Archive for Poem For Kids

I Carry Your Heart With Me

The poem, “i carry your heart with me,” by E. E. Cummings has been a favorite love poem and a favorite selection at weddings for many years. The poem has gained renewed interest since being featured in the film, “In Her Shoes.” It is used with devastating effect in the film’s climactic wedding scene and again to close the movie. Countless fans have been inspired to review the touching words of “i carry your heart with me.”

The Poet

E. E. Cummings was born Edward Estlin Cummings in 1894 in Cambridge, Massachusetts. He died in North Conway, N.H., in 1962. Cummings earned a B.A. degree from Harvard in 1915 and delivered the Commencement Address that year, titled “The New Art.” A year later he earned an M.A. degree for English and Classical Studies, also from Harvard.

Cummings joined an ambulance corps with the American Red Cross in France during World War I. The French imprisoned him on suspicion of disloyalty, a false accusation that put Cummings in prison for three months. He wrote the novel, The Enormous Room, about his experience. Many of Cummings’ writings have an anti-war message.

Cummings was a fine artist, playwright and novelist. He studied art in Paris following World War I and he adopted a cubist style in his artwork. He considered himself as much a painter as a poet, spending much of the day painting and much of the night writing. Cummings particularly admired the artwork of Pablo Picasso. Cummings’ understanding of presentation can be seen in his use of typography to “paint a picture” with words in some of his poems.

During his lifetime Cummings wrote over 900 poems, two novels, four plays, and had at least a half dozen showings of his artwork.

Contrary to popular opinion Cummings never legalized his name as, “e.e. cummings.” His name properly should be capitalized.

The Poem

E. E. Cummings’ poetry style is unique and highly visual. His typographical independence was an experiment in punctuation, spelling and rule-breaking. His style forces a certain rhythm into the poem when read aloud. His language is simple and his poems become fun and playful.

Cummings’ poem, “i carry your heart with me,” is about deep, profound love, the kind that can keep the stars apart and that can transcend the soul or the mind. The poem is easily read, easily spoken, and easily understood by people of all ages.
The poem could almost be called a sonnet. It has nearly the right number of lines in nearly the right combination. But, typical of a Cummings poem, it goes its own direction and does so with great effect.

The poem makes an excellent love song when set to music. The outstanding guitarist, Michael Hedges, has set “i carry your heart” to music on his “Taproot” album. Hedges himself sings the lead, but the backing vocals are sung by David Crosby and Graham Nash.

More than 168 of Cummings’ original poems have been set to music.

Enjoy the words and the sentiments of this famous poem.

i carry your heart with me

i carry your heart with me (i carry it in

my heart) i am never without it (anywhere

i go you go, my dear; and whatever is done

by only me is your doing, my darling)

i fear

no fate (for you are my fate, my sweet) i want

no world (for beautiful you are my world, my true)

and it’s you are whatever a moon has always meant

and whatever a sun will always sing is you

here is the deepest secret nobody knows

(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud

and the sky of the sky of a tree called life; which grows

higher than soul can hope or mind can hide)

and this is the wonder that’s keeping the stars apart

i carry your heart (i carry it in my heart)

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I Carry Your Heart With Me

The poem, “i carry your heart with me,” by E. E. Cummings has been a favorite love poem and a favorite selection at weddings for many years. The poem has gained renewed interest since being featured in the film, “In Her Shoes.” It is used with devastating effect in the film’s climactic wedding scene and again to close the movie. Countless fans have been inspired to review the touching words of “i carry your heart with me.”

The Poet

Broken Heart Poems

E. E. Cummings was born Edward Estlin Cummings in 1894 in Cambridge, Massachusetts. He died in North Conway, N.H., in 1962. Cummings earned a B.A. degree from Harvard in 1915 and delivered the Commencement Address that year, titled “The New Art.” A year later he earned an M.A. degree for English and Classical Studies, also from Harvard.

Cummings joined an ambulance corps with the American Red Cross in France during World War I. The French imprisoned him on suspicion of disloyalty, a false accusation that put Cummings in prison for three months. He wrote the novel, The Enormous Room, about his experience. Many of Cummings’ writings have an anti-war message.

Cummings was a fine artist, playwright and novelist. He studied art in Paris following World War I and he adopted a cubist style in his artwork. He considered himself as much a painter as a poet, spending much of the day painting and much of the night writing. Cummings particularly admired the artwork of Pablo Picasso. Cummings’ understanding of presentation can be seen in his use of typography to “paint a picture” with words in some of his poems.

During his lifetime Cummings wrote over 900 poems, two novels, four plays, and had at least a half dozen showings of his artwork.

