A SPIN-DOCTOR’S TAKE ON BEING ONE OF THE FOOLISH XXX BRAVE FEW TO BE STILL HOLDING SHARES
Editor's Note .. This is a pisstake, ok? - DYOR on when to get out or into the market lol (wish I had - got out that is).
Horatio came forward – I’ll defend this bridge alone
and a hundred more Horatios stood together made of stone
and they stood there unaffected by the panic in the ranks
and the stock market was sliding, but they turned it – AND the banks.
The days grew fierce and frightening, the Horatios held their ground
They watched the market (like Queen Mary) slowly turn around
And in time the rich came crawling back, the crisis had dispersed
The Horatios had won the day, and steered clear of the worst. .
Us few who held should maybe feel like Horatio in this game
while the capitalists among us, ran like rabbits (to their shame).
Cos, tell me how a man responds when panic fills his frame
watch this Horatio-lead-recovery ... then I’ll tell you that man’s name.
Poems on Recycled Paper
you're so prolific.
sometimes i worry
one day you will run-
out of words.
or the world of paper.
and
the thought of you-
worldless
erases all of mine.
so,
i'll teach you to recycle
paper. and
i'm working on a new language
so you'll never have to repeat
yourself...
again.
you'll hand me a poem
on recycled paper
the old words incarcerated
between the fibres
and the new
patterning the surface...
but we won't yet understand.
and you'll wonder how
i can love what
you have written,
twice.
and I'll swear I
can feel the pulpy
beat of recycled
heart
needing me.
(and then i'll start you a new dictionary)
Rose Beyond the Wall
by A.L. Frink
A rose once grew
where all could see,
sheltered beside
a garden wall,
And as the days passed
swiftly by,
it spread its branches, straight and tall...
One day, a beam of light
shone through
a crevice that had
opened wide ~
The rose bent gently
toward its warmth
then passed beyond
to the other side
Now, you who deeply
feel its loss,
be comforted ~ the rose blooms there ~
its beauty even greater now,
nurtured by
God's own loving care.
I Did Not Die
Mary E Faye
Do not stand at my grave and forever weep.
I am not there; I do not sleep.
I am a thousand winds that blow.
I am the diamond glints on snow.
I am the sunlight on ripened grain.
I am the gentle autumn’s rain.
When you awaken in the morning’s hush
I am the swift uplifting rush
Of quiet birds in circled flight.
I am the soft stars that shine at night.
Do not stand at my grave and forever cry.
I am not there. I did not die.
During February 2006, Rush's parents gave an interview to Australian Broadcasting Corporation television program, Australian Story, speaking out against Australian Federal Police actions.
"I was informed at 1.30 in the morning that Scott would be spoken to and asked not to board the flight to Bali. It wasn't until about mid-morning that I received a call from Bob and a distressed tone in his voice he said, 'Mate, we could not stop him, they have let him go through and he's on his way to Bali'. Under no circumstances do I condone the trafficking of drugs - I particularly dislike drugs of any nature, always have. When I received a call from the Australian Government authorities that Scott had been detained in Indonesia for attempting to export heroin, I was speechless, sickened to the gut."
Rush's mother, Christine Rush, also spoke of her disappointment with the Australian Federal Police. "I feel very let down by our Australian Federal Police - we tried to lawfully stop our son leaving the country, it wasn't done." [12].
The interview aired on ABC's Australian Story on February 13, 2006.
On 13 December [1642] they sighted land on the north-west coast of the South Island, New Zealand, becoming the first Europeans to do so. Tasman named it Staten Landt on the assumption that it was connected to an island (Staten Island, Argentina) at the south of the tip of South America.
From the point of view of the Dutch East India Company Tasman's explorations were a disappointment: he had neither found a promising area for trade nor a useful new shipping route. For over a century, until the era of James Cook, Tasmania and New Zealand were not visited by Europeans - mainland Australia was visited, but usually only by accident.
