The Lazy Man

‘Tis the voice of the sluggard; I heard him complain,
“You have waked me too soon, I must slumber again.”
As the door on its hinges, so he on his bed,
Turns his sides and his shoulders and his heavy head.

“A little more sleep, and a little more slumber;”
Thus he wastes half his days, and his hours without number,
And when he gets up, he sits folding his hands,
Or walks about sauntering, or trifling he stands.

I pass’d by his garden, and saw the wild brier,
The thorn and the thistle grow broader and higher;
The clothes that hang on him are turning to rags;
And his money still wastes till he starves or he begs.

I made him a visit, still hoping to find
That he took better care for improving his mind:
He told me his dreams, talked of eating and drinking;
But scarce reads his Bible, and never loves thinking.

Said I then to my heart, “Here’s a lesson for me,”
This man’s but a picture of what I might be:
But thanks to my friends for their care in my breeding,
Who taught me betimes to love working and reading.”

~Isaac Watts

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A Farewell

I found this poem and I thought it was too beautiful not to share.

“My fairest child, I have no song to give you; 

No lark could pipe to skies so dull and grey:

Yet, ere we part, one lesson I can leave you

For every day.

Be good, sweet maid, and let who will be clever;

Do noble things, not dream them, all day long:

And so make life, death, and that vast for-ever

One grand, sweet song. ”

Charles Kingsley

~N

Army of Truth

As part of school, Mom and Dad decided to have us entering writing contests and then post them here. That way we will *hopefully* be posting more deep and well thought out things than music and funny pictures in the future.

This was my first poem admission to AFHE’s ‘Why I like Homeschool’. It didn’t win, but I have the satisfaction of giving my best. Critiques are welcome.

*WARNING* I’m a homeschooler, a capitalist, a Christian, a stay-at-home daughter, a Calvinist, a reformist, a re-constructionist, and I believe in the Biblical patriarchy. My poem will be tinted as such.

 

“Dark and organized completely

Covered in a mass of lies.

But still they manage to look neatly

Though the deception glazes their eyes.

Prepared to fight an unseen battle,

Marching out in Hitler style,

Their tools of trade loudly rattle,

Prepared to herd the preoccupied cattle,

as they march the extra mile.

 

Going to teach the proletariat

What the ones on high want said.

For this was the army Invariant

With the devil leading at their head.

When they have the child’s heart won

Then the parents would they beguile

And then would begin the fun

And they would be stopped by none

As they march the extra mile.

 

This army was of people just doing their job

Believing that billions of years was the truth,

That complex DNA started out as a blob,

That we were monkeys in our youth.

The bible was fairy tale, contradicting itself,

Christianity was empty, religion; vile.

That if anyone wanted to better himself,

He had better submit to the devil himself,

As they march the extra mile

 

They would bring up their students

To look to the State.

Not care about truth

Just stack the next crate.

And get on with real life

Just walk in single file

And march with the State fife

And they might grant you a wife

As they march the extra mile.

 

They would take away reason

For it was overrated.

They could make thought treason,

Though it was already outdated.

For These were the teachers of the generation

Leading the children down to hell

Ushering this young generation

into a brave new world under spell

Of the tyrant red school bell

As they march the extra mile

 

But I knew who they were

I knew what they would say

they would make truth a blur

And then society would decay

But I was prepared for the fight

For I knew well the church aisle

And God’s word was my delight

And I knew everything would be alright

As I marched the extra mile

 

I knew their lies well,

their infamous tools of trade,

And I had been taught to dispel

That dull over-used blade.

Taught by the ones seasoned in war

Who were there next to me in the church aisle

Who I will always adore

who taught me darkness to abhor

As they marched the extra mile

 

My parents were there ready to fight

Strong and confident

That they had done right

And in good deeds they were opulent

They knew how the world would be

in this new lifestyle

And they to this would not agree

Because they looked out for me

as they marched the extra mile

 

They understood me completely

My strength and weakness

And they felt for me deeply

And knew what it meant to be weakest

And they cared for my future

So they told me to hate the vile

And try to be a producer

And because they were my tutor

I now walk the extra mile

 

Their words are my guide

Through this mountainous valley

And as I walk in their stride

I miss those years badly

Though the fight rages on

I miss them in the aisle

and though they are now withdrawn

I have been called upon

To march the extra mile

 

This war is not new to me,

And I shall march with pride,

As I go to join the free

And we shall ride side-by-side.