Contrary to popular opinion Cummings never legalized his name as, “e.e. cummings.” His name properly should be capitalized.

The Poem

E. E. Cummings’ poetry style is unique and highly visual. His typographical independence was an experiment in punctuation, spelling and rule-breaking. His style forces a certain rhythm into the poem when read aloud. His language is simple and his poems become fun and playful.

Cummings’ poem, “i carry your heart with me,” is about deep, profound love, the kind that can keep the stars apart and that can transcend the soul or the mind. The poem is easily read, easily spoken, and easily understood by people of all ages.
The poem could almost be called a sonnet. It has nearly the right number of lines in nearly the right combination. But, typical of a Cummings poem, it goes its own direction and does so with great effect.

The poem makes an excellent love song when set to music. The outstanding guitarist, Michael Hedges, has set “i carry your heart” to music on his “Taproot” album. Hedges himself sings the lead, but the backing vocals are sung by David Crosby and Graham Nash.

More than 168 of Cummings’ original poems have been set to music.

Enjoy the words and the sentiments of this famous poem.

i carry your heart with me

i carry your heart with me (i carry it in

my heart) i am never without it (anywhere

i go you go, my dear; and whatever is done

by only me is your doing, my darling)

i fear

no fate (for you are my fate, my sweet) i want

no world (for beautiful you are my world, my true)

and it’s you are whatever a moon has always meant

and whatever a sun will always sing is you

here is the deepest secret nobody knows

(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud

and the sky of the sky of a tree called life; which grows

higher than soul can hope or mind can hide)

and this is the wonder that’s keeping the stars apart

i carry your heart (i carry it in my heart)

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An Ant Named Fly

n Ant Named Fly

Once upon a time, in a forest far away

Lived a family of ants who cherished every day.

And on one special day in a land beneath the sky

Was born a special ant and his family named him … Fly

*

As Fly grew up he realized that his name was rather rare

Compared to ants with normal names, but he didn’t really care

Until one day while walking through the forest by a log

He came upon an animal who introduced himself as Frog

*

Frog looked at Fly suspiciously and with a deep voice said

“Tell me what your name is ant for I have not been fed.”

“My name is Fly,” said Fly to Frog, “And you can plainly see …

That I’m a little nervous of the way you look at me.”

*

Said Frog to Fly “Don’t worry, son, it’s flies I eat for game,

But if you don’t mind my asking … again what was your name?”

The little ant looked at the frog and tried to hide his fear

“My name is … Fly,” he told the frog, “And now I’m leaving here.

*

The frog bellowed out a laugh and Fly walked sadly away

He didn’t much like the way that frog had treated him this day

On his way home he thought of things and wished his parents had

Chosen not to call him Fly and make him feel this bad.

*

Once around the thickets and then a bending tree

Fly came across a perching bird who called herself Phoebe

“A flycatching bird I am,” said Phoebe to the ant

“And now tell me what your name is bug or be gone if you can’t”

*

“My name is Fly and I’m an ant,” said the insect to the bird.

“And if you think you’ll laugh at that, I’d like to say a word.

I met a frog and he laughed at me and I think that was bad,

But if you laugh at what I’m called, I think that I’d be sad.”

*

Without a second passing by, the bird begin to giggle.

Poor Fly’s antennae on his head began to twitch and wiggle

“I just don’t understand what the matter is with my name,”

Said Fly to the bird as he walked away sadly in his shame.

*

On his way home he thought of things and wished his parents had

Chosen not to call him Fly and make him feel this bad.

But through a bush and past four friends who were gladly sipping cider,

Fly came upon a giant web and a large approaching spider.

*

“Who’s there, who’s there” cried Spider as he clicked his legs towards Fly

“It’s me; an ant and I want no trouble, I’m simply passing by!”

The spider neared and gazed his eyes upon the weary ant

And said “Tell me what your name is … bug, or be gone if you can’t.”

*

“I don’t much wish to say my name, if you don’t mind too bad,

It seems that others that find out just laugh and I feel sad.”

“That’s nonsense,” said the spider in a voice so deep and scary.

“After all I am a spider and my family calls me Harry.”

*

Fly caught himself before a smile broke out upon his face.

He didn’t want to do the same that others had in his place.

But no matter how Fly tried, Harry had seen his smirk,

And he nodded to the ant to show his proof had really worked.

*

“Now tell me what your name is boy,” said Harry to the ant.

“I want to really, Harry … but I just simply really can’t.

I understand your name is odd, and mine is too no doubt,

but your laughing at my name I can really do without.”

*

“I really do not understand why you behave this way,”

Said Harry to the ant and then he crossed his web that day.

