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From: vtcapo on 19 May 2010 20:08
On May 19, 7:27 pm, HVAC <mr.h...(a)gmail.com> wrote:
> The day is cold, and dark, and dreary
> It rains, and the wind is never weary;
> The Vine still clings to the moldering wall,
> But at every gust the dead leaves fall,
> And the day is dark and dreary.
>
> My life is cold, and dark, and dreary;
> It rains, and the wind is never weary;
> My thoughts still cling to the moldering past,
> But the hopes of youth fall thick in the blast,
> And the days are dark and dreary.
>
> Be still, sad heart! And cease repining;
> Behind the clouds is the sun still shining;
> Thy fate is the common fate of all,
> Into each life some rain must fall,
> Some days must be dark and dreary.
>
> “The Rainy Day”
> – H. W. Longfellow


>The day is cold, and dark, and dreary..
>My life is cold, and dark, and dreary...
>But the hopes of youth fall thick in the blast..

Geez... try getting laid it would do you a world of good and every one
on this NG.

RT
From: Double-A on 19 May 2010 20:35
HAUNTINGS

The hauntings laced themselves into another year,
Grew into miracles and fertilized the grass.
Spinning absent-mindedly,

A thump and a rattle intercepting my dream,
I clutched in fury to my story,
And, uncertain on which side of the glass I had landed,

I turned the page to the first window and climbed through.
A cord by which a weight is suspended
To test the perpendicularity or depth of a thought.

Anything resembling a plume or feather. To adorn, dress,
Or furnish with plumes. The thread had vanished
Through the maze lined with brilliant blue, an opulence

Amazing as the strutting peacock crossing my path.
The hauntings came more frequently,
Settled across the lawn, warmed the eaves. Is this the lesson

We were destined to create, tracing sweet edges onto everything,
Legibly exchanging all the fettered excuses
With a lovelier version dangling off into the clear deep pool?

A division or boundary marked or conceived
Between adjoining areas. The cord plumbed my ignorance.
The plot stretched endlessly, they reported, endlessly

Repeating what came to me one evening
Persuading the windows to cloud,
the stars to brighten, the moon to retreat demurely behind

A dark sense of urgency. As though the mist itself were a mirth
Yet grounded into body. Demanded in haste,
Given under duress, a rattled mention remained for dinner

Clearing the table until the chairs were neatly arranged
For company. We invited only those missing
All sense of propriety. All cleverness concealed. All desserts
aflame

With sweetened promises wrapped in tinsel foil
Tucked under the waiting pillow. The room was elsewhere.
The explanation unravelled beyond my understanding,

Hedged the border with a wait and see attitude.
Every applicant was scrutinized as a potential messenger.
But me, that was the problem. Me. Trespasser

Pressed into service by an aimless habit, a nagging
Obsession drawing me back to the entrance. Relentlessly crippling
My desire to move on. Relentlessly sending me on

An errand that folded me back upon myself.
Was this the curse of my preoccupation?
Or merely my blessing. To mingle and combine

So as to obscure or harmonize the varying components,
The concerns, they called them, compulsions pushing through
The soil until a garden emerged, organized

And flowered new responsibilities -- life, they said --
Kept me awake all night. The river remained the same.
But more and more, so did I. Looking the part,

Aimless but energized by a new vision
Acquired in darkness, stuffed into my pockets and taken home.
A fortified watchtower, squinting against the light,

Caught in the middle of the sacred chamber
Whose floors were laid with marble,
Whose walls held special insight into a vision

Pared for comfort, shaved and scaled to match the era,
Chimed the hours. Measured in the stone
Of an old extravagance, a mystery reverberating the present

Until lights sing, darkness speaks the spell
Lingering in the confusion, as though the hauntings
Were Enlightenment itself. The distance to be travelled

At any cost, its systems and roads mapping vast
Expanses of mind over matter -- a mere restoration
Supporting the vaulted roof. These copies

And originals identical. Looking for some way in,
Circling the distance to be travelled,
I thumbed through these illustrations of the profound.

The cord weighed heavily upon me, sunk deeper
Than my memory allowed. Than my mother allowed.
The cord pulled me back to the old intersection,

Laid me bare to be dressed in the plumes of her intrigue.
But was I the trespasser? Lured back again
With the knowledge gleaned from experience, the old promise

Made by us both. To encircle by winding or weaving,
Endlessly revolving back to the place of origin.
The logic and elegance of the interior carried me

Through its argument, an alphabet building
Its own structure to house an idea hidden
In these secret vaults. I wandered aimlessly.

