Friends Without Faces--FACEBOOK-Social Neworking

We sit and we type and we stare at our screens,
We can't help but wonder what all of this means.
With mouse in hand..we roam through this maze,
On an infinite search..lost in a daze.

Soon friendships are formed-but why we don't know,
But some of these frienships, will flourish and grow.
We give kisses and hugs, and sometimes we'll flirt,
In IMs we chat deeply, and reveal why we hurt.

Why is it on screen, we are so easily bold,
Telling our secrets, that have never been told?
The answer is simple, its clear as a bell,
We all have our problems, and need someone to tell.

We can't tell real people, but tell someone we must
So we turn to our 'puters..and those we can trust.
Even though it sounds crazy...the truth still remains.
Most of our "friends" have no faces...
and odd little names.
--usually attributed to Tomas Teague

Please Daddy, Let's Go

A little girl sith shining eyes,
Her upturned face aglow,
Said "Daddy, it's almost time,
For Sunday School, you know;
Let's go and hear of Jesus' love
Of how he died for all,
To take them to His home above
Who on His name will call."
"oh no" said Daddy, "Not to-day;
I've worked hard all the week;
And I must have one day of rest,
And fishing's find they say;
So run along, don't bother me,
We'll go ANOTHER day."
Months and years have passed away,
But Daddy hears that plea no more--
"Lets go to Sunday School.."
Those childish days are o'er.
And now that Daddy's growing old,
And life is almost through,
He finds some time to go to church,
But what does daughter do?
She says, Oh Daddy, not to-day.
Was out almost all night;
I've got to get a little sleep:
Besides, I look a fright."
Then Daddy lifts a trembling hand
To brush away the tears;
Again he hears that pleading voice,
Distinctly through the years,
He sees a small girl's upturned face,
Upturned with eyes aglow,
Saying, "It's time for Sunday School.
Please Daddy, won't you go?

The Sands of Forgiveness

A story tells that two friends were walking through the desert. During some point of the journey they had an argument, and one friend slapped the other one in the face.

The one who got slapped was very hurt, but without saying anything, wrote in the desert sand:
TODAY MY BEST FRIEND SLAPPED ME IN THE FACE.

They kept on walking until they found an oasis, where they decided to take a bath. The one who had been slapped got stuck in the mire and started drowning, but the friend saved him.

After he recovered from the near drowning, he carved into a stone:
TODAY MY BEST FRIEND SAVED MY LIFE.

The friend who had slapped and saved his best friend asked him, "After I hurt you, you wrote in the sand and now, you carve in stone, why?"

The other friend replied "When someone hurts us we should write it down in sand where winds of forgiveness can erase it away. But, when someone does something good for us, we must engrave it in stone where no man, or wind can ever erase it."

LEARN TO WRITE YOUR HURTS IN SAND AND ENGRAVE YOUR BENEFITS IN STONE. 

Love Defined (by the Bible and the Poem)