As Fly watched Harry walk across his web along the way

He said, “My name is Fly the ant so what have you to say.”

*

Harry stopped and ignored a fly that had tangled in his web,

He turned and looked at Fly the ant and smiled a smirk and said,

“Dear boy, you’re right! That truly is a very funny name

Who ever heard of an ant named Fly, why that’s just quite insane.”

*

And then a great rumble came from deep down inside of the spider

He guffawed out and chased away the ants beside the cider.

Fly sadly hung his head and he slowly walked away.

He didn’t much like the way that Harry had treated him this day.

*

On his way home he thought of things and wished his parents had

Chosen not to call him Fly and make him feel this bad.

Then finally in the distance he could see his ant hill home

He was so done with exploring this day; he no longer cared to roam.

*

He walked inside the ant hole and passed his mom and pop

His pop took notice of his poking and asked for Fly to stop.

“What’s wrong with you my little ant and why the droopy face?”

Poor Fly sat down and pouted right beside the fireplace

*

“I’ve met three animals today and when they asked me what I’m called

They all began to laugh at me and that made me want to bawl.

It made me walk and think of things and try to wonder why

My parents would have named an ant something silly like a fly.”

*

“Tis’ true the name is a wee bit off,” said Pop ant to his boy.

“But be assured there’s good reason for your name to give you joy.”

“Twas when your mother walked along with her weary legs across

A rapid flowing stream of water near a nested patch of moss,”

*

“You had not been born yet, but were already growing in her belly.”

“You moved around inside her and made her six legs feel like jelly.”

“She stumbled, staggered, and as she tried to jump on a passing leaf,”

“She fell into the raging water and I was helplessly in grief.”

*

“But suddenly from up above and downward from the sky,

Swooped a truly heroic insect who introduced himself as Fly.”

‘I’ll save your wife,’ called out the fly to me on the nearby shore,

He plucked her from the river safely and we were grateful forever more.”

*

“Dear friends we did become and promised Fly when you were hatched

“We’d honor his heroic effort and make your names both match.”

Fly sat and pondered this a moment and looked at Pop and said.

“Considering the circumstances and all the things racing in my head,”

*

“And after meeting all the creatures and seeing what they eat,

I think I’ve come to a conclusion that I think you’ll find quite neat.

So now I understand your reasoning, and I’ll promise not to rant,

I’m sure glad I’m an ant named Fly, and not a fly named Ant.”

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Handful of Maybes

Maybe there is a God.
Maybe we were never meant to live this way.
Maybe there is such a thing as true love.
Maybe we’re all crazy, and normal is only an ideal that is out of reach.
Maybe we should’ve taken that escape… or maybe we shouldn’t have.
Maybe we’ll never be happy… or maybe we are happy and we won’t realize it until later.
Maybe philosophy is an idea that got out of hand… or maybe religion is.
Maybe we shouldn’t have acted so quickly on an inhibition that failed to stay strong.
Maybe I let my guard down.
Maybe we experienced too much in too little time… or maybe we didn’t experience enough.
Maybe we should learn more about something we know nothing about…
and when we learn more about it, we should write down how it affected our perspective,
but we probably won’t.
Maybe these words will hit home, or maybe they’re just a waste of my time and yours…
not to mention a waste of ink and paper.
Maybe I should’ve stopped thinking before I started.
Maybe I’m repeating myself…again.
Maybe I opened my mind too much, or maybe I didn’t open it enough.
Maybe we’ll all die tomorrow, and that job, car, mortgage payment, deadline, project,
or whatever else we think is so important, really never mattered.
Maybe we forgot to say “I love you” when it was our last chance to do so.
Maybe there is a hell and maybe we’re all going there.
Maybe perfection is possible in this world, or maybe perfection is only a perspective.
Maybe fact is only an opinion.
Maybe all of these maybes and questions of whys, whats, and hows, cannot be answered…
or maybe the answers are right there in front of us.
Maybe we care too much about what others might think, or maybe we don’t care enough.
Maybe we should’ve held on to our innocence a bit longer.
Maybe we have more to say than words can portray.
Maybe we were just too lazy to try.
Maybe this is the last chance to do something that no one has ever done before…
and maybe that chance has passed.
“Maybe I should stop thinking about everything and focus on nothing…Maybe I should just sleep on it”

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White With Haste

Dead leaves of days gone by—now fly:

White with haste, ghouls fly high;
Amongst old aisles, where footsteps once fell

Now tombs and tales and lurking madmen hail:
Here is where H.P. Lovecraft once walked,

And talked—and wrote gloomy tales…!
It is he, who howls now like a ghoul,

In the nights—white with haste; he
Who no longer can see the light!