Here was design trimmed to fit
The particular niches of the puzzle, a maze of concentration
Broken only by generations turning the soil.

The thought stood perpendicular as a stave
Beside me, a mechanism assigning me greater responsibility,
A trick played well, posted as sentry.

They say crusaders were killed endlessly flitting and filing away
The various pieces of the puzzle, sited upon
An inhospitable terrain, just inside the encircling logic

Nature obeys. The temple had been filled with sand,
A castle subject to erosion. These were visions
We had to learn, to leave, to stand outside the threshold

And peer through. A story half as old as time
Traced back to a source, then broken off.
As much for the onlooker as the maker.

A buried circular staircase, circling toward the obscure
But recorded section of a vision sketched into stone.
The fortune lay scrolled inward toward the reader,

Its clear message left as a last minute impulse
To render clear the clouded window
Parted for that breath of air, the first glimpse.

-- Virginia Hooper

Double-A

From: Warhol on 19 May 2010 21:07
On May 20, 2:35 am, Double-A <double...(a)hush.com> wrote:
> HAUNTINGS
>
> The hauntings laced themselves into another year,
> Grew into miracles and fertilized the grass.
> Spinning absent-mindedly,
>
> A thump and a rattle intercepting my dream,
> I clutched in fury to my story,
> And, uncertain on which side of the glass I had landed,
>
> I turned the page to the first window and climbed through.
> A cord by which a weight is suspended
> To test the perpendicularity or depth of a thought.
>
> Anything resembling a plume or feather.  To adorn, dress,
> Or furnish with plumes.  The thread had vanished
> Through the maze lined with brilliant blue, an opulence
>
> Amazing as the strutting peacock crossing my path.
> The hauntings came more frequently,
> Settled across the lawn, warmed the eaves.  Is this the lesson
>
> We were destined to create, tracing sweet edges onto everything,
> Legibly exchanging all the fettered excuses
> With a lovelier version dangling off into the clear deep pool?
>
> A division or boundary marked or conceived
> Between adjoining areas.  The cord plumbed my ignorance.
> The plot stretched endlessly, they reported, endlessly
>
> Repeating what came to me one evening
> Persuading the windows to cloud,
> the stars to brighten, the moon to retreat demurely behind
>
> A dark sense of urgency.  As though the mist itself were a mirth
> Yet grounded into body.  Demanded in haste,
> Given under duress, a rattled mention remained for dinner
>
> Clearing the table until the chairs were neatly arranged
> For company.  We invited only those missing
> All sense of propriety.  All cleverness concealed.  All desserts
> aflame
>
> With sweetened promises wrapped in tinsel foil
> Tucked under the waiting pillow.  The room was elsewhere.
> The explanation unravelled beyond my understanding,
>
> Hedged the border with a wait and see attitude.
> Every applicant was scrutinized as a potential messenger.
> But me, that was the problem.  Me.  Trespasser
>
> Pressed into service by an aimless habit, a nagging
> Obsession drawing me back to the entrance.  Relentlessly crippling
> My desire to move on.  Relentlessly sending me on
>
> An errand that folded me back upon myself.
> Was this the curse of my preoccupation?
> Or merely my blessing.  To mingle and combine
>
> So as to obscure or harmonize the varying components,
> The concerns, they called them, compulsions pushing through
> The soil until a garden emerged, organized
>
> And flowered new responsibilities -- life, they said --
> Kept me awake all night.  The river remained the same.
> But more and more, so did I.  Looking the part,
>
> Aimless but energized by a new vision
> Acquired in darkness, stuffed into my pockets and taken home.
> A fortified watchtower, squinting against the light,
>
> Caught in the middle of the sacred chamber
> Whose floors were laid with marble,
> Whose walls held special insight into a vision
>
> Pared for comfort, shaved and scaled to match the era,
> Chimed the hours.  Measured in the stone
> Of an old extravagance, a mystery reverberating the present
>
> Until lights sing, darkness speaks the spell
> Lingering in the confusion, as though the hauntings
> Were Enlightenment itself.  The distance to be travelled
>
> At any cost, its systems and roads mapping vast
> Expanses of mind over matter -- a mere restoration
> Supporting the vaulted roof.  These copies
>
> And originals identical.  Looking for some way in,
> Circling the distance to be travelled,
> I thumbed through these illustrations of the profound.
>
> The cord weighed heavily upon me, sunk deeper
> Than my memory allowed.  Than my mother allowed.
> The cord pulled me back to the old intersection,
>
> Laid me bare to be dressed in the plumes of her intrigue.
> But was I the trespasser?  Lured back again
> With the knowledge gleaned from experience, the old promise
>
> Made by us both.  To encircle by winding or weaving,
> Endlessly revolving back to the place of origin.
> The logic and elegance of the interior carried me
>
> Through its argument, an alphabet building
> Its own structure to house an idea hidden
> In these secret vaults.  I wandered aimlessly.
>
> Here was design trimmed to fit
> The particular niches of the puzzle, a maze of concentration
> Broken only by generations turning the soil.
>
> The thought stood perpendicular as a stave
> Beside me, a mechanism assigning me greater responsibility,
> A trick played well, posted as sentry.
>
> They say crusaders were killed endlessly flitting and filing away
> The various pieces of the puzzle, sited upon
> An inhospitable terrain, just inside the encircling logic
>
> Nature obeys.  The temple had been filled with sand,
> A castle subject to erosion.  These were visions
> We had to learn, to leave, to stand outside the threshold
>
> And peer through.  A story half as old as time
> Traced back to a source, then broken off.
> As much for the onlooker as the maker.
>
> A buried circular staircase, circling toward the obscure
> But recorded section of a vision sketched into stone.
> The fortune lay scrolled inward toward the reader,
>
> Its clear message left as a last minute impulse
> To render clear the clouded window
> Parted for that breath of air, the first glimpse.
>
> --  Virginia Hooper
>
> Double-A



