las sierras blancas;
antes que el río hasta la mar te empuje
por valles y barrancas,
olmo, quiero anotar en mi cartera
la gracia de tu rama verdecida.
Mi corazón espera
también, hacia la luz y hacia la vida,
otro milagro de la primavera.

Thanks for the post, Maria - I almost understood it!

 

I know this poem is so popular that it is almost hackneyed, but it remains one of my favourites:

 

He Wishes for the Cloths of Heaven

 

Had I the heavens’ embroidered cloths,
Enwrought with golden and silver light,
The blue and the dim and the dark cloths
Of night and light and the half-light,
I would spread the cloths under your feet:
But I, being poor, have only my dreams;
I have spread my dreams under your feet;
Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.

 

William Butler Yeats

 

 

And a nonsense poem by Spike Milligan (who could also hit the heartstrings)

 

Soldier Freddy
was never ready,
But! Soldier Neddy,
unlike Freddy
Was always ready
and steady,
That's why,
When Soldier Neddy
Is-outside-Buckingham-Palace-on-guard-in -the-pouring-wind-and-rain-being-steady-and-ready ,
Freddy
is home in beddy.

 

 

 

 

Sometimes there is no difference between poetry and musical prose. But I have a somewhat existential definition of poetry in which someone, anecdotally, says, "Nice poem; what does it mean?" to which the poet answers, "The poem is the explanation. If I could put it any better than that, that would have been the poem instead." 

 

Poetry is interpretive dance with words. Prose is, in contrast, folk dancing. (Before someone bites my head off, both are terrific.)

 

 

 

 

 

Introduction to Poetry by Billy Collins

 

I ask them to take a poem

and hold it up to the light

like a color slide

 

or press an ear against its hive.

 

I say drop a mouse into a poem

and watch him probe his way out,

 

or walk inside the poem's room

and feel the walls for a light switch.

 

I want them to water-ski

across the surface of a poem

waving at the author's name on the shore.

 

But all they want to do

is tie the poem to a chair with rope

and torture a confession out of it.

 

They begin beating it with a hose

to find out what it really means.

 

Phyllis -- Ow!!! That's painful. 

Here's one I like from Gallway Kinnell.

 

Prayer

 

Whatever happens. Whatever

What is is is what

I want. Only that. But that.

To do this one justice requires a screenshot.

Screen Shot 2020-02-27 at 12.51.45 PM.png

__________________________________________________
"No good deed goes unpunished." -- Clare Boothe Luce

Anthony, I wasn't aiming for you. Your comment just reminded me of that poem.

 

Here's another from Billy Collins.

 

Dharma

 

The way the dog trots out the front door

every morning

without a hat or an umbrella,

without any money

or the keys to her doghouse

never fails to fill the saucer of my heart with milky admiration.

 

Who provides a finer example

of a life without encumbrance----

Thoreau in his curtainless hut

with a single plate, a single spoon?

Gandhi with his staff and his holy diapers?

 

Off she goes into the material world

with nothing but her brown coat

and her modest blue collar,

following only her wet nose,

the twin portals of her steady breathing,

followed only by the plume of her tail.

 

If only she did not shove the cat aside

every morning

and eat all his food

what a model of self-containment sh would be,

what a paragon of earthly detachment.

If only she were not so eager

for a rub behind the ears,

so acrobatic in her welcomes,

if only I were not her god.

 

This is one is from a time before machine translation and will stay there. Smiley Very Happy

Du tappst die falschen Tisten

O unberachenbere Schreibmischane,

was bist du für ein winderluches Tier?

Du tauschst die Bachstuben günz nach Vergnagen

und schröbst so scheinen Unsinn aufs Papier!

Du tappst die falschen Tisten, luber Bieb!

O sige mar, was kann da ich dafür?

(Joseph Guggenmoos)

Phyliss: I didn't think that was for me at all. I was speaking for all poets dead and alive.

 

I won't say which of those categories I fall into.

Anthony, that's lovely.  Thank you for sharing.

mtngigi
Community Member


John K wrote:

I made an art thread here once, and then a Jazz thread. So perhaps a poetry thread would balance all that. Here's one of my favorite poems from probably my favorite poet -- he really doesn't need an introduction, but he and I have the same initials.

