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The River Severn - Newtown, Wales

Postby HH » Sat Oct 15, 2005 10:33 am

The River Severn - Newtown, Wales

This is the river that runs through Newtown.
Splashing, swirling, crashing
on the rounded, worndown rocks,
flowing to a slow bubbling shallow brook.

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Sometimes we play by the river
Laughing, joking, falling over,
throwing stones across the river.

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Flat World Fatigue: Globalization Breeds Interminable Work D

Postby HH » Wed Oct 19, 2005 11:13 am

Flat World Fatigue: Globalization Breeds Interminable Work Day*****

“Offshoring” — the migration of jobs to lower-cost countries such as India, China and Russia — remains politically sensitive because of the tepid U.S. job market. But executives insist that cheaper labor and faster work flow have made offshoring a fact of life for everyone in the industry.

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Creative Arts Therapy .... Drama Therapy ... Poetry Therapy

Postby HH » Thu Oct 20, 2005 8:51 pm

Creative Arts Therapy*****

The term creative arts therapy includes the following: drama therapy, psychodrama, music therapy, art therapy, dance/movement therapy and poetry therapy.

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Drama Therapy

Drama therapy is defined by the National Association for Drama Therapy as "the systematic and intentional use of drama/theater processes and products to achieve the therapeutic goals of symptom relief, emotional and physical integration and personal growth." Drama therapy is an active, experiential approach that facilitates the client's ability to tell his/her story, solve problems, set goals, express feelings appropriately, achieve a catharsis, extend the depth and breadth of inner experience, improve interpersonal skills and relationships, and strengthen the ability to perform personal life roles while increasing flexibility between roles.

Drama therapy evolved from the experience and research of psychotherapists, teachers and theater professionals who recognized that alternatives to traditional verbal therapies were useful to permit clients to confront, explore and work through problems and emotional difficulties.

Poetry therapy and bibliotherapy are terms used synonymously to describe the intentional use of poetry and other forms of literature for healing and personal growth. The term "biblio" means book and, by extension, literature. "Therapy" is derived from the Greek word "therapeia" meaning "to serve or help medically." Basically then, bibliotherapy is the use of literature to promote mental health.

Developmental interactive bibliotherapy refers to the use of literature, discussion and creative writing with children in schools and hospitals, adults in growth and support groups, and older persons in senior centers and nursing homes. In these community settings, bibliotherapy is used not only to foster growth and development but it is used as a preventive tool in mental health.

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Poetry Therapy

Clinical interactive bibliotherapy refers to the use of literature, discussion and creative writing to promote healing and growth in psychiatric units, community mental health centers, and chemical dependency units.

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The Big Bang Cycle

Postby HH » Sat Oct 22, 2005 10:37 am

The Big Bang Cycle

They often spoke of the seed
as they sipped from a dwindling supply of absinthe,
their words tumbling from absent-minded lips
into my hiding place behind the vent.
I was young in years but old enough to keep their
company, however furtively; a partisan
witness to the uneasy union of life and loss in their eyes.

I was a mistake, an unfortunate result of my mother's
refusal to live for the sake of being alive,
a victim of the fact that we are a long-lived race.
For we will surely be around until
we can be around no more;
we have already outlasted the others.
Our problem is the lack of space, the lack of
resources, the slow moving fever that clouds
the minds of those who look too far ahead.

You see, if what they tell me is true (and
believe me, I don't like to think that it is)
there is nowhere for us to go.
There is no "where" there anymore.
We fly in our network of ships among the cool
husks of planets, all uninhabitable.
We are reluctant tourists, agape at the spectacle
of stars turning in on themselves
in the desperate dance that signifies a loss
too great to name. Soon we will lack the capacity
to keep ourselves warm, to keep ourselves moving,
to keep our selves at all.

What we do keep are artifacts, as if
reflection and categorization will slow the inevitable.
As if material reminders of a planet-bound past
will keep the reality wolves at bay.
Our artifacts have become relics,
objects of worship in a universe we know
no righteous god could have a hand in.
The relics fuel our reverence for the past
as we lie in the shadow of a future we cannot name.

It was among our carefully preserved detritus
that they found the seed,
a round breath of hope keeping cover

in the gem and mineral collection.
It seemed so like a gem: smooth as glass,
its surface shimmering with the queer light
of a star's final gasp.
Hard to believe that something so small
held the means for galaxy upon galaxy in its core.
It forced us into our current state of ambivalence --
to know that when the end comes, we hold a
beginning in our hands.