Love Defined--except that it describes all the things that love is NOT--this is a reasonably good poem. To begin with, LOVE IS NOT an emotion--second-hand or other wise, or a feeling, (to love is a verb and describes an action), it is also not a force, triumph, beacon, or goal. Love Defined What is love but an emotion So strong and so pure, That nurtured and shared with another All tests it will endure? What is love but a force To bring the mighty low, With the strength to shame the mountains And halt time's ceaseless flow? What is love but a triumph, A glorious goal attained, The union of two souls, two hearts, A bond the angels have ordained? What is love but a beacon To guide the wayward heart, A blazing light upon the shoals That dash cherished dreams apart? And what is love but forever, Eternal and sincere, A flame that through wax and wane Will outlive life's brief years? So I'll tell it on the mountaintops, In all places high and low, That love for you is my reason to be, And will never bow. Curtis Teed Everybody seems to believe that “LOVE” is a good thing. However, not all agree what is “LOVE. Is love that warm touchy –feely feeling a person has when he or she is with a familiar person? According to the Bible, love is not what we feel but what we do. The true meaning of love, as defined in the Bible, has been corrupted, by Amerifictation; their now common misuse of OUR ENGLISH language and by the MODERN “so-what” SOCIETY. Most often, love is confused with infatuation, that elated, “HIGH” feeling we get when we “fall in love” , copulation, or fornication. It is impossible to fall in love and this kind of “love” is something that lasts typically less than a year, and unless replaced by true love results in broken relationships. This kind of "love" is what; in other times, in more caring cultures and societies, gave one a very "bad " name and In the time of Christ could get you stoned to death.
Origin of Love The bible indicates that love is from God. In fact, the Bible says “God Is Love” Love is one of the primary characteristics of God. Likewise, God has endowed us with the capacity for love. This capacity for love is one of the ways we are supposedly “created in the image of God”; while in reality, Man created God-in HIS own image. Different Kinds of Love The Greek language (the language of the New Testament) uses two different words to describe and define love. The most commonly used Greek word translated “love” in the New Testament is “agape” This love is represented by God’s love for us. It is non-partial, SACRIFICIAL LOVE (and very un-healthy in humans) probably best exemplified by God’s provision for our rebellion???: “For God so loved (agape) the world that he gave-the life of, THAT WHICH WAS NOT HIS TO GIVE; so he gave nothing- His only begotten Son, the son that he "begot" by according to the bible, (forcing himself, or, his spirit, on a woman without her prior consent); but then, since we were created, according to the bible, in Gods image, we're intended to be his thoughtless slaves, obeying his will without question; so, the thought of a woman's "rights" would never cross the MIND OF SUCH A GOD.), that who ever believes in Him should not perish, but have eternal life" (John 3:16). If God is the father of Christ; then the conception was not a-sexual. There had to be two sets of genes. There had to be Mary's genes; and God"s or some other father's induced genes; giving Mary's egg fertility and life. Therefore the conception was also not immaculate.
The gift of God’s son as a provision for sin was given to all humans, regardless of who we are. God’s love is therefore unconditional; but self centred to the extreme. In contrast, our love is usually conditional and based on how other people behave toward us; again fully self-centred. This kind of love is based upon familiarity and direct interaction. The Greek word “phileo” defines this kind of love, often translated “brotherly love”. Plileo is a soulish kind of love—something that can be experienced by both believers and non-believers. This is in contrast to agape, which is love extended through the spirit. Agape love requires a relationship with God ( and is the source of many of the world’s problems--especially since God did not secure permission from the U.S. of A. to impose this requirement and because he further implied that someone who lived and died in the Middle East could possibly have more authority or be more more "righteous" than the U.S. of A. ) through Jesus Christ,the man, since it is believed that the non-regenerated soul is unable to love unconditionally. Agape love gives and expects nothing in return—or so it is claimed. I am not a true agnostic—I do not believe in MAN’S GOD, but my higher power is The Mother of All, Nature Herself. But for those of you that do believe, have studied the Bible and know about Peter’s character, know that Peter was ruled by his emotions, and often responded to situations emotionally, rather than thinking before acting. Sometimes—rarely, this kind of response leads to good things e.g., Peter walking on water to meet Jesus-Matthew 14:25-33), whereas at other times, Peter’s response was inappropriate (He was interrupted by God while suggesting that he build three tabernacles, one for Jesus, one for Moses, and one for Eliaja on the Mount of Transfiguration-Matthew 17:4) Peter was quite proficient at expressing phileo love, and was probably very popular because of his dynamic character. However God, (that image we created), wants us to express both phileo and agape love. The most famous biblical chapter on love is from 1 Corinthians: "If I speak in the tongues of men; and of angels, but have not love, I am only a resounding gong, or a clanging cymbal. If I have the gift of prophecy and can fathom all mysteries and all knowledge, and have a faith that can move mountains, but have not love, I am nothing. If I give all I possess to the poor and surrender my body to the “FLAMES”, but have not love, I gain nothing.
Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, is not proud. Is not rude, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. Love does not delight in evil, but rejoices with TRUTH. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always PRESERVES. Love never fails. But where there are prophecies, they will cease; where there are tongues, they will be stilled; where there is knowledge, if will pass away. For we know in part and we prophesy in part, but when perfection comes, the imperfect disappears. When I was a child, I talked like a child; I thought like a child, I reasoned like a child. When I became a man, I put childish ways behind me. Now we see but a poor reflection in the mirror; then we shall see face to face. Now I know in part; then I shall know fully, even as I am fully known. And now these three remain: faith, hope, and love. But the greatest of these is love"-13:1-13) This is a description of apage love.