 

Bright star, would I were stedfast as thou art—
Not in lone splendour hung aloft the night
And watching, with eternal lids apart,
Like nature’s patient, sleepless Eremite,
The moving waters at their priestlike task
Of pure ablution round earth’s human shores,
Or gazing on the new soft-fallen mask
Of snow upon the mountains and the moors—
No—yet still stedfast, still unchangeable,
Pillow’d upon my fair love’s ripening breast,
To feel for ever its soft fall and swell,
Awake for ever in a sweet unrest,
Still, still to hear her tender-taken breath,
And so live ever—or else swoon to death.


I've always been fond of Ogden Nash - don't judge me (unless you really need to).

ETA: If anyone is interested: https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ogden_Nash

 

I Didn't Go To Church Today

I didn't go to church today,
I trust the Lord to understand.
The surf was swirling blue and white,
The children swirling on the sand.
He knows, He knows how brief my stay,
How brief this spell of summer weather,
He knows when I am said and done
We'll have plenty of time together.

 

A Flea And A Fly In A Flue

A flea and a fly in a flue
Were imprisoned, so what could they do?
Said the fly, "let us flee!"
"Let us fly!" said the flea.
So they flew through a flaw in the flue.

 

A Drink With Something In It (first verse only)

There is something about a Martini,
A tingle remarkably pleasant;
A yellow, a mellow Martini;
I wish I had one at present.
There is something about a Martini,
Ere the dining and dancing begin,
And to tell you the truth,
It is not the vermouth—
I think that perhaps it's the gin.

 

And one of his most famous one-liners:

Candy is dandy but liquor is quicker.

a_lipsey
Community Member

I'm going to have to use Google translate on some of these. (J/K)

Poems are a bit like paintings. Impossible to choose a favourite.

yitwail
Community Member

These are song lyrics and I will be posting the song itself in my Jazz thread tomorrow, but it's also wonderful poetry by that incomparable Brazilian genius, Tom (Antonio Carlos) Jobim.

 

A stick, a stone,
It's the end of the road,
It's the rest of a stump,
It's a little alone

 

It's a sliver of glass,
It is life, it's the sun,
It is night, it is death,
It's a trap, it's a gun

 

The oak when it blooms,
A fox in the brush,
A knot in the wood,
The song of a thrush

 

The wood of the wind,
A cliff, a fall,
A scratch, a lump,
It is nothing at all

 

It's the wind blowing free,
It's the end of the slope,
It's a beam, it's a void,
It's a hunch, it's a hope

 

And the river bank talks
of the waters of March,
It's the end of the strain,
The joy in your heart

 

The foot, the ground,
The flesh and the bone,
The beat of the road,
A slingshot's stone

 

A fish, a flash,
A silvery glow,
A fight, a bet,
The range of a bow

 

The bed of the well,
The end of the line,
The dismay in the face,
It's a loss, it's a find

 

A spear, a spike,
A point, a nail,
A drip, a drop,
The end of the tale

 

A truckload of bricks
in the soft morning light,
The shot of a gun
in the dead of the night

 

A mile, a must,
A thrust, a bump,
It's a girl, it's a rhyme,
It's a cold, it's the mumps

 

The plan of the house,
The body in bed,
And the car that got stuck,
It's the mud, it's the mud

 

Afloat, adrift,
A flight, a wing,
A hawk, a quail,
The promise of spring

 

And the riverbank talks
of the waters of March,
It's the promise of life
It's the joy in your heart

 

A stick, a stone,
It's the end of the road
It's the rest of a stump,
It's a little alone

 

A snake, a stick,
It is John, it is Joe,
It's a thorn in your hand
and a cut in your toe

 

A point, a grain,
A bee, a bite,
A blink, a buzzard,
A sudden stroke of night

 

A pin, a needle,
A sting, a pain,
A snail, a riddle,
A wasp, a stain

 

A pass in the mountains,
A horse and a mule,
In the distance the shelves
rode three shadows of blue

 

And the riverbank talks
of the waters of March,
It's the promise of life
in your heart, in your heart

 

A stick, a stone,
The end of the road,
The rest of a stump,
A lonesome road

 

A sliver of glass,
A life, the sun,
A knife, a death,
The end of the run

 

And the riverbank talks
of the waters of March,
It's the end of all strain,
It's the joy in your heart.