Ye Wearie Wayfarer - Fytte VIII
Finis Exoptatus [A Metaphysical Song}
Adam Lindsay Gordon
'There's something in this world amiss
Shall be unriddled by and by.'--Tennyson.
Boot and saddle, see, the slanting
Rays begin to fall,
Flinging lights and colours flaunting
Through the shadows tall.
Onward! onward! must we travel?
When will come the goal?
Riddle I may not unravel,
Cease to vex my soul.
Harshly break those peals of laughter
From the jays aloft,
Can we guess what they cry after?
We have heard them oft;
Perhaps some strain of rude thanksgiving
Mingles in their song,
Are they glad that they are living?
Are they right or wrong?
Right, 'tis joy that makes them call so,
Why should they be sad?
Certes! we are living also,
Shall not we be glad?
Onward! onward! must we travel?
Is the goal more near?
Riddle we may not unravel,
Why so dark and drear?
Yon small bird his hymn outpouring,
On the branch close by,
Recks not for the kestrel soaring
In the nether sky,
Though the hawk with wings extended
Poises over head,
Motionless as though suspended
By a viewless thread.
See, he stoops, nay, shooting forward
With the arrow's flight,
Swift and straight away to nor'ward
Sails he out of sight.
Onward! onward! thus we travel,
Comes the goal more nigh?
Riddle we may not unravel,
Who shall make reply?
Ha! Friend Ephraim, saint or sinner,
Tell me if you can--
Tho' we may not judge the inner
By the outer man,
Yet by girth of broadcloth ample,
And by cheeks that shine,
Surely you set no example
In the fasting line--
Could you, like yon bird discov'ring
Fate as close at hand,
As the kestrel o'er him hov'ring,
Still, as he did stand?
Trusting grandly, singing gaily,
Confident and calm,
Not one false note in your daily
Hymn or weekly psalm?
Oft your oily tones are heard in
Chapel, where you preach,
This the everlasting burden
Of the tale you teach:
We are d---d, our sins are deadly,
You alone are heal'd'--
'Twas not thus their gospel redly
Saints and martyrs seal'd.
You had seem'd more like a martyr,
Than you seem to us,
To the beasts that caught a Tartar,
Once at Ephesus!
Rather than the stout apostle
Of the Gentiles, who,
Pagan-like, could cuff and wrestle,
They'd have chosen you.
Yet, I ween, on such occasion,
Your dissenting voice
Would have been, in mild persuasion,
Raised against their choice;
Man of peace, and man of merit,
Pompous, wise, and grave,
Ephraim! is it flesh or spirit
You strive most to save?
Vain is half this care and caution
O'er the earthly shell,
We can neither baffle nor shun
Dark-plumed Azrael.
Onward! onward! still we wander,
Nearer draws the goal;
Half the riddle's read, we ponder
Vainly on the whole.
Eastward! in the pink horizon,
Fleecy hillocks shame
This dim range dull earth that lies on,
Tinged with rosy flame.
Westward! as a stricken giant
Stoops his bloody crest,
And tho' vanquish'd, frowns defiant,
Sinks the sun to rest.
Distant, yet approaching quickly,
From the shades that lurk,
Like a black pall gathers thickly,
Night, when none may work.
Soon our restless occupation
Shall have ceas'd to be;
Units! in God's vast creation,
Ciphers! what are we?
Onward! onward! oh! faint-hearted;
Nearer and more near
Has the goal drawn since we started,
Be of better cheer.
Preacher! all forbearance ask, for
All are worthless found,
Man must ay take man to task for
Faults while earth goes round.
On this dank soil thistles muster,
Thorns are broadcast sown;
Seek not figs where thistles cluster,
Grapes where thorns have grown.
Sun and rain and dew from heaven,
Light and shade and air,
Heat and moisture freely given,
Thorns and thistles share.
Vegetation rank and rotten
Feels the cheering ray;
Not uncared for, unforgotten,
We, too, have our day.
Unforgotten! though we cumber
Earth, we work His will.
Shall we sleep through night's long slumber
Unforgotten still?
Onward! onward! toiling ever,
Weary steps and slow,
Doubting oft, despairing never,
To the goal we go!