© Al (Alex, Alexander) D Girvan 2011. All rights reserved.

The Christmas Tree-Robert Service (1878-1958)

       "I administer the subsidiary rights to this poetry throughout the British Commonwealth based upon a British statute of 1911 which reverts copyright to estates 25 years after death. U.S. rights have a renewal provision for copyrights upon their 28th year but many are the Robert Service poems that are of an age from before 1923 wherein public domain sets in which means no U.S. copyright control or right to object to use."

This work is in the PUBLIC DOMAIN in the United States because it was published before January 1, 1923.

The author died in 1958, so this work is in the PUBLIC DOMAIN in countries and areas (such as the internet) where longer copyright terms might be in effect but that apply the rule of the shorter term to FOREIGN WORKS.

This poem (and all other works of Robert William Service) is PUBLIC DOMAIN

 not subject to any copyright my blogs and postings do NOT infringe upon anyone else's rights
and should NOT be linked to any other site.

Neither this blog, or any of my postings there in, should not be linked to and there is absolutely no connection between, my blogs and or anything posted by Bryant McGill.

 While it is obvious that he very much likes to pretend that he has: HE DOES NOT HAVE ANY LEGAL COPYRIGHTS ON WORKS THAT ARE;

 PART OF EVERY ONE'S HERITAGE.

By so pretending Mr McGill becomes guilty of very blatant plagiarism.

     The Christmas Tree

        While very few think of it as such, 
        the famous Robert W. Service. poem,
        The Cremation of Sam McGee
        can also be labelled as a
        Christmas poem. 

In the dark and damp of the alley cold, Lay the Christmas tree that hadn't been sold; By a shopman dourly thrown outside; With the ruck and rubble of Christmas-tide; Trodden deep in the muck and mire, Unworthy even to feed a fire... So I stopped and salvaged that tarnished tree, And thus is the story it told to me: "My Mother was Queen of the forest glade, And proudly I prospered in her shade; For she said to me: 'When I am dead, You will be monarch in my stead, And reign, as I, for a hundred years, A tower of triumph amid your peers, When I crash in storm I will yield you space; Son, you will worthily take my place.' "So I grew in grace like a happy child, In the heart of the forest free and wild; And the moss and the ferns were all about, And the craintive mice crept in and out; And a wood-dove swung on my highest twig, And a chipmunk chattered: 'So big! So big!' And a shy fawn nibbled a tender shoot, And a rabbit nibbled under my root... Oh, I was happy in rain and shine As I thought of the destiny that was mine! Then a man with an axe came cruising by And I knew that my fate was to fall and die. "With a hundred others he packed me tight, And we drove to a magic city of light, To an avenue lined with Christmas trees, And I thought: may be I'll be one of these, Tinselled with silver and tricked with gold, A lovely sight for a child to behold; A-glitter with lights of every hue, Ruby and emerald, orange and blue, And kiddies dancing, with shrieks of glee - One might fare worse than a Christmas tree. "So they stood me up with a hundred more In the blaze of a big department store; But I thought of the forest dark and still, And the dew and the snow and the heat and the chill, And the soft chinook and the summer breeze, And the dappled deer and the birds and the bees... I was so homesick I wanted to cry, But patient I waited for someone to buy. And some said 'Too big,' and some 'Too small,' And some passed on saying nothing at all. Then a little boy cried: Ma, buy that one,' But she shook her head: 'Too dear, my son." So the evening came, when they closed the store, And I was left on the littered floor, A tree unwanted, despised, unsold, Thrown out at last in the alley cold." Then I said: "Don't sorrow; at least you'll be A bright and beautiful New Year's tree, All shimmer and glimmer and glow and gleam, A radiant sight like a fairy dream. For there is a little child I know, Who lives in poverty, want and woe; Who lies abed from morn to night, And never has known an hour's delight..." So I stood the tree at the foot of her bed: "Santa's a little late," I said. "Poor old chap! Snowbound on the way, But he's here at last, so let's be gay." Then she woke from sleep and she saw you there, And her eyes were love and her lips were prayer. And her thin little arms were stretched to you With a yearning joy that they never knew. She woke from the darkest dark to see Like a heavenly vision, that Christmas Tree. Her mother despaired and feared the end, But from that day she began to mend, To play, to sing, to laugh with glee... Bless you, O little Christmas Tree! You died, but your life was not in vain: You helped a child to forget her pain, And let hope live in our hearts again. Robert Service 1878-1958