His wings now are wings of dread,

His breathe is naught, cold with death!…

At twilight in the hoary haunted woods,

You can hear a whisper now and then
Some gleaming teeth that could be his:

Piercing eyes, waxed with death…!

Dead leaves of days gone by—still fly,

Ruffled with footsteps that once fell,
Here is where madness was dispelled…

Where Lovecraft walked and talked:

To his second self!…

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Dead Love, Dead Hearts, Dead City: Goodbye

Deep Days in the Dead City

Different Types Of Poems

Deep days in the dead city, in its jungle like streets,
‘Our days are numbered,’ I’ve heard that somewhere along life’s line; in songs, perhaps in the Bible, here, there, but I’m still here. Everyone wants to play in this game called life, I just want to get away, out of the city, its parks and dogs, its streets, and family members that are more strangers to me than strangers I’ve just met; I think a city over 50,000-you lose something (if not your heart, your head).
The Devils around more of the time I believe, in such bigger cities; I know He’s here in my hometown, St. Paul, Minnesota; He’s at the movies a lot also, I’d say. I’m not missed here much, and I live here, no reason to stay, love is in some other place. But He likes it like this, more games to play.

I had to cross many rivers, many streets, or so I feel to get to so many people that are too busy to give a damn, or a once of time, whom are more stuck in their own cocoons than I. What is my solution? Go to the mountains—leave them all behind, leave them before you lose your mind, there is no love no affection, pretense is like a vine, it wraps around their busy, busy, busy minds. Here my eyes never go dry; I’m like a ship sinking, everyone grabbing the rafts from me—let him sink, they sing, we got money to make, do other thing.

Goodbye, goodbye, goodbye, hope never to see you again, everyone. Don’t need me anymore anyway, time, struggles, the big city, the jungle streets: you never gave an once of peace, or sleep, and everyone thinks he or she is the great somebody, the man, the king of the house, the whore who never scored, the bitch who got rich, and lost her soul for a dead fish. Raise the kids to spit farther, too late to teach them right from wrong, respect or regret, the city will tell you how to act and raise them, or perhaps it did: it’s your children, the city’s got your best interests: and the kids turn out to be worthless. The walking dead, better you talk to stranger, less dread, or go to the mountains instead.

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Five Easy Steps to Reading a Famous Poem

Famous poems are everywhere. They appear in places no one could expect – slogans on television, common sayings and phrases, and the titles of just about every artistic film or endeavor at the local video store. Because famous poems are so transcendent, we rarely if ever notice they are there and even less often realize who wrote them. Why not ensure the proper steps are taken when reading a famous poem then to better appreciate the author, the poem, and the time spent reading it.

Step #1 – Selecting a Famous Poem

Easy as pie, right? It might immediately seem so but finding and selecting a specific famous poem or poet to study can be a bit time consuming. Do you really want to read something that does not interest you? You wouldn’t simply buy a book off of a shelf because the woman at the desk told you it was famous. You would want to know what the book is about. The same is true for poetry.

Most of the famous poems in history are available for free online and can be searched for by topic. If you are interested in a war story, Homer’s Iliad has been enthralling readers for millennia while Shakespeare’s sonnets are beautiful love poems. There are numerous resources for finding that ideal poem.

Step #2 – Who Wrote the Famous Poem

Who is the author of your famous poem? The list of potential names is nearly endless. Here are a few of the biggest and brightest stars of the poetry universe to get you started:

Homer

William Shakespeare

Edgar Allen Poe

Elizabeth Barrett Browning

Percy Bysshe Shelley

John Keats

William Wordsworth

The list goes on seemingly forever if you let it. The best way to find an incredible, famous poet is to visit the local bookstore or library and ask for recommendations.

Step #3 – Reading the Poem

Read it carefully and slowly. Simply skimming through a famous poem doesn’t do it justice and will only leave you wondering, why is this so famous? You could read a magazine if you simply wanted text to skim over quickly. Poetry is meant to be absorbed and to absorb it you must read it slowly and methodically.

Step #4 – Contextualizing Famous Poems

When was the famous poem written? What was happening in the world? What major events were coloring the life of its author? These are the questions you should ask when reading a famous poem. Every poem has a story behind it and knowing that story can make the entire experience that much more engaging.

Step #5 – Finding More Poetry

Once you find a famous poem that you enjoy, that strikes the perfect cord, you will want to find more of the same. Luckily, many of the poets listed above have enormous bodies of work. Most local bookstores feature large anthologies of work from most of them as well as combined anthologies with famous poems organized by subject or publication date. If you want to find more poetry, there are dozens of resources to do so.

