02-20-2022, 11:38 PM
(This post was last modified: 02-20-2022, 11:47 PM by Dekalb_Blues.)
SOLAR SALUTE
Every time I sleep something changes
It's the world of which I speak, it's the state of the times
I'd like to pause and hold the future, capture today before it fades
But life, it moves into forever
Nobody stays the same for long
Today is out-of-date before it's over
But I don't want to know about -- about the future yet
I don't want to know about -- about the future yet
Days, they are rare when I can look around me
Live with what I see
It's a state of the time and if I don't take care
I'll be left behind here
Who is ahead? It's unclear
Because life, it moves into forever
Nobody stays the same for long
Today is out-of-date before it's over
But I don't want to know about -- about the future yet
I don't want to know about -- about the future yet
"It's extremely difficult, Rosalind, to reconcile belief with human passion." She hesitated, frowned, and fell silent.
"What example were you about to give?”
"Is thee competent to hear?”
"I am."
"I'm sixty-nine . . ."
"And that excuses your frankness?"
"I think so."
"Then tell me the unpleasantness."
"It's not unpleasant, Rosalind. It's the kind of problem by which God tests us."
"For example."
"I think thee must assume responsibility for thy husband's other children."
Without altering the even tone of her voice, Rosalind asked, "Where are they now?"
"In the marsh,” Ruth Brinton replied. "In the swamps of human despair."
. . . .
"Why should I become involved with these children?"
"Because . . .” She hesitated . . . .
"Where did my husband meet her?" Rosalind asked quietly.
"In the marsh." The old woman spoke with no condemnation. “He’s not to blame, Rosalind. As thee undoubtedly knows . . . . [he] drifted to the marsh, and that's where his three children are."
"Was this long ago?"
"It's now. One’s a mere babe. . . . Thee will live a long time on this river," the old woman said, "and encounter many obligations. Thy husband. His children. Thy own. Life consists of sending everything forward. Everything."
--- from James Michener, Chesapeake (New York: Random House, 1978)
The Great [1811-1812] Earthquake at New Madrid
XXIII
Every time I sleep something changes
It's the world of which I speak, it's the state of the times
I'd like to pause and hold the future, capture today before it fades
But life, it moves into forever
Nobody stays the same for long
Today is out-of-date before it's over
But I don't want to know about -- about the future yet
I don't want to know about -- about the future yet
Days, they are rare when I can look around me
Live with what I see
It's a state of the time and if I don't take care
I'll be left behind here
Who is ahead? It's unclear
Because life, it moves into forever
Nobody stays the same for long
Today is out-of-date before it's over
But I don't want to know about -- about the future yet
I don't want to know about -- about the future yet
"It's extremely difficult, Rosalind, to reconcile belief with human passion." She hesitated, frowned, and fell silent.
"What example were you about to give?”
"Is thee competent to hear?”
"I am."
"I'm sixty-nine . . ."
"And that excuses your frankness?"
"I think so."
"Then tell me the unpleasantness."
"It's not unpleasant, Rosalind. It's the kind of problem by which God tests us."
"For example."
"I think thee must assume responsibility for thy husband's other children."
Without altering the even tone of her voice, Rosalind asked, "Where are they now?"
"In the marsh,” Ruth Brinton replied. "In the swamps of human despair."
. . . .
"Why should I become involved with these children?"
"Because . . .” She hesitated . . . .
"Where did my husband meet her?" Rosalind asked quietly.
"In the marsh." The old woman spoke with no condemnation. “He’s not to blame, Rosalind. As thee undoubtedly knows . . . . [he] drifted to the marsh, and that's where his three children are."
"Was this long ago?"
"It's now. One’s a mere babe. . . . Thee will live a long time on this river," the old woman said, "and encounter many obligations. Thy husband. His children. Thy own. Life consists of sending everything forward. Everything."
--- from James Michener, Chesapeake (New York: Random House, 1978)
The Great [1811-1812] Earthquake at New Madrid
XXIII