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

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

Dear Mother –

If I could give you diamonds

for each tear you’ve cried;

If I could give you sapphires

for each truth you’ve helped me see;

If I could give you rubies

for the heartache that you’ve known,

If I could give you pearls

for the wisdom that you’ve shown.

Then you’d have a treasure; Mother,

That would mount up to the skies;

That would almost match the sparkle

in your kind and loving eyes.

But I have no pearls or diamonds,

as I’m sure your well aware,

So I’ll give you gifts more precious,

my devotion love and care.

love,

Moriah Renata (Not written by me)

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