White Christmas-Robert W. Service (1874-1958)

The Younger Son

My folks think I'm a serving maid
Each time I visit home;
They do not dream I ply a trade
As old as Greece or Rome;
For if they found I'd fouled their name
And was not white as snow,
I'm sure that they would die of shame . . .
Please, God, they'll never know.

I clean the paint from off my face,
In sober black I dress;
Of coquetry I leave no trace
To give them vague distress;
And though it causes me a pang
To play such sorry tricks,
About my neck I meekly hang
A silver crufix.

And so with humble step I go
Just like a child again,
To greet their Christmas candle-glow,
A soul without a stain;
So well I play my contrite part
I make myself believe
There's not a stain within my heart
On Holy Christmas Eve.

With double natures we are vext,
And what we feel, we are;
A saint one day, a sinner next,
A red light or a star;
A prostitute or proselyte,
And in each part sincere:
So I become a vestal white
One week in every year.

For this I say without demur
From out life's lurid lore,
Each righteous women has in her
A tincture of the whore;
While every harpy of the night,
As I have learned too well;
Holds in her heart a heaven-light
To ransom her from hell.

So I'll go home and sweep and dust;
I'll make the kitchen fire,
And be a model of daughters just
The best they could desire;
I'll fondle them and cook their food,
And Mother dear will say:
"Thank God! my darling is as good
As when she went away."

But after New Year's Day I'll fill
My bag and though they grieve,
I'll bid them both good-bye until
Another Christmas Eve;
And then . . . a knock upon the door:
I'll find them waiting there,
And angel-like I'll come once more
In answer to their prayer.

Then Lo! one night when candle-light
Gleams mystic on the snow,
And music swells of Christmas bells,
I'll come, no more to go:
The old folks need my love and care,
Their gold shall gild my dross,
And evermore my breast shall bear
My little silver cross. 

The Song my Paddle Sings-E Pauline Johnson (Tekahioniwake)

West wind, blow from your prairie nest,
Bow from the mountains, blow from the west
The sail is idle, the sailor too;
O! wind of the west, we wait for you.
Blow, blow! I have wooed you so,
But never a favour you bestow,
 You rock your cradle the hills between,
 But scorn to notice my white lateen.

I stow the sail, unship the mast:
I wooed you long but my wooing's past;
My paddle will lull you into rest.
O! drowsy wind of the drowsy west,
Sleep, sleep
By your mountain steep,
Or down where the prairie grasses sweep!
Now fold in slumber your laggard wings,
For soft is the song my paddle sings.

August is laughing across the sky,
Laughing while paddle, canoe and I,
Drift, drift,
Where the hills uplift
On either side of the current swift.

The river rolls in its rocky bed;
My paddle is plying its  say ahead;
Dip, Dip
While the water flip
In foam as over their breast we slip.

And oh, the river runs swifter now;
The eddies circle about my bow.
Swirl, swirl!
How the ripples curl
In many a dangerous pool awhirl!

And forward far the rapids roar,
Fretting their margin for evermore.
Dash, dash
With a mighty crash,

They seethe, and boil, and bound, and splash.

Be strong, O paddle! be brave canoe!
The reckless waves you must plunge into.
Reel, Reel.
On your trembling keel,
 But never a fear my craft will feel.

We've raced the rapid, we're far ahead!
The river slips through its silent bed.
Sway, sway,
As the bubbles spray
And fall in tinkling tunes away.

And up on the hills against the sky,
A fir tree rocking its lullaby,
Swings, swings,
 Its emerald sings,
Swelling the song that my paddle sings.

The Pilot of the Plains-E Pauline Johnson (Tekahionwake)

"False," they said, "thy Pale-face lover from the land of waking morn;
Rise and wed thy Red skin wooer, nobler warrior ne'er was born;
Cease thy watching, cease thy dreaming,
Show the white thine Indian scorn."