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Florencia: A Prose Poem

Florencia

The Hidden Underworld Kingdoms of the Amuc
[An Andean Peruvian Account]

A Prose Poem

Prologue: There are many kingdoms that have come and gone on earth, throughout written history, mostly documented, but there is only one kingdom, that has come, and has not gone, that has existed for eons, it is the Hidden Kingdom of the Amuc, which consist of actually four kingdoms, somewhat interconnected; but it is not on the surface of the earth, it is in the crust of the earth. I have talked to many people in the Andes, and villages, and minors, and old timers, they all believe in them, some have saw them, others were legends to live by. Some say they have blond hair, others say they have steel wings, and are a foot tall. I first head about them in 1999, when I first came to Peru, and went to the Andes, and then I came back every year since, nine times to Peru so far, and the year is still 2006, at least for another six weeks. Anyhow, I bought a house in Lima, and one in Huancayo, in the Mantaro Valley. And then I purchased an adobe hobby farm of sorts, in the Village of San Jeronimo de Tunan, and this is when it all started. I mean this is where my story actually originated. I don’t expect anyone to believe me, but I shall nonetheless, give you the account that took place.

Close to my property, which is about 6000-square meters, with tall adobe walls surrounding the land, perhaps three feet thick, with several small dwelling within this enclosure, is where I lived on the weekends; an old Church (1539 AD) called St. Sebastian, nearby, up the dirt road a bit. There one weekend in the month of August, I was carving out a garden in one section of my land, by one of the adobe dwellings, and I found a statue, it was carved into the liking of a midget size king, but much smaller; at the time I thought it was a goblin, but I am not in Ireland, I told myself, and it was not a fairy, although it could have been, perhaps it was something in-between, like one of those Amuc people I heard about.

Oh well, let me get on with the story: the adobe foundation to my property was build about 130-years before I had bought the place, it went through the Pacific War, the one between Chile and Peru, about 1879 to 1883. So I thought it to be a statue of a grave marking of some sort. And it was, but it was not of the war I talk about, it was of a great Amuc that once lived. Oh yes, now we are getting into the real heart of the matter, are we not. Well, that is why I call this story, an account because that is exactly what it is.

So let me go on with the account: I dug deeper into the ground, in the silenced of the night so no one would be the wiser, twilight is always haunting and worth a good dig, and eerie it was, and it really made the spell of the digging more enchanting, smoke like figures even crossed the moon, and moonbeams shot (so it seemed), shot right down through the porthole I had made in the roof over my dig, and my head to give me light as I dug; the shadows swept like lotus—to and fro—over the gray ebbing clouds above the crown of my head, it was a warm evening, to say the least. I had even added adobe walls around the dig; thus, it was a structure now: twenty feet deep the hole was, with a rope ladder attached to the adobe walls, tub by tub for three weeks I dug and brought up dirt from the hole, piled it here and there, little mounds everywhere in my yard. Woops, I forgot to tell you, I found a gravestone, of a man, and it read in Quechua (one of the oldest languages of earth). It read,

“King Niobla, of Remora (the West Kingdom) scornful heart he had, and a wicked laugh for all, he stole me for his child bride, and killed my brother, father and stirred his wine with his bones; it was best for us all he be where he lay, for I had him killed one summers day: my king of the West Kingdom of Remora, now in his dull grave; let him rest in Hell, as not to contaminate those who live beneath, lest we be his salves.” 642 AD His un-grieving wife: Florencia of Drabmol (The North Kingdom)

As I dug deeper, the walls started crumbling, that is when I found the coffin of the king, and when I opened it, he did have steel like wings, as if angelic, but they were laid to his side, perhaps he felt he could fly, they were attachable. He was no taller than a foot or more, perhaps fourteen inches, in all. And he still had his skull attached, to his neck, and deep-rooted socket for eyes in his head. I was at this time, twenty-two feet below the surface, and hence, I dug another week, another ten feet, slowly, now thirty-two feet, then at forty-feet, I found a tunnel, and it went downward, but it was cramped, I am 172-pounds, and five foot, eight inches tall, not tall for today’s, primates, but tall for the average Peruvian, and a giant according to the corpse and statue I had found. As I pushed my way through these skin tight walls, I was scared I’d be buried alive, but with a flash light I saw a few hundred feet down further (in front of me), where an item in the dirt lay, when I got to it, it was a hat, for a small females head, then I noticed foot prints, small, but I could make them out to be footprints. I was starting to push my body backwards, I had had enough of this, air was thin, and I was scared, and cramped, and going ahead I saw would be more difficult, for it was even thinner, how would I make it. Then (and I must say, there will be a lot of ‘then (s)’ in this story), I heard behind me the crumbling of the walls, I couldn’t turn around, and it would be most difficult to go forward.