I like this...
From: Warhol on 19 May 2010 21:19
On May 20, 1:21 am, HVAC <mr.h...(a)gmail.com> wrote:
> The day is cold, and dark, and dreary
> It rains, and the wind is never weary;
> The Vine still clings to the moldering wall,
> But at every gust the dead leaves fall,
> And the day is dark and dreary.
>
> My life is cold, and dark, and dreary;
> It rains, and the wind is never weary;
> My thoughts still cling to the moldering past,
> But the hopes of youth fall thick in the blast,
> And the days are dark and dreary.
>
> Be still, sad heart! And cease repining;
> Behind the clouds is the sun still shining;
> Thy fate is the common fate of all,
> Into each life some rain must fall,
> Some days must be dark and dreary.
>
> “The Rainy Day”
> – H. W. Longfellow



Such is the way of life.
Hills that must be overcome.
In the night he comes to fight.
Lonely is the less trodden down.
Loving life through truths not told.

Nothing to stand in their way.
Useless minds that do not pay.
Mothers weep at sights of death.
Boyfriends smoking crystal meth.
Everyday the same is told.
Running from pasts so old.

Forever we live out every day.
Our paths will cross in that bay.
Under ruins of our homes.
Resting men shake their bones.

Come closer now and you will see.
Only they shall pay the fee.
Never will we stop to rest.
The time is here for your test.
As you live out simple lives.
Calling out those taking dives.
The start is now for your lies.
From: *_//!!_//!!* on 20 May 2010 06:22
On 20 May, 00:21, HVAC <mr.h...(a)gmail.com> wrote:
> The day is cold, and dark, and dreary
> It rains, and the wind is never weary;
> The Vine still clings to the moldering wall,
> But at every gust the dead leaves fall,
> And the day is dark and dreary.
>
> My life is cold, and dark, and dreary;
> It rains, and the wind is never weary;
> My thoughts still cling to the moldering past,
> But the hopes of youth fall thick in the blast,
> And the days are dark and dreary.
>
> Be still, sad heart! And cease repining;
> Behind the clouds is the sun still shining;
> Thy fate is the common fate of all,
> Into each life some rain must fall,
> Some days must be dark and dreary.
>
> “The Rainy Day”
> – H. W. Longfellow

Nice! Not dissimilar to what it's like here
right now, the Current Weather :)

Bring me Sunshine, now and forever.

*Halleluja*

*Amen*
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