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... all switched over to Windows 7, everything running smoothly and just sorted out to get the task and tool bars to replicate what I had under XP so I can find my programs again - what joy :o)
I usually only look at Any Answers so was delighted to find your little oasis of peace and tranquility. I have written a lot of poetry myself but I stumbled across this poet a little while back. It certainly struck a chord with me.
Rising five – by Norman Nicholson
"I'm rising five" he said "Not four" and the little coils of hair Un-clicked themselves upon his head. His spectacles, brimful of eyes to stare At me and the meadow, reflected cones of light Above his toffee-buckled cheeks. He'd been alive Fifty-six months or perhaps a week more;
Not four But rising five.
Around him in the field, the cells of spring Bubbled and doubled; buds unbuttoned; shoot And stem shook out the creases from their frills, And every tree was swilled with green. It was the season after blossoming, Before the forming of the fruit:
Not May But rising June.
And in the sky The dust dissected the tangential light:
Not day But rising night;
Not now But rising soon.
The new buds push the old leaves from the bough.
We drop our youth behind us like a boy Throwing away his toffee-wrappers. We never see the flower, But only the fruit in the flower; never the fruit, But only the rot in the fruit. We look for the marriage bed In the baby's cradle; we look for the grave in the bed;
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Something to ponder
Hi again OGA
I usually only look at Any Answers so was delighted to find your little oasis of peace and tranquility. I have written a lot of poetry myself but I stumbled across this poet a little while back. It certainly struck a chord with me.
Rising five – by Norman Nicholson
"I'm rising five" he said
"Not four" and the little coils of hair
Un-clicked themselves upon his head.
His spectacles, brimful of eyes to stare
At me and the meadow, reflected cones of light
Above his toffee-buckled cheeks. He'd been alive
Fifty-six months or perhaps a week more;
Not four
But rising five.
Around him in the field, the cells of spring
Bubbled and doubled; buds unbuttoned; shoot
And stem shook out the creases from their frills,
And every tree was swilled with green.
It was the season after blossoming,
Before the forming of the fruit:
Not May
But rising June.
And in the sky
The dust dissected the tangential light:
Not day
But rising night;
Not now
But rising soon.
The new buds push the old leaves from the bough.
We drop our youth behind us like a boy
Throwing away his toffee-wrappers.
We never see the flower,
But only the fruit in the flower; never the fruit,
But only the rot in the fruit.
We look for the marriage bed
In the baby's cradle;
we look for the grave in the bed;
Not living
But rising dead.