I did have a little shovel with me for digging; it was what I had been doing for three to four weeks now, so why not try to dig my way through to wherever the tunnel led me to, or rot where I was, and then I saw a little woman, beautiful as could be, faintly she appeared, and this is were my story comes from, not sure if I dreamt it, or was told it when I was passed out, or whatever, but when I woke up I was back outside my tunnel, in the shack I had built around the hole, it was as if I was pulled out by my feet, my shoes were off, my ankles had red marks around them.

[Opening: to the Dream]: it was in the time, perhaps the 7th century or so, a time when the kingdoms of the Mantaro Valley were captured by the Wanka Warriors, and Unishcoto, and Arwaturo along with Wariwilca were just being inhabitant (now old ruins in the Ville), it was a time when the little people, known as the Amuc, lived underground in four kingdoms, the Northern Kingdom, the Southern Kingdom (remote and small, not a fighting kingdom for the most part), the Western Kingdom know as Remora (once the most dominate of them all), which was part of the Eastern Kingdom, yet the Eastern Kingdom was the mightiest of all the kingdoms of the Amuc’s underworld at this given time, and each had its separate kings. Remora feared the Northern Kingdom, of Drabmol, and under battle, they had lost more lives, yet these two kingdoms were not completely tested to the point of one was dominating the other.

1

King Dnusirut of Drabmol (of the Northern Kingdom), accepted Prince Niobla of Remora, as his guest, he was visiting the kingdom, at his father’s request, to ensure peace was still abreast with this barbarian tribal kingdom of sorts, and at the request of King Nitsuj, of the East. But the Prince had brought up a sour issue, said he:

“I would like to take the dagger that killed your son in battle back home with me as a trophy of my conquest in battle.”

So he told the king in the throne chamber, and with tears in his eyes the king bowed his head in sorrow, but said, “Yes, I understand, it is your right of conquest.”

The war between the two kingdoms was stopped prematurely, when the king from the East told all, he would take both kingdoms from both kings should they not make peace, and it was a threat he could fulfill. Now, when the request had been made, it happened to be, Prince Dnumiunc was nearby listening, and went historical into the center of the room, said he in no pleasant manner:

“He was my brother—father, do not give him the dagger he cut the throat of my brother with.”

The father looked weary indeed, but what could he say, “Son,” he said in a humbling manner, “…oh my son, Prince and someday to be king of this land of the North, you must keep its traditions and customs, it is like particles of the peoples blood that goes for 100,000-years behind us, we must give it or be shamed, now say no more, I am already disgraced by your mouth, go and hide from my eyes…!”

“Disgraced from this mad-god that has no courage, he should have taken the knife out of his heart when he killed him on the battle field, why now…why now does the slayer come to do what he could have done before?”

Oh yes, there was heat and hate, and venom coming from the body and the mouth of the uncouth prince. Said the king with a sigh, “Say no more, lest I have you removed from this room, and that will be to your dishonor, it will be as I said.”

And that was the last words that came from the tongue of the contempt prince.

2

It was in the hallways Princess Florencia of Drabmol was walking, and she was the flower of all the kingdom, most beautiful, more so they say than Cleopatra, or even Helen of Troy, and when the Prince of Remora saw her he stopped, caught his breath, wide-eyed, said, “My gosh, who are you, a stunning beauty among these Barbarians?”

Said she with her head held high, “I, my young and obnoxious Prince, am Florencia, and I dislike you more than my brother, who scorned you in the throne chamber, now leave me pass!”

Oh, he would not move, not for love or money, king or land, he would not move, he made his stand, “I will have you, you will be my bride to be…you will be in my bed, and bear my children.”

“You insidious, obnoxious creature, how dare you speak to me like that, I am a Princess, and you will never have me, save my father will slay you first.”

The Prince, looked about, “And where is he, your father, and who is he?”

“His name is Prince Dnumiunc,” said Florencia.

“Oh yes,” said Niobla, “Him, I suppose I will have to slay him as I did his brother. Perhaps, once I am king, then we shall see who fairs best in war and battle, with the sword, and without King Nitsuj’s help, we would have you under our heel, had it not been for He.”

“So you say, but I think not.” Rejoined the Princess, “You would have been our servants, is more like it.”

“I see you have a mouth like your brother, so be it, I will tame that also, and put you under my loins, and make love to you, and you will wish I would never stop.”

“I have no lover, but if he were you, I’d cut your throat, or mine.” Exclaimed Florencia.