After the discovery we began to undertake
the business of living for something other than life
itself, able to feel time pass again.
Now, as I listen to them speak of the seed,
I imagine our final hours.
I think of how the seed will circumvent
innumerable years of blank infinity,
erupting with the self-assurance of the new.
And of those who will live in the new space?

I wonder at their dreams, at that faint,
persistent whisper that drives one to speak,
to listen, to create. The voice that
compels us to answer the questions it asks,
in the process coaxing a new seed into existence.
Does this drive to divine give us license to do what we
must? It's a question we don't dare to ask.

- Abbi Ball *****, 17 June 2002

-----------
***** Abbi Ball ... combined her enthusiasm for writing poetry with her passion for speculative fiction. The result is this, her first speculative poem. She lives in Pittsburgh, where she works as an information architect for a communications firm.

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Or Let Me Die!

Postby HH » Tue Oct 25, 2005 4:04 pm

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Or Let Me Die!



My heart leaps up when I behold
A rainbow in the sky:
So was it when my life began;
So it is now I am a man;
So be it when I shall grow old,
Or let me die!
The Child is father of the Man;
And I could wish my days to be
Bound each to each by natural piety.

- William Wordsworth ***** - "Intimations of Immortality"

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The Indian Upon God - William Butler Yeats

Postby HH » Mon Oct 31, 2005 5:59 pm

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The Indian Upon God

I passed along the water's edge below the humid trees,
My spirit rocked in evening light, the rushes round my knees,
My spirit rocked in sleep and sighs; and saw the moor-fowl pace
All dripping on a grassy slope, and saw them cease to chase
Each other round in circles, and heard the eldest speak:
Who holds the world between His bill and made us strong or weak
Is an undying moorfowl, and He lives beyond the sky.
The rains are from His dripping wing, the moonbeams from His eye.
I passed a little further on and heard a lotus talk:
Who made the world and ruleth it, He hangeth on a stalk,
For I am in His image made, and all this tinkling tide
Is but a sliding drop of rain between His petals wide.
A little way within the gloom a roebuck raised his eyes
Brimful of starlight, and he said: The Stamper of the Skies,
He is a gentle roebuck; for how else, I pray, could He
Conceive a thing so sad and soft, a gentle thing like me?
I passed a little further on and heard a peacock say:
Who made the grass and made the worms and made my feathers gay,
He is a monstrous peacock, and He waveth all the night
His languid tail above us, lit with myriad spots of light.


- William Butler Yeats *****
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***** Irish Poet, Dramatist and Prose Writer, one of the greatest English-language poets of the 20th century. Yeats received the Nobel Prize for Literature in 1923. ... One Ever Dear & Near To INDIA!!


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Men Running in the Rain - Haydn Williams

Postby HH » Fri Nov 04, 2005 6:02 pm

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Men Running in the Rain


Four men are running in the rain,
Running with small even strides,
Yokes bearing down on their dark
Brown backs and their back and sides
Are streaked with paint. From stark
Black backstreets
They have run now into these nights
Lit bright by pink candles, their feet
Skimming over the street's tortured corpses,
Past pan shops, begging rickshaws, boxes
Full of rotting fruit, they are running, running in the rain.

The pots they carry are crowned
With stuffy aromatic flowers
Garlands of dizzying scents. They are running.
Jingling and swinging in the rain for hours,
Four yoked poor men, delirious with prayers,
Shouldering fanatical burdens of flowers,
Rosaries, sweetmeats, sandalwood, lotuses, they weave
Their strange way in and out of the side streets of Calcutta,
Spearing the night's hot anger and the rains.
Their bare feet dodge spilled leaves
Squashed earthen pots clogging the drains, through the clutter,
The filth, the blood, of the city of Calcutta,
Over pools, over the mirrored moon
And stars, on they run, running in the rain, slight
Sweating bowed-over figures in the rainy night,
Running down Chowringhee, through the dark gaudy slums
In the monsoon rain, running gaily to the beat of drums,
Running with waters of adoration
To Shiva's shrine.

I who watch them running in the rain,
These four poor men running in the rain,
Am suddenly full of compassionate envy
For men running in the rain
Who wear their poverty so boldly
Like bursting brown stars in the rain,
Men running for Shiva. Against all our pity
They are free.