 

__________________________________________________
"No good deed goes unpunished." -- Clare Boothe Luce

Because I adore my big brother, I must share his latest which was published by the Society of Classical Poets.  I include his bio at the end because I am so proud of his accomplishments:

Psalm CIV: Benedic, Anima Mea

O praise the Lord, my soul. The aspens sigh
As high above Mount Axtell in blue sky
The hawk cries out God’s glory, and the clouds
Grow to a thunderhead that blots and crowds
Out light. The Lord’s electric bolts flash down
Demonstrative on forests and the town:
If He but touch the hills they quake and smoke.
The mighty crashes scare and deafen folk
As far as the elegant condos. Now the sun
Returns, and shines on pumas as they run
On highest peaks, who seek their meat from God
And range down after deer on trails I trod
Before the rain, composing hymns of praise
To sing in aspen country all my days.

 
 
Psalm CXLIV: Benedictus Dominus

The Lord’s bright lightning strikes sharp Whetstone’s peak;
We see how small man is beneath these skies.
Deliver us, O Lord, for we are weak,
From preachers of new vanities and lies.
O bless the Lord, our castle and our shield,
Who cares for us though we are small poor things;
Who guards our sleek fine Herefords in this field
Slaked by canals from Whetstone’s snow-fed springs.
We pray our sons grow tall in our green county
And daughters ski high ridges in deep snow
And summers yield us tons of hay, good bounty;
We’ll savor August sweetness when we mow.
O keep us from the peril of the sword;
O save our peace and well-loved pastures, Lord.

 
 
Psalm CLVI: Domine, Extra Intellectum

O Lord beyond the ken of any mind,
We hope for peace and plenty on our earth;
For prudence, true compassion, and no lies
From leaders who we see are full of vice.
O Lord of galaxies, our human kind
Knows history shows our prayers have little worth.
What then to do but mutter and chastise?
But will complaints and grimaces suffice?
O Lord, we can do much if we are brave
Confronting those who fake the truth for gain;
Ours is a fair Republic we can save
Together in a strong and straight campaign
That works to make us free of haughty men,
Free of foul threats, equal and proud again.

 
 

Peter Bridges has been hiking and climbing for three decades in the West Elk Mountains near Crested Butte, Colorado. He holds degrees from Dartmouth and Columbia and spent a career in the U.S. Foreign Service, ending as ambassador to Somalia. His diplomatic memoir, Safirka: An American Envoy, and the biographies of two once famous Americans, John Moncure Daniel and Donn Piatt, were published by Kent State University Press. He has self-published a second memoir, Woods Waters Peaks: A Diplomat Outdoors, and a volume of a hundred Sonnets from the Elk Mountains. His articles, essays, and poems have appeared in American Diplomacy, Eclectica, Michigan Quarterly Review, Virginia Quarterly Review and elsewhere.

 

I'm a bit if a fan of Pam Ayres

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Y4oydSZTAns

I must admit I don't really like poetry, but this is what I found when I investigated about the poem "Invictus" after watching the film "Invictus" many times:

 

Out of the night that covers me,
      Black as the pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
      For my unconquerable soul.
 
In the fell clutch of circumstance
      I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeonings of chance
      My head is bloody, but unbowed.
 
Beyond this place of wrath and tears
      Looms but the Horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
      Finds and shall find me unafraid.
 
It matters not how strait the gate,
      How charged with punishments the scroll,
I am the master of my fate,
      I am the captain of my soul.
 
It was written by William Ernest Henley, who had to live with one leg only, after had to have the other one amputated. I just love the last stanza, a true inspiration.


Anthony H wrote:

Hey, I'm doing all the heavy lifting here.


There were lions in the yard last night.

There were lions in the yard last night.

The dog smelled them. They smelled atrocious.

Not to the dog. To the dog they smelled like chicken,

Turkey necks, barbecue sauce, gravy.
To the dog they smelled like Thanksgiving dinner.

 

 

 

 

ACH

3/7/20


Anthony, are you ACH?

For most of my first half-century on this planet, I assumed poetry was long dead. I'd met a few closeted poets in my time, guys who said they wrote secretly and got enthusiastic reviews from their mothers and girlfriends. Girls, of course, don't write poetry. They write fanciful spittle about unicorns and rainbows and unrequited romance. They write about their inner Cinderellas. What's that all about, right?

Then, one day a couple of jet planes flew into a couple of tall buildings in New York City and 2,996 people died and over 6,000 were hurt. About two months later, alone in my study, I was moved to write a poem about 9/11, having been out of the city on that day and feeling displaced and unsettled. So, I did that. And the poem turned out the way I wanted, so I was wondering what to do with it. Maybe I could send it to a magazine or something and they might publish it. 

