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jarocho57 (December 31, 1969 at 6:59 pm)
[IF] Rudyard Kipling If you can keep your head when all about youAre losing theirs and blaming it on you,If you can trust yourself when all men doubt youBut 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:
jarocho57 (December 31, 1969 at 6:59 pm)
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 DisasterAnd treat those two impostors just the same;If you can bear to hear the truth you've spokenTwisted 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:
jarocho57 (December 31, 1969 at 6:59 pm)
If you can make one heap of all your winningsAnd risk it all on one turn of pitch-and-toss,And lose, and start again at your beginningsAnd never breath a word about your loss;If you can force your heart and nerve and sinewTo serve your turn long after they are gone,And so hold on when there is nothing in youExcept the Will which says to them: "Hold on!"
jarocho57 (December 31, 1969 at 6:59 pm)
Rudyard Kipling 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 minuteWith 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!
PrisonerOfTheCube (December 31, 1969 at 6:59 pm)
Here I sit alone and bitter..Quietly stuck upon this shitter..I wish I could just squeeze and go..But then unfinished business be the seed I sew..So I must sit here till this ends..Maybe next time I will use depends..:)- Cube 9/3/2008
psstheyyou (December 31, 1969 at 6:59 pm)
Poetry is the breath of eaglesPerched on the heart.One word and they cry.Two words and they fly.In silence they die.Broken winged and deadLike poetry unsaid.Flight is the arcing of invisible geometriesWhich leave no trace on the air.This is the purpose of the wing :To unfold the flight path of spiritAnd in poetry sing.
Raymantico (December 31, 1969 at 6:59 pm)
Oh look it's Robert Hass who makes money writing poems about trees printed in superfluous numbers on paper from trees, who has to date nothing to say about his campus planning to slaughter of one of the last stands of coastal oaks, as well as thousands of trees in the hills.
BenTrovato (December 31, 1969 at 6:59 pm)
I learned "If" as a young child, yet feel as though I never heard it before hearing Coach Braun read it.
med1367 (December 31, 1969 at 6:59 pm)
Lunch Poem???!!?!!????!?!?...???
klakkin (December 31, 1969 at 6:59 pm)
Swoon |
