History lesson


History serves to inform and prepare. In order to learn we must be acutely aware. When all has been tried, nothing being a mystery,How are we expected to appreciate history?The most brilliant minds that came before us.

The teachers, our heroes, and always the infamous.

Einstein, Tesla and Salvador Dali,

Allowing every sense to make a decision

Never lose sight of your personal vision.

Will it ever be equal?

We don’t need anymore sequels.

Why so politically correct?

Say what you mean you’ll earn more respect.

The police shoot first, with little concern.

When will these bullies actually learn?

What are the new taboos?

Doesn’t anyone have a thing to lose?

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We Are Seven


This has been one of my favorite poems since I was quite young.

WE ARE SEVEN   by William Wordsworth 1798-A SIMPLE Child, That lightly draws its breath

And feels its life in every limb,

What should it know of death?

I met a little cottage Girl:

She was eight years old, she said;

Her hair was thick with many a curl

That clustered round her head.

She had a rustic, woodland air,

And she was wildly clad:                                    

Her eyes were fair, and very fair;

–Her beauty made me glad.

“Sisters and brothers, little Maid,

How many may you be?”

“How many? Seven in all,” she said

And wondering looked at me.

“And where are they? I pray you tell.”

She answered, “Seven are we;

And two of us at Conway dwell,

And two are gone to sea.                                    

“Two of us in the church-yard lie,

My sister and my brother;

And, in the church-yard cottage, I

Dwell near them with my mother.”

“You say that two at Conway dwell,

And two are gone to sea,

Yet ye are seven!–I pray you tell,

Sweet Maid, how this may be.”

Then did the little Maid reply,

“Seven boys and girls are we;                               

Two of us in the church-yard lie,

Beneath the church-yard tree.”

“You run about, my little Maid,

Your limbs they are alive;

If two are in the church-yard laid,

Then ye are only five.”

“Their graves are green, they may be seen,”

The little Maid replied,

“Twelve steps or more from my mother’s door,

And they are side by side.                                  

“My stockings there I often knit,

My kerchief there I hem;

And there upon the ground I sit,

And sing a song to them.

“And often after sunset, Sir,

When it is light and fair,

I take my little porringer,

And eat my supper there.

“The first that died was sister Jane;

In bed she moaning lay,                                     

Till God released her of her pain;

And then she went away.

“So in the church-yard she was laid;

And, when the grass was dry,

Together round her grave we played,

My brother John and I.

“And when the ground was white with snow,

And I could run and slide,

My brother John was forced to go,

And he lies by her side.”                                   

“How many are you, then,” said I,

“If they two are in heaven?”

Quick was the little Maid’s reply,

“O Master! we are seven.”

“But they are dead; those two are dead!

Their spirits are in heaven!”

‘Twas throwing words away; for still

The little Maid would have her will,

And said, “Nay, we are seven!”

1798.

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Tennis and Poetry: “If” recited by Federer and Nadal


Combining some of my favorite things i.e.  poetry, tennis, and tennis players.  This Wimbledon promo is simply a fortunate find.  Without further ado, I present Roger and Rafa reciting Rudyard Kipling’s “IF” which adorns the entrance to center court at Wimbledon. 

 

 

IF
by Rudyard Kipling

(‘Brother Square-Toes’—Rewards and Fairies)

If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too;
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or being lied about, don’t deal in lies,
Or being hated, don’t give way to hating,
And yet don’t look too good, nor talk too wise:

If you can dream—and not make dreams your master;
If you can think—and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you’ve spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
And stoop and build ’em up with worn-out tools:

If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breathe a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: ‘Hold on!’

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with Kings—nor lose the common touch,
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,
If all men count with you, but none too much;
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds’ worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it,
And—which is more—you’ll be a Man, my son!
 

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About a Friend


From the archives:
This is the most popular of all my poems for the past year so here once again About a Friend.

Yes this is personal and yes it is true.
It is my experience that I am sharing with you.

We were so close like sisters people said.
Closer than that we were, it was over your head.

A bond that sparked instantaneously much like new romance.
Of course those that insinuated such did not follow the dance.

Give give, take take, it all seemed so equal at first.
No shadow of doubt, we would never be cursed.

Hours and days were spent sharing the past.
The laughter and tears were flowing and vast.

Each told of old sorrows and pain we had endured.
Consoling each other, we were each others cure.

We had found one another, knew it was different this time.
The ying to her yang, the partner to our crime.

We turned heads and made people wonder.
Quite a few tried to quiet the thunder.

This gave us our strength, like forces of nature together.
She and I against the world, no storm we couldn’t weather.

Life would charge in and test our power.
Tempted and taunted to see who would cower.

We prevailed time after time, year after year.
We drew lines for others that were perfectly clear.

Then one day it happened, the first of the clues.
A weakness exposed and a hint of a ruse.

“Not us I thought, this was not our path.”
Rips in the fabric, hidden agendas, you do the math.

And with just as much power as we united.
Truth had snuck in though reluctant and uninvited.

The face I began to recognize was that of a stranger.
I saw it clearly and knew of the danger.

I had heard the voice before and I remember I had shuddered.
Those combative words thrust at me she had finally uttered.

The loss was tremendous the grief devastating.
I now understood the line between loving and hating.

I missed her so, wishing for a branch or simply a leaf.
Yet not until I let her go was their any relief.

Why today of all days to write this for all to see?
Perhaps, maybe it means I can at last be free.

Copyright ©2007 Veronica Romm

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The Colors of Love.


The fresh green of the grass.

Your touch on my skin.

Our limbs entwined on the park lawn

as the breeze blows around us.

Hearts are dancing again.


The crisp blue of the water.

Your touch on my skin.

Waves crashing around us.

It is love we’ve been granted and

We have both given in.


The leaves falling yellow, orange, and red.

Wanting your touch on my skin.

I am chilled, dry to the bone,

Where have you been?


The red roaring fire.

Feeling your touch on my skin.

Snow falling outside the window

while you’re keeping me warm,

Yet now only in this dream.


Copyright ©2008 Veronica Romm

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