Our differences we shall cast aside,

The holy word will be our guide,

With confidence in our every stride.

For Light and darkness will collide

Across the whole worldwide

And darkness will be split wide

As we gloriously, victoriously ride

the extra mile

~N

The Gods of the Copybook Headings

~Ruyard Kipling

AS I PASS through my incarnations in every age and race,
I make my proper prostrations to the Gods of the Market Place.
Peering through reverent fingers I watch them flourish and fall,
And the Gods of the Copybook Headings, I notice, outlast them all.

We were living in trees when they met us. They showed us each in turn
That Water would certainly wet us, as Fire would certainly burn:
But we found them lacking in Uplift, Vision and Breadth of Mind,
So we left them to teach the Gorillas while we followed the March of Mankind.

We moved as the Spirit listed. They never altered their pace,
Being neither cloud nor wind-borne like the Gods of the Market Place,
But they always caught up with our progress, and presently word would come
That a tribe had been wiped off its icefield, or the lights had gone out in Rome.

With the Hopes that our World is built on they were utterly out of touch,
They denied that the Moon was Stilton; they denied she was even Dutch;
They denied that Wishes were Horses; they denied that a Pig had Wings;
So we worshipped the Gods of the Market Who promised these beautiful things.

When the Cambrian measures were forming, They promised perpetual peace.
They swore, if we gave them our weapons, that the wars of the tribes would cease.
But when we disarmed They sold us and delivered us bound to our foe,
And the Gods of the Copybook Headings said: “Stick to the Devil you know.”

On the first Feminian Sandstones we were promised the Fuller Life
(Which started by loving our neighbour and ended by loving his wife)
Till our women had no more children and the men lost reason and faith,
And the Gods of the Copybook Headings said: “The Wages of Sin is Death.”

In the Carboniferous Epoch we were promised abundance for all,
By robbing selected Peter to pay for collective Paul;
But, though we had plenty of money, there was nothing our money could buy,
And the Gods of the Copybook Headings said: “If you don’t work you die.” 

Then the Gods of the Market tumbled, and their smooth-tongued wizards withdrew
And the hearts of the meanest were humbled and began to believe it was true
That All is not Gold that Glitters, and Two and Two make Four
And the Gods of the Copybook Headings limped up to explain it once more.

As it will be in the future, it was at the birth of Man
There are only four things certain since Social Progress began.
That the Dog returns to his Vomit and the Sow returns to her Mire,
And the burnt Fool’s bandaged finger goes wabbling back to the Fire;

And that after this is accomplished, and the brave new world begins
When all men are paid for existing and no man must pay for his sins,
As surely as Water will wet us, as surely as Fire will burn,
The Gods of the Copybook Headings with terror and slaughter return!

~Nashae

A Poem of Contradictions

Ladies and jellyspoons, hobos and tramps,
cross-eyed mosquitos and bow-legged ants,
I stand before you to sit behind you
to tell you something I know nothing about.
Next Thursday, which is Good Friday,
there’s a Mother’s Day meeting for fathers only;
wear your best clothes if you haven’t any.
Please come if you can’t; if you can, stay at home.
Admission is free, pay at the door;
pull up a chair and sit on the floor.
It makes no difference where you sit,
the man in the gallery’s sure to spit.
The show is over, but before you go,
let me tell you a story I don’t really know.
One bright day in the middle of the night,
two dead boys got up to fight.
(The blind man went to see fair play;
the mute man went to shout “hooray!”)
Back to back they faced each other,
drew their swords and shot each other.
A deaf policeman heard the noise,
and came and killed the two dead boys.
A paralysed donkey passing by
kicked the blind man in the eye;
knocked him through a nine-inch wall,
into a dry ditch and drowned them all.
If you don’t believe this lie is true,
ask the blind man; he saw it too,
through a knothole in a wooden brick wall.
And the man with no legs walked away.

~Mr. Author Unknown

If


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!

~Rudyard Kipling

I thought this poem was very inspiring; Rudyard sure has a skill with words even Cyrano would envy.

~Nashae

Have you been taught?

Here is a very good poem that I like a lot…….
Sorrow the Teacher
I walked a mile with Pleasure; 
She chatted all the way;
But left me none the wiser 
For all she had to say.
I walked a mile with Sorrow;
and ne’ re a word said she;
But, oh! the things I learned from her, 
When Sorrow walked with me.
~ Robert Hamilton
So…. have you walked a mile with Sorrow?
~ Renadae for the girls