- Haydn Williams *****
-----------
Visit: http://www.friendlystreetpoets.org.au/williams.htm


Friendly Street Poets ... ***** Haydn Williams was a lecturer in English Studies at the University of Adelaide from 1966 to 1987 when he retired. He had previously been a teacher and lecturer in Britain, Africa and India. Apart from articles and books of literary criticism he is the author of poetry and short stories. His work has been published in India, the United State and the United Kingdom.


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WHY AM I HERE - Amanda Collins, Australia

Postby HH » Wed Nov 16, 2005 10:44 am

WHY AM I HERE


WHY AM I HERE
Four white walls, and a cold bare floor.
Restricted from movement, no key for the door.
They hold me here against my will.
They won’t let me help myself.
They tell me I’m unstable,
This treatment detrimental to my health.
I sit between these walls, as crazy as I am.
I make them think that I believe
I’m crazier than them.
No room to move, only time to think,
And find a way to cope.
To find a way to deal with this,
And bring to me some hope.
One year ago I lost myself,
But I found my own way home.
But going home, leaves me here.
Feeling more alone.
My family thinks my heads been tapped
Manipulated by this and that.
But every wrong I have ever made.
I’ve made my bed and there I’ve laid.
Not blaming life, not blaming you.
Not blaming anything. It’s true.
My life is mine, as is my mind.
Just needing time to unwind.
You say I’m crazy, so do they.
Can’t see it any other way.
I’m left in here, my heart is dying.
I can’t even see the point in crying.
I’m sitting here, my head hung low.
The whole time wishing I could go.
Why am I here? Tell me the truth.
All I was doing was enjoying my youth.
Why am I here? ...
I am locked in here without my freedom
Someone else speaks my voice.
All because I choose serene, silence is my choice.
I will not speak, my voice it’s dead.
It’s not just something in my head.
So I will sit slumped in my heap, silent on my own.
Doctors psychos everyone, doing right for me.
But the only treatment I need to have.
Is permission to be me.


- Amanda Collins, Australia
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ZESTFUL LIFE ... Explore It!

Postby HH » Mon Nov 21, 2005 10:48 am

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ZESTFUL LIFE ... Explore It! 8) :)

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CHEERFUL LIFE ...

Postby HH » Thu Nov 24, 2005 10:53 am

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LIFE ... Back Care!

Postby HH » Mon Nov 28, 2005 11:08 am

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LIFE ... Back Care! 8) :)

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isolation in a world full of life

Postby HH » Wed Nov 30, 2005 10:21 am

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isolation in a world full of life 8) :) - Chris Kendalls

listening to the trees in the forest
tell me about the many adventures
us humans had concerning love, hate,
and everything else in between and
infinitely more complex, such abstract

expression, men who were hung for
"crimes", chased by other men who
led by dogs that could smell your
fear, and yet a hundred years
later this was under consideration

they wanted to expand the city,
yet, the government wanted it to
remain as a remainder and memorial to
some, if a body is completely deteriorated
and eaten by worms and vermin, and

weathered beyond recognition,
is there a skull hanging off of a rope,
a skeleton, such a parody of a life
which one was, so you could get sugar
or cotton for someone who refuses to

pay you, but I see us talking,
exchanging ideas, enthused, and
it is hard to think it was ever
like that, people who "met"
each other under these trees

you might spread a cotton blanket
out over the grass and sit back
and look into the universe, it
might have been romantic, children
might have ran through the grass

chasing butterflies at the top
of the day, the sun beating down
upon them, yet these trees disappear,
until they're zoned and labeled for
destruction and a legion of environmentalists

hold hands and form a wall around the
entire area, you don't miss anything
until it is gone, although I thought
I was forgotten, that lonely night yet
To meet everyone else who was ever here
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Robert Louis Stevenson (1850-1894) - Creative Story Writer

Postby HH » Thu Dec 01, 2005 8:39 pm

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Robert Louis Stevenson (1850-1894) - Creative Story Writer Of Scotland

Born on 13 November, 1850, Stevenson's father was an engineer who, with his two brothers, was responsible for building over 40 lighthouses around Britain. Stevenson was an only child whose later autobiographical essays and poetry ("A Child's Garden of Verses") described growing up in Edinburgh

He suffered from ill health but he started an engineering course at Edinburgh University with a view to following into his father's business. But he wanted to be a professional writer and eventually, as a compromise with his father, he studied instead for a law degree, becoming an advocate in 1875. His holidays spent in France with his cousin, an artist, became the basis for "Travels with a Donkey in the Cevennes". He sometimes wrote in the Scots vernacular, including a number of poems and the story of "Thrawn Janet".