Hark! the bells on distant cattle
Waft across the range,
Through the golden-tufted wattle,
Music low and strange;
Like the marriage peal of fairies
Comes the tinkling sound,
Or like chimes of sweet St. Mary's
On far English ground.
How my courser champs the snaffle,
And with nostril spread,
Snorts and scarcely seems to ruffle
Fern leaves with his tread;
Cool and pleasant on his haunches
Blows the evening breeze,
Through the overhanging branches
Of the wattle trees:
Onward! to the Southern Ocean,
Glides the breath of Spring,
Onward, with a dreamy motion,
I, too, glide and sing--
Forward! forward! still we wander--
Tinted hills that lie
In the red horizon yonder--
Is the goal so nigh?
Whisper, spring-wind, softly singing,
Whisper in my ear;
Respite and nepenthe bringing,
Can the goal be near?
Laden with the dew of vespers,
From the fragrant sky,
In my ear the wind that whispers
Seems to make reply--
'Question not, but live and labour
Till yon goal be won,
Helping every feeble neighbour,
Seeking help from none;
Life is mostly froth and bubble,
Two things stand like stone,
KINDNESS in another's trouble,
COURAGE in your own.'
Courage, comrades, this is certain,
All is for the best--
There are lights behind the curtain--
Gentles let us rest.
As the smoke-rack veers to seaward
From 'the ancient clay',
With its moral drifting leeward,
Ends the wanderer's lay.
http://www.news.com.au/heraldsun/story/0,21985,24709837-661,00.html
Funeral for Tathra wharf victims Shane, Riley and Travis O'Neill
November 26, 2008 12:16pm
A WOMAN who lost her long-time love and two young sons in a drowning accident has issued a heartfelt plea to them via the priest at their funeral.
Queanbeyan's Reverend James Wood christened Stacey Lambert's sons Riley and Travis, but on Wednesday he stood before the casket carrying their little bodies, and that of their father, Shane O'Neill.
The trio drowned off Tathra Wharf last week when a fishing trip turned to tragedy.
"I asked Stacey the other day what she would like me to say,'' Rev Wood told the mourners who spilled out of Bega's biggest church.
''(She said) Shane, Riley and Travis, I'm with you, have fun, stay safe and warm, stop fighting, stop working, be you, go fishing, tell me what I'm here for. What do you want me to do?''
….
Reverend Chris Short described Mr O'Neill, 28, as a "special, ordinary country bloke''.
"Their lives were lived in uniqueness with us and as such, have passed into the ultimate community of human existence,'' Rev Short said.
"Our lives are more beautiful because they lived among us.''
…
Family members encouraged mourners to wear bright colours to "celebrate the lives'' of Mr O'Neill and his boys.
http://www.news.com.au/heraldsun/story/0,21985,24683109-661,00.html
Boys' pram slipped out of rescuer's fingers
November 21, 2008 12:00am
HEROIC fisherman Robert Brown, who dived from Tathra Wharf to try to save a father and his two sons, had hold of the pram containing 15-month-old Travis but it slipped from his hands in the rough seas.
Three times he pulled the pram to the surface, and he was trying to unclip Travis when he was smashed against a pylon by the rough seas and lost it.
The heartbreaking story of the rescue emerged yesterday as the historic wharf on the NSW South Coast became a memorial to brave father Shane O'Neill and his two lost boys, Travis and Riley, 4.
As the community rallied around Stacey Lambert, who lost her sons and her fiance, people gathered quietly at the wharf to pay tribute.
They left flowers and cried, while Mr O'Neill's nephews and niece put into words and pictures what everyone was feeling.
Their simple drawings, pinned to the wharf first thing yesterday morning, showed Uncle Shane and their cousins fishing and smiling.
"To Shane, Riley and Travis. We miss you very much. Love from Kasey," said one message.
Prospero:The Tempest Act 4, scene 1, 148–158
We are such stuff
As dreams are made on; and our little life
Is rounded with a sleep.
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