 

So after a month or so I went online to peck around for ideas (in the very early days of the Internet) and in short order, I came across a website titled something like "Memorial 9/11 Poems" or "World Trade Center Poems." Something like that. Then my jaw hit the ground when I found out, soon enough, the site had published well over 40,000 poems about 9/11.

 

Poetry is not dead. In fact, the idea that it has died, which I believed for years, is to deny the workings of the human heart and the need to understand ourselves. I must say 99.99 percent of the poems on the 9/11 site could be summed up by the words anguish or pain, but there is no doubt that poetry will never die. Wherever there is love, pain or mystery,, let alone whimsy, awe, beauty and humor, there will be poetry. It is an undeniable instinct. Poetry and breathing are old friends.

 

I'm more a song lyrics kind of girl 😉

 

Poetry with music

reinierb
Community Member


Petra R wrote:

I'm more a song lyrics kind of girl 😉

 

Poetry with music


Like Justin Hayward makes. Or Leonard Cohen. Or maybe Roger Waters and David Gilmour. Or Jim Steinman. Or even Neil Diamond on his better days. 

petra_r
Community Member


Reinier B wrote:

Petra R wrote:

I'm more a song lyrics kind of girl 😉

 

Poetry with music


Like Justin Hayward makes. Or Leonard Cohen. Or maybe Roger Waters and David Gilmour. Or Jim Steinman. Or even Neil Diamond on his better days. 


COHEN!

 

Recently discovered "Avelange!"

 

yitwail
Community Member


Petra R wrote:

Reinier B wrote:

Petra R wrote:

I'm more a song lyrics kind of girl 😉

 

Poetry with music


Like Justin Hayward makes. Or Leonard Cohen. Or maybe Roger Waters and David Gilmour. Or Jim Steinman. Or even Neil Diamond on his better days. 


COHEN!

 

Recently discovered "Avelange!"

 


I accidentally made your post the solution, then discovered there's a "Not A Solution" command. Robot Embarassed
Here's some of my fave lyrics, though it's better with the psychedelic accompaniment, of course:

Turn off your mind relax and float down stream
It is not dying
It is not dying
Lay down all thoughts, surrender to the void
It is shining
It is shining
Yet you may see the meaning of within
It is being
It is being
That love is all and love is everyone
It is knowing
It is knowing
That ignorance and hate may mourn the dead
It is believing
It is believing
But listen to the colour of your dreams
It is not living
It is not living
Or play the game "Existence" to the end
Of the beginning
Of the beginning
Of the beginning
Of the beginning
Of the beginning
Of the beginning
Of the beginning
__________________________________________________
"No good deed goes unpunished." -- Clare Boothe Luce

Cohen was great. Neil Diamond had his moments. I don't know who David Hayward or Jim Steinman were -- or, wait: Is that the Moody Blues? -- but I do want to say John, wow. I've never seen that lyric written down and it certainly reads extraordinarily well. However, you forgot to give credit, so for the record, that's John Lennon's song "Tomorrow Never Knows," -- his ode to transcendental meditation. Beautiful. 

 

For my money, Dylan, Randy Newman, the incomparable John Prine (when he's not being too silly), Jim Morrison, Joni Mitchell -- all would have been great poets even without guitars or drums backing them up. Paul Simon, of course, is a worthy candidate, although somewhat commercial.

 

 

c9ccb5422c3ab9d5c2248742020d0ce4.jpgAnd a river lies

Between the dusk and dawning skies,
And hours are distance, measured wide
Along that transnocturnal tide
Too doomed to fear, lost to all need,
These voyagers blackward fast recede
Where darkness shines like dazzling light
Throughout the Twelve Hours of the Night.

They move in dark, old places of the world:
Like mariners, once healthy and clear-eyed,
Who, when their ship was holed, could not admit
Ruin and the necessity of flight,
But chose instead to ride their cherished wreck
Down into darkness; there not quite to drown,
But ever on continue plying sails
Against the midnight currents of the depths,
Moving from pit to pit to lightless crag
In hopeless search for some ascent to shore;
And who, in their decayed, slow voyaging
Do presently lose all desire for light
And air and living company-from here
Their search is only for the deepest groves,
Those farthest from the nigh-forgotten sun

 

— The Twelve Hours of the Night, William Ashbless, London, 1810.