Thus they taunted her declaring, "He remembers naught of thee:
Likely some white maid he wooeth, far beyond the inland sea."
But she answered ever kindly,
"He will come again to me,"

Till the dusk of Indian summer crept athwart the western skies;
But a deeper dusk was burning in her dark and dreaming eyes,
As she scanned the rolling prairie,
Where the foothills fall, and rise.
Till the autumn came and vanished, till the season of the rains
Till the western world lay fettered in midwinter's crystal chains,
Still she listened for his coming,
Still she watched the distant plains.

Then a night with lor'land tempest, nor'land snows a-swiring fast,
Out upon the pathless prairie came the Pale-face through the blast,
Calling, calling "Yakonwita,
I am coming, love at last."

Hovered night above, about him, dark its wigs and cold and dread;
Never unto trail or tepee were his straying footsteps led;
Till benumbed, he sank, and pillowed
On drifting snows his head.

Saying, "o! my Yakonwita call me, call me, be my guide
To the lodge beyond the prairie--for I vowed ere winter died
I would come again beloved;
I would claim my Indian bride."

"Yakonwita, Yakonwita! "Oh the dreariness that strains
Through the voice that calling, quivers, till a whisper but remains,
"Yakonwita, Yakonwita,
I am lost upon the plains."

But the Silent Spirit hushed him, lulled him as he cried anew,
Save me, save me! O beloved, I am Pale but I am true.

Yakonwita, Yakonwita
I am dying, love, for you."

Leagues afar, across the prairie, she had risen from her bed,
Roused her kinsmen from their slumber: "He has come to-night," she said.
"I can hear him calling, calling;
But his voice is as the dead.

"Listen!" and they sate all silent, while the tempest louder grew,
And a spirit-voice called faintly, I"I am dying, love, for you."
Then they wailed, "O! Yakonwita.
He was Pale, but he was true."

Wrapped she then her ermine round her, stepped without the tepee door,
Saying, "I must follow, follow, though he dall for evermore,
Yakonwita, Yakonwita;"
And they never saw her more.

Late at night, say Indian hunters, when the starlight clouds or wanes,
Far away they see a maiden, misty as autumn rains,
Guiding with her lamp of moon light
Hunters lost upon the plains

Brier: Good Friday-E. Pauline Johnson (Tekahionwake)

Because, dear Christ, your ender, wounded arm
Bends back the briar that edges lifes's long way,
That no hurt comes to heart, to soul no harm,
I do not feel the thorns so much to-day.

Because I never knew your care to tire,
Your hand to weary guiding me aright,
Because you walk before and crush the brier,
It does not pierce my feet so much to-night.

Because so often you have hearkened to
My selfish prayeres, I ask but one thing now,
That these harsh hands of mine add not unto
The crown of thorns upon your bleeding brow.

Shadow River: Muskoka-E. Pauline Johnson (Tekahionwakea0

March 10, 1861-March 7, 1913

A stream of tender gladness,

Of filmy sun, and opal tinted skies;

Of warm midsummer air that lightly lies

In mystic rings,

Where softly swings

'The music of a thousand wings

That almost tones to sadness.

Midway 'twixt earth and heaven,

A bubble in the pearly air I seem

To float upon the sapphire ,floor, a dream

of clouds of snow,

Above, below,

Drift with my darling, dim and slow,

As twilight drifts to even.

The little fern-leaf, bending

Upon the brink, its green reflection greets,

And kisses soft the shadow that it meets

With touch so fine,

The border line

The keenest vision can't define;

So perfect is the blending.

The far, fir trees that cover

The brownish hills with needles green and gold,

The arching elms o'erhead, vinegrown and old,

Repictured are

Beneath me far,

Where not a ripple moves to mat

Shades underneath, or over.

Mine is the undertone;

The beauty, strength, and power of land

Will never stir or bend at my command;

But all the shade

is marred or made,

If I but dip my paddle blade; And it is mine alone.

O1pathless world of seeming!

O! pathless life of mine whose deep ideal

Is more my own than ever was the real.

For others Fame

And love's red flame,

And yellow gold: I only claim

The shadows and the dreaming.