Then all of a sudden Prince Dnumiunc appeared, said he with hand to his sword, “Why do you talk to this vulture?” he asked his daughter.

“It was I mad prince of Drabmol, I stopped her and asked her whom she was, so I am at fault, not her. But she is beautiful, give me her hand in marriage, for my wife, or I will take her anyway, as a mistress.” Said Niobla.

“You are an infection to this kingdom, and you have out used your curtsey of being our guest, I hope you are gone by morning, I would love to put my sword into your heart, and I need very little reason more.” Said the Prince Dnumiunc.

“I am sure your sword and skill are as dull as your wit and words, hide your sword and save yourself, by giving me your daughter while you can.”

Having said that, the scourged and love hungry prince dashed off to his room.

3

[Nine months later] It was by the night they came, and through the princess’ window they bound her, and took her back to Remora, Prince Niobla was now king.

Said King Niobla, to his captured mistress, Florencia, “You will lay with me one way or the other.”

“I will not willingly, nor do you dare, my father will war with you, slay you.” Said Florencia, nervously, yet trying to keep her composure.

“He must know you are with me by now, where is this father of yours, he is not knocking at my door, I see him not (he goes to the window, it is morning in his land, looks out it, then looks back at Florencia, his eyebrow goes up, he smirks).”

“You dare not…!” repeated the princess.

“Do you think for one minute I have gone through all this, to not have my hunger met?”

“You dare not, my father will….” Reiterated the Princess.

“But I do dare, I will drink your father’s blood someday, will drink it with my wine and mix it with his bones, time will show you it will be so.”

“My grandfather will war with your kingdom, and we almost tore your armies to shreds last time we battled,” said the princess.”

This was true, and the West, feared the Northern barbarians, but the new King would have his mistress nonetheless, and make her queen, one way or the other, or have her live as his mistress, like it or not, and he threw her on his bed. And it was that way for three months, each night, every night. He could not get enough of her. And then it came to pass, he was called to attend a meeting in the Eastern Kingdom, by none other than, Prince Dnumiunc, and King Nitsuj, and to bring Florencia along. Oh it was maddening for the new King Niobla to do so, but he heeded the King’s command from the East, lest he lose his kingdom be lost, and Florencia—and he was no fool.

4

King Nitsuj, sat on his throne, as Prince Dnumiunc stood in front of him, and King Niobla, likewise, said the old king, King Nitsuj, “You have taken a princess out of a kingdom, and spoiled her, what do you have to say for yourself King Niobla?”

“This is true,” said the new King, “and the heart sometimes cannot stop itself, I love her with all my heart, and I had to have her. I requested she be given to me, but her father has venom in his tongue, and blood because I killed his brother in fair battle, as all wars have battles, and loses, and now he wants revenge, and uses his daughter for this; had I not asked for the dagger I cut his brother’s throat with, he’d have given her hand to me in marriage perhaps.”

“This is no reason to take what is not yours in battle. You did not win the war, you slay only a man, a prince, not a princess, you are guilty, what should be the judgment on a king who takes another kings granddaughter, what would your judgment be?”

“I want him dead!” bellowed Prince Dnumiunc.

“And what do you say to that?” asked the presiding king.

“Let Florencia decide what is to be done with me.” Said the accused prince.

King Nitsuj, looked at Prince Dnumiunc, “And what do you say to that?” he asked.

Said the angered Prince, “So be it, she will cut your throat, and your private parts off,” and he laughed with a vengeful grin.

At that, the old king had Florencia brought out, and she was asked what would be her judgment on king Niobla. She hesitated, so her father said, “Have him killed, Florencia, you hate him as I do.” But she could not speak those very same words.

“I must think of this a while,” she expressed, “perhaps a week would do.” Her father held his breath, a sigh came out, it was tension, and he was flabbergasted.

“I am with child, do I slay its father, and then tell the child when he is a young prince, ‘I killed him because he raped me?” All looked at her indecisiveness.

Said the old king, “It must be settled by you now, or I will make the decree…” and he murmured her indecisiveness.

“I cannot make the assessment today, it must wait.” Said Florencia.

“So be it,” said the Eastern King, adding, “you will have the right to join King Niobla at his kingdom, or your own, but should you choose his, you will be wed, and made queen. Should you choose your father’s kingdom, in the North, you will be Princess, and do with the child as you please. That is how it will be.”