 

 

-----------
"Where darkness shines like dazzling light"   —William Ashbless
reinierb
Community Member


Petra R wrote:

Reinier B wrote:

Petra R wrote:

I'm more a song lyrics kind of girl 😉

 

Poetry with music


Like Justin Hayward makes. Or Leonard Cohen. Or maybe Roger Waters and David Gilmour. Or Jim Steinman. Or even Neil Diamond on his better days. 


COHEN!

 

Recently discovered "Avelange!"

 


Then you will like https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1Z39KZAryzk&list=RDDqlAxfnG5oI&index=3 

An old classic somewhat reworked. 

petra_r
Community Member


Reinier B wrote:

Like Justin Hayward makes. Or Leonard Cohen. Or maybe Roger Waters and David Gilmour. Or Jim Steinman. Or even Neil Diamond on his better days. 

COHEN!

 

Recently discovered "Avelanche!"

 


Then you will like https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1Z39KZAryzk&list=RDDqlAxfnG5oI&index=3 

An old classic somewhat reworked. 


Not so much.

My taste in music is rather eclectic 😄

Ha ha ha, just read an article in a French newspaper mentioning American politicians who are over 70 and to whom this Corona thing could be fatal.


Luce N wrote:

Ha ha ha, just read an article in a French newspaper mentioning American politicians who are over 70 and to whom this Corona thing could be fatal.


Luce, cherie, wrong thread LOL


Petra R wrote:

Luce, cherie, wrong thread LOL

I can't let you go away with this even if I have to go off-topic a bit.

 

You may want to write Luce, ma chérie. It's not about the accent, it's about the possessive ma that changes the meaning in a subtle way.

 

The idiomatic expression ma chérie may be used by a woman to address another woman playfully, or even in a slightly provocative way. Ma chère is more common and a bit less loaded.

 

But chérie alone is rarely used outside of a romantic context.

 

Sorry. I had to.

 

 

 

 

 

-----------
"Where darkness shines like dazzling light"   —William Ashbless


Rene K wrote:

Petra R wrote:

Luce, cherie, wrong thread LOL

I can't let you go away with this even if I have to go off-topic a bit.

 

You may want to write Luce, ma chérie. It's not about the accent, it's about the possessive ma that changes the meaning in a subtle way.

 

The idiomatic expression ma chérie may be used by a woman to address another woman playfully, or even in a slightly provocative way. Ma chère is more common and a bit less loaded.


My French sucks 😄

I meant to use it instead of "dear"

yitwail
Community Member

A couple I read as a child Cat Wink

How doth the little crocodile
Improve his shining tail,
And pour the waters of the Nile
On every golden scale!

How cheerfully he seems to grin
How neatly spreads his claws,
And welcomes little fishes in,
With gently smiling jaws!

 

fatherwilliam2.jpg

 

"You are old, Father William," the young man said,
⁠"And your hair has become very white;
And yet you incessantly stand on your head—
⁠Do you think, at your age, it is right?"


"In my youth," Father William replied to his son,
⁠"I feared it might injure the brain;
But now that Im perfectly sure I have none,
⁠Why, I do it again and again."

 

"You are old," said the youth, "as I mentioned before,
⁠And have grown most uncommonly fat;
Yet you turned a back-somersault in at the door—
⁠Pray, what is the reason of that?"


"In my youth," said the sage, as he shook his grey locks,
⁠"I kept all my limbs very supple
By the use of this ointment—one shilling the box—
⁠Allow me to sell you a couple?"

 

"You are old," said the youth, "and your jaws are too weak
⁠For anything tougher than suet;
Yet you finished the goose, with the bones and the beak—
⁠Pray, how did you manage to do it?"


"In my youth," said his father, "I took to the law,
⁠And argued each case with my wife;
And the muscular strength, which it gave to my jaw,
⁠Has lasted the rest of my life."

 

"You are old," said the youth; "one would hardly suppose
⁠That your eye was as steady as ever;
Yet you balanced an eel on the end of your nose—
⁠What made you so awfully clever?"


"I have answered three questions, and that is enough,"
⁠Said his father; "don't give yourself airs!
Do you think I can listen all day to such stuff?
⁠Be off, or I'll kick you down stairs!"

 

fatherwilliam3.jpg

__________________________________________________
"No good deed goes unpunished." -- Clare Boothe Luce

I love the selections here. Lots of great ones ... thanks for getting this thread going, John.

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