I wonder if this verse was Mr Guest’s answer to Rudyard Kipling’s famous verse, IF? Read IF here.
by Edgar Guest
To do your little bit of toil, to play life’s game with head erect; to stoop to nothing that would soil your honor or your self-respect; to win what gold and fame you can, but first of all to be a man.
To know the bitter and the sweet, the sunshine and the days of rain; to meet both victory and defeat, nor boast too loudly nor complain; to face whatever fates befall and be a man throughout it all.
To seek success in honest strife but not to value it so much that, winning it, you go through life stained by dishonor’s scarlet touch. What goal or dream you choose, pursue, but be a man whatever you do!
The Letter F takes its place and stands tall amongst all the other letters, for it starts many a great and noble word. The feisty F has proven itself quite useful for alliteration, too.
Some folks are FOOTLOOSE and FANCY FREE Others talk of FREEDOM, FIDELITY, and FRATERNITY. They rally round their FLAG and FIGHT what they consider to be the FORCES of oppression. (However, opinions on “oppression” differ.)
The Apostle Paul urged the followers of Christ to
The flexibility of the letter F is also useful for this cute little verse my mother-in-law liked to quote: A flea and a fly were imprisoned one day in a flue. Said the fly to the flea, “Let us fly!” Said the flea to the fly, “Let us flee!” So they flew through a flaw in the flue.
F can stand for FIRST. And this week I’ve seen some first-class spring signs: the first butterfly the first robin the first meadowlark
But watch your step, because F can also begin:
As in this poem I’ve called “FOLLY”
Fools are always rushing in where another fool’s already been, the path well trodden by the feet that think temptation’s end is sweet.
Did you know that the word BRUSQUE is derived from the name of an unpleasant spine-covered shrub called “the butcher’s broom”? The Latin name, bruscum became the Italian brusco and the meaning morphed into sharp , tart, or sour. The French adopted it as BRUSQUE, and understood it to mean fierce or lively. We Anglophones kept the French version, but added an adaptation of our own for good measure: the word BRISK.
And now a lively little verse that I penned on Saturday, when FLAMFOO was the prompt at Word of the Day..
I’ve never been a flamfoo, just do enough to pass; a shower and a shampoo, bedecked in simple class.
Never tried to look bepranked in duds that gleam or flash, nor as a fashion-plate be ranked I’d rather bank my cash.
“Wash and wear” is my one speed and minimum my taste; bedizenments I don’t need, those primps and perms a waste.
You may lament my brusquerie, berate my spartan leaning, but I’ll bypass the frippery, let others do the preening.
He signed His name in granite as the mountains tall were formed; He signed His name in sunlight and the cold earth slowly warmed.
He signed His name in water as He filled the seven seas; He signed His name in fertile soil where He placed the mighty trees.
He signed His name in clay made flesh as He created man; He signed His name on the earth He made according to His plan.
He signed His name in wrath as He destroyed the world by flood, but to save us from our wicked ways, He signed His name in blood.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ This is an old poem, I believe; I got a copy from Mom long ago. However, I couldn’t find any trace of the verse or author in a Google search, so if anyone knows more about it or him, please share the info in a comment below.
As I wrote in my rambling post this morning, our dear little Tuffy is no longer with us, having been hit by a passing vehicle last night. Here’s another poet who lost a loved pet.
JUST A CAT by James Allen
You’ve gone, old pal! No more I’ll hear your deep contented purr, nor will my fingers stoke again your sleek and cosy fur. No more my feet will stumble o’er your friendly arching back– that little trick you played so well when begging for a snack.
Those trustful eyes so deep and wise nor more shall gaze in mine; no more I’ll watch your graceful tread so lordly and benign. No more upon the window sill you’ll sit beside my chair, to read with me the Daily Star and show your wisdom rare.
I found a wisp of fur today where once you laid your head; ‘twas near the spot you loved so well– the bottom of my bed. I miss you, little pal of mine, and heavy is my heart, for in a life of noise and strife you played a kindly part.
Methinks I hear the cynics say, “Aw, shucks, he’s just a cat!” They do not know, these heedless ones, a pet is just like that: perhaps a horse you love to ride, a dog or maybe two; there’s something in that bond that makes a richer man of you.
And so a thought I’d like to plant amid the selfish din: a love of pets and helpless things would make the world akin. To “Timo” then, I pen my ode and hope – if I may dare – that in the Happy Hunting Grounds he’ll find good hunting there.
This is from an old clipping saved by Bob’s Mom. Other notes on the clipping speaks of Canada as “the Dominion of” so it does back a ways. Maybe even a long-lost relative of mine. 🙂
What is so rare as a day in March, when sunshine knocks out stiff winter’s starch when the blanket of snow spills into a trickle and bloggers once faithful to post become fickle? Eschewing my blog I now lounge in the light and – making things worse – have been painting at night.
Spring came to our land last week. In a few days the temp went from -30 to +3. The citizens went from parkas to light jackets. We love the sunny skies and seeing more and more of our lawns appearing!
Looking out the back window yesterday, I noticed a black dot like a stone, lying in the deep snow behind the house and realized that it was the tip of the fence post, buried for months under six feet of snow, now poking through. Two days ago I walked through the back yard, picking the spot where the bank was lowest. It was pretty hard-packed, but where my feet sank in, the snow was knee-deep, so we have a ways to go yet before the back lawn appears.
I’m not sure what’s with me these days, that I’ve abandoned writing and posting for a week. Is this spring fever? The utter abandonment of responsibilities? Too many irons in the fire? But I want to peek in today and say “Hi. Yes, I am alive and reasonably healthy.” To my newest followers, “Thanks for following. I hope you’re finding stuff to read in my archives.”
And I’ve gone from blogging every morning to cleaning house, getting rid of excess stuff, and spending a few hours splashing paint on canvas. Mediocre scenes maybe, but I’m just a beginner. After watching a few demonstrations I tried doing an impressionist style – which didn’t impress friends or hubby – but I think I’ll keep on splashing and dabbing. It looks so easy when I watch the pros do it!
OCD I have: everywhere I turn now, I see something I want to paint! So I reach for a new canvas, then my perfectionism kicks in and I’m afraid to start because I may make a mess of it. I spend too much time looking for a picture I think I could manage, but still have to tell myself often, “It’s okay to make an unrecognizable mess. That’s how you’ll learn.” Do any of you readers have these inner battles that keep you from starting some bold adventure?
Anyway, I hope you’re all enjoying life, in fairly good health, seeing lots of sunshine and blue skies wherever you are.