And so it was, and Florencia picked out the Western Kingdom, and King Niobla wed her as his wife, and adored her beauty, but hated her insults, yet for some reason he did not revenge those insults, but played with them with wit, for amusement. And they had a daughter, and the king was not happy, perhaps as most kings, they want a son to hand down the throne to, yet he accepted this fact, and adored her all the more, for it kept the Queen in place. He used it, now and then, off and on, when she got too unruly, he’d threaten her with the child, saying in so many words: he’d take the daughter away from a mad woman as she, and have her placed in some far off outpost of the kingdoms.

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The Panama Canal

[May 2006: Advance]: After visiting the Panama Canal, to see its worth, on the world stage, seeing it four times in four days, from the locks to the Bridge of Americas, to the lakes, etc; spending hours each day at the locks, and islands thereabouts, and talking to the Panamanians. I wrote the following poem below, at the canal.

I was told this was the eighth wonder of the world, but then when I was in Haiti, in 1986, likewise I was told, their Citadel was the 8th Wonder of the world. I have traveled the world over, and perhaps we have nine wonders of the world, the Panama being perhaps number 1 to 3, and the Citadel number nine, and we’d have to take one other wonder and put it into the missing category; the Panama Canal is really in a class of its own.

Friendship Poems

A wonder of the world it is

Equal to 6000-plus, war ships

Six pyramids by the Gaza strip.

With all its tunnels, and locks,

Dams, lakes, fifty-one miles of it;

Buildings, mess halls, bridges— Structures and more structures;

Spillways and much cartage;

Bulldozers, trains—ten-years of it,

Building:

Excavations, constructions—:

Like digging a big ditch, through

Mountains, valleys, lakes—all

All I say, all immense, immense

With tons of cement and steel,

Between silt and mud; and two

Oceans between: obstacles

One after another—yellow fever.

The Suez Canal is but a glimpse

Of this immense task, in Panama;

Unequal in every way, to its grandeur.

Afterwards: In building the canal, it took, ten years (by the Americans; the French, several); and cost $675-million dollars between France and America; 62,000-workers worked at any one time on the site (42,000 world die from disease, accidents, est.); the site being 51-miles long, and ten miles wide. There were three locks to build, a few dams, a lake or two, a mountain to blow up, and create a passageway through. The French sold the rights to build the canal to America for $40-million dollars, after they had failed in its completion, at a cost of $300-million. Today that price tag would be over 7-billion dollars. It took 1600-hundred pounds of gold to pay the works each month; or 24-tons of Silver. They had to produce five million loafs of bread, 100,000 pounds of cheese, 9-million pounds of meat, and 300,000 chickens each year to feed the hungry works. In addition, they had to use 150,000-gallions of mosquito oil. Its construction matter is equal to five Suez Canals. The material taken out of the Panama Canal would be equal to six large –pyramids in Egypt. It was an immense task, perhaps the most perplexed since the landing on the moon; in all the history of mankind.

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Funny Birthday Poem For a Boyfriend

Have you ever realized that there is better way of sending funny birthday poems for a boyfriend? You are probably sending your funny birthday poem for a boyfriend through the regular mail. Well if you are a member to an online social utility, then it would be easier for you to send messages like those for free. An online social utility is a website where you can sign in or register for free and use all the applications and tools available for you. Post on your blogs, chat online, send messages, post comments on forums and the list goes on.

If you are a member to this social networks or online social utility, your poems can be seen worldwide on the internet or you can make private. When you make it private, it would only be you and whoever you allow to see it. You will be the one who will dictate who can and who cannot see your poems. You may also want to create your own group of classmates or friends that are really into poem writing and that kind of stuff.

Memberships to these social interactive networks are mostly free. Becoming a member gives you a lot of choices in terms of sending and communicating to your boyfriend or the people around you. To connect and communicate to people you know cannot be easier. You can find people too, on a network like this. Best of all you can chat online with your boyfriend, relatives, classmates, schoolmates and people you know.

There are other things you can do with your poems. You can write more a let the whole know who wrote them, and then you become an instant celebrity or a well known poem writer. Some people make a living writing poems or write them on a part time basis. And the best vehicle for you to be known and recognize is through this social networks. The benefits of being part these groups are the free access to keep in touch with your friends or boyfriend. Another thing you can do is create a group of people who do the same thing as you do so that you can connect and communicate on how to do things.

It is so common nowadays to be a member of an online social utility network especially younger people. They love being well connected to their classmates and schoolmates that some of them may be registered to two or even five different websites. It is a craze that is going to be very popular especially sending messages and keeping in touch.

In today’s world, sending messages are mostly done online or through the internet. Using short messaging services can cost a lot of money if you use too long or more frequently. Whereas, in an online social utility network, it is free and you can do it for hours or as long as you can click the mouse of your computer. Thus, sending a funny birthday poem for a boyfriend can be done easier using a social group or community.

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