I have said that the soul is not more than the body,
And I have said that the body is not more than the soul,
And nothing, not God, is greater to one than one's self is,
And whoever walks a furlong without sympathy walks to his own
funeral drest in his shroud,
And I or you pocketless of a dime may purchase the pick of the earth,
And to glance with an eye or show a bean in its pod confounds the
learning of all times,
And there is no trade or employment but the young man following it
may become a hero,
And there is no object so soft but it makes a hub for the wheel'd universe,
And I say to any man or woman, Let your soul stand cool and composed
before a million universes.
It cannot fall the young man who died and was buried,
Nor the young woman who died and was put by his side,
Nor the little child that peep'd in at the door, and then drew back
and was never seen again,
Nor the old man who has lived without purpose, and feels it with
bitterness worse than gall,
Nor him in the poor house tubercled by rum and the bad disorder,
Nor the numberless slaughter'd and wreck'd, nor the brutish koboo
call'd the ordure of humanity,
Nor the sacs merely floating with open mouths for food to slip in,
Nor any thing in the earth, or down in the oldest graves of the earth,
Nor any thing in the myriads of spheres, nor the myriads of myriads
that inhabit them,
Nor the present, nor the least wisp that is known.
“I like this antique furniture,” Dawn said, putting her hand on the carved headboard. “It reminds me of Colonial times.” She admired the matching dresser and rocking chair.
She stood and crossed the grimy tile floor to the shuffleboard. As she walked to the table’s far end, she brushed away debris from what had once been a highly polished surface. Picking up one of the remaining blue and silver disks, she caressed its old, worn edges, as the feel of it brought back even more memories. She blinked away a tear and stared down the table, while sliding the puck slowly back and forth. Then, with a well-practiced move, her left hand sent the weight racing smoothly down the board. It came to rest near the end of the narrow zone marked 3, a familiar outcome for one of the bar’s old hustlers. She grinned and remembered a happier time when a shot like that drew the applause of onlookers and perhaps won her a cold one.
“Of course,” Mrs. Clark said, handing her a needle and thread. Dawn cut a large square from a beautiful embroider silk blouse Max had given her for her birthday the year before. She sewed it into place next to a colorful neck tie and under a piece of a pink cotton dress. “Hope you had a good time,” the Clarks said, not mentioning Max’s absence.
Do you dread certain situations at work or in your personal life because of hostile or unresponsive encounters or feel powerless to cope with behavior that consistently leaves you depressed and defeated?
Many sites such as WordPress and Blogger have free hosting services. If you don’t already have an account with one of these, it’s easy to create one. Simply provide an email address and password.
God bless the American dreamers who can discuss
and disseminate real and decent, positive portraits
of change-in a Land of No Barricades,
in a land of monumental dreams
and monolithic reality.
I dreamed and dozed, and dreamed once more.
This time, in my dream,
I saw a funeral cortege.
In my view came not just one casket, but two.
In the procession, President Lincoln and Doctor King walked slowly by.
Somehow, I managed to ask-
I don’t know how, I don’t know why:
“Who are in those coffins?”
The writing review sessions will cover both issue and argument analysis essays, addressing structure, argument, the choice and presentation of evidence, and common faults in English grammar and style.
Bio: Marilyn Brandt Smith worked as a teacher, licensed psychologist, and rehabilitation professional. She has edited magazines and newsletters since 1976, and was the first blind Peace Corps volunteer. She lives with her family and many animals in a hundred-year-old home in Kentucky. Her first book, Chasing the Green Sun, published in 2012, is available from Amazon and other bookstores and in audio form. She loves writing flash fiction stories, and was the primary editor for the first Behind Our Eyes anthology, as well as Magnets and Ladders from 2011 through 2013. Another of her interests is music–barbershop harmony, folk and Americana, and current hits. Visit her website at: .
The math review will cover the basic concepts of arithmetic, algebra, geometry, and data analysis needed for the quantitative section, as well as addressing common tricks, mistakes, and pitfalls.
Magnifying and applying come I,
Outbidding at the start the old cautious hucksters,
Taking myself the exact dimensions of Jehovah,
Lithographing Kronos, Zeus his son, and Hercules his grandson,
Buying drafts of Osiris, Isis, Belus, Brahma, Buddha,
In my portfolio placing Manito loose, Allah on a leaf, the crucifix
With Odin and the hideous-faced Mexitli and every idol and image,
Taking them all for what they are worth and not a cent more,
Admitting they were alive and did the work of their days,
(They bore mites as for unfledg'd birds who have now to rise and fly
and sing for themselves,)
Accepting the rough deific sketches to fill out better in myself,
bestowing them freely on each man and woman I see,
Discovering as much or more in a framer framing a house,
Putting higher claims for him there with his roll'd-up sleeves
driving the mallet and chisel,
Not objecting to special revelations, considering a curl of smoke or
a hair on the back of my hand just as curious as any revelation,
Lads ahold of fire-engines and hook-and-ladder ropes no less to me
than the gods of the antique wars,
Minding their voices peal through the crash of destruction,
Their brawny limbs passing safe over charr'd laths, their white
foreheads whole and unhurt out of the flames;
By the mechanic's wife with her babe at her nipple interceding for
every person born,
Three scythes at harvest whizzing in a row from three lusty angels
with shirts bagg'd out at their waists,
The snag-tooth'd hostler with red hair redeeming sins past and to come,
Selling all he possesses, traveling on foot to fee lawyers for his
brother and sit by him while he is tried for forgery;
What was strewn in the amplest strewing the square rod about me, and
not filling the square rod then,
The bull and the bug never worshipp'd half enough,
Dung and dirt more admirable than was dream'd,
The supernatural of no account, myself waiting my time to be one of
The day getting ready for me when I shall do as much good as the
best, and be as prodigious;
By my life-lumps!
I was halfway between Sears and totally broke, sitting alone in the noisy food-court, eating a tasteless salad, and wondering why I let my mother brow-beat me into getting dressed and driving into town with her to go shopping the day after Thanksgiving, the busiest shopping day of the year.