While in France he met Fanny Vandegrift Osbourne, an American who was 10 years older than Stevenson. Despite disapproval from his father, he followed her across America and married her in San Francisco. However he had contracted tuberculosis and spent the following years trying to find places conducive to helping to allay his symptoms.

He published "Treasure Island" in 1882 and the thriller Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde"and "Kidnapped" in 1886. While in America he started "The Master of Ballantrae" set in Scotland and America.

He made a number of voyages to the South Seas and eventually settled in Samoa in 1890. He continued writing there but unexpectedly died of a stroke on 3 December 1894.

The graphic is of a commemmorative banknote issued on 3 December 1994, the 100th anniversary of Stevenson's death. .
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THE MEASURE OF A MAN

Postby HH » Sat Dec 03, 2005 1:32 pm

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~THE MEASURE OF A MAN~



A young man went off, to the war
today;
his mother softly wept, as she
earnestly prayed.

"Don't worry Mama, I'll be
alright;
it's my duty as an American, to
take a stand and fight".

Through swollen eyes, and a weakened
voice;
she said to him, "You made the
right choice.

But you take care, and bring back
alive;
the boy that I raised, and have loved
all his life".

She watched him leave, with his
suitcase in his hand;
she thought, "My little boy, has
become quite a man".

When they talked on the phone, they
both would pray;
for those who sacrificed, their lives
every day.

Then one night, as he knelt down
to pray;
he was caught in an explosion, and
it blew his hand away.

He layed there in shock, as they
took him away;
his seargant said softly, "Son,
you'll be okay.

I'm proud of you, for the measure
of a man;
is the willingness to die, for the
freedom of his land".

In the hospital, his seargant brought
him a note;
"I found this among your' belongings,
I think it's from home".

The young man read, what was written
in the letter;
"I'm waiting for you son, if it
takes forever.

Remember, no matter what happens to
you;
I'm so very proud, of the boy I once
knew.

But now you've become, a fine, young
man;
and I have to let you go, to make
your' stand.

No matter what, I will always love
you;
now you fight for your' country,
that's what a man should do.

If I never see this letter again,
I'll know that you're still alive;
if it comes back unopened, I'll know
you proudly died".

He closed the letter, with tears in
his eyes;
and for the first time, he felt like
a man inside.

"I'm coming home Mama", he softly
said;
"I may not be whole, but thank God
I'm not dead.

For He protected me, as I took my
stand;
and taught me the true meaning, of
the measure of a man".

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Postby OsmaniaBiskit » Sun Dec 04, 2005 12:44 am

Mama I'm coming Home - The one and only OZZY (you gotta love him with or without Black Sabbath)

Times have changed and times are strange
Here I come, but I ain’t the same
Mama, I’m coming home
Times gone by seem to be
You could have been a better friend to me
Mama, I’m coming home

You took me in and you drove me out
Yeah, you had me hypnotized
Lost and found and turned aroound
By the fire in your eyes

You made me cry, you told me lies
But I can’t stand to say goodbye
Mama, I’m coming home
I could be right, I could be wrong
Hurts so bad, it’s been so long
Mama, I’m coming home

Selfish love yeah we’re both alone
The ride before the fall
But I’m gonna take this heart of stone
I just got to have it all

Chorus
I’ve seen your face a hundred times
Everyday we’ve been apart
I don’t care about the sunshine, yeah
’cause mama, mama, I’m coming home
I’m coming home

You took me in and you drove me out
Yeah, you had me hypnotized
Lost and found and turned around
By the fire in your eyes
[/quote]
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Thank You, OB!

Postby HH » Sun Dec 04, 2005 9:06 am

OsmaniaBiskit wrote:***** Mama I'm coming Home ...


***** Thank You, OB, For Your Sharing "Creativity"! ... Just One Creative Life ... !
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Postby OsmaniaBiskit » Sun Dec 04, 2005 7:24 pm

HH - I get my 'everyday philosophy' fix from 'Rock' :lol: just sharing my life's soundtrack :D
This one is 'Bittersweet symphony' - by The Verve
[The violins/strings were sampled from Rolling Stones 'Last Time']

'Cause it's a bittersweet symphony, this life
Try to make ends meet
You're a slave to money then you die
I'll take you down the only road I've ever been down
You know the one that takes you to the places
where all the veins meet yeah,

No change, I can change
I can change, I can change
But I'm here in my mold
I am here in my mold
But I'm a million different people
from one day to the next
I can't change my mold
No, no, no, no, no

Well I never pray
But tonight I'm on my knees yeah
I need to hear some sounds that recognize the pain in me, yeah
I let the melody shine, let it cleanse my mind, I feel free now
But the airways are clean and there's nobody singing to me now

No change, I can change
I can change, I can change
But I'm here in my mold
I am here in my mold
And I'm a million different people
from one day to the next
I can't change my mold
No, no, no, no, no
I can't change
I can't change

'Cause it's a bittersweet symphony, this life
Try to make ends meet
Try to find some money then you die
I'll take you down the only road I've ever been down
You know the one that takes you to the places
where all the things meet yeah

You know I can change, I can change
I can change, I can change
But I'm here in my mold
I am here in my mold
And I'm a million different people
from one day to the next
I can't change my mold
No, no, no, no, no

I can't change my mold
no, no, no, no, no,
I can't change
Can't change my body,
no, no, no

I'll take you down the only road I've ever been down
I'll take you down the only road I've ever been down
Been down
Ever been down
Ever been down
Ever been down
Ever been down
Have you ever been down?
Have you've ever been down?
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Re: THE MEASURE OF A MAN

Postby HH » Mon Dec 05, 2005 10:50 am

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Sammy, the Sssneaker Sssnake



The summertime was flying by
And Sammy Snake would sit and sigh,
"Oh, why can't summer last all year?
Why, time for school will soon be here."

The coming year made Sam afraid
Cause he would be in second grade.
They told him that he had the stuff,
But first grade had been pretty tough.

As in the sun Sam warmed and turned
He thought about the things he'd learned.
Then thought about the friends he'd made.
And he felt good about first grade.

He remembered learning how to read.
It had taken lots of work, indeed.
Some of the sounds he'd often miss.
His "o" sometimes came out as "iss."

...



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Sssnake MOVIE ... Scary Creativity!

Postby HH » Tue Dec 06, 2005 4:42 pm

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Sssnake MOVIE ... Scary Creativity!


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The Polar Express MOVIE ... Great Animation ... Creativity!

Postby HH » Thu Dec 08, 2005 8:28 pm

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The Polar Express MOVIE ... Great Animation ... 3D ... Creativity! ... Must Be Seen In IMAX!!


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Sometimes Your Best Friend Is ... Actually A Guardian Angel

Postby HH » Tue Dec 13, 2005 12:28 pm

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Sometimes Your Best Friend Is Actually A Guardian Angel In Disguise

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Its my life

Postby Peter Camenzind » Wed Dec 14, 2005 3:22 pm

Its My life..
Its now or never
I ain't gonna live for ever
I just wanna live while i am alive
Its.. My.. Life..
-Bon jovi
For me..Journey of life is important than just destinations

Pete's world!
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Re: Its my life

Postby HH » Wed Dec 14, 2005 6:56 pm

Peter Camenzind wrote:*****Its My life..
...
Its.. My.. Life..
-Bon jovi


Welcome, "Peter Camenzind" ... THANK YOU, For Sharing "My Life" Poem Of "Bon jovi"!
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A New Life - Lynn Barany

Postby HH » Thu Dec 15, 2005 9:27 pm

A New Life - Lynn Barany

Entering a new life
Which as yet I haven't done
But I hear you fly past Jupiter
And then you pass the sun.

I have a "Special Friend"
Who is preparing for this ride
He's lived his life in this world
And in a new place will reside.

I've lost lots of my family members
And a few high school friends
I know their trip went well
As I never heard from them again.

I asked Dear God in Heaven
"Will you meet my friend"?
He replied "My precious child
I welcome all who enter in".

Death is not the end
We have days, and we have nights
My house has many mansions
And he will be guided by their lights.

I don't have time to answer
All your prayers every night
But your friend will live forever
I will be always at his side.
-----------
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HH
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Story Of Life

Postby HH » Tue Dec 20, 2005 9:32 pm

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