Ulysses Alfred Lord Tennyson

It little profits that an idle king, By this still hearth, among these barren crags, Match'd with an aged wife, I mete and dole Unequal laws unto a savage race, That hoard, and sleep, and feed, and know not me. I cannot rest from travel: I will drink Life to the lees: All times I have enjoy'd Greatly, have suffer'd greatly, both with those That loved me, and alone, on shore, and when Thro' scudding drifts the rainy Hyades Vext the dim sea: I am become a name; For always roaming with a hungry heart Much have I seen and known; cities of men And manners, climates, councils, governments, Myself not least, but honour'd of them all; And drunk delight of battle with my peers, Far on the ringing plains of windy Troy. I am a part of all that I have met; Yet all experience is an arch wherethro' Gleams that untravell'd world whose margin fades For ever and forever when I move. How dull it is to pause, to make an end, To rust unburnish'd, not to shine in use! As tho' to breathe were life! Life piled on life Were all too little, and of one to me Little remains: but every hour is saved From that eternal silence, something more, A bringer of new things; and vile it were For some three suns to store and hoard myself, And this gray spirit yearning in desire To follow knowledge like a sinking star, Beyond the utmost bound of human thought. This is my son, mine own Telemachus, To whom I leave the sceptre and the isle,— Well-loved of me, discerning to fulfil This labour, by slow prudence to make mild A rugged people, and thro' soft degrees Subdue them to the useful and the good. Most blameless is he, centred in the sphere Of common duties, decent not to fail In offices of tenderness, and pay Meet adoration to my household gods, When I am gone. He works his work, I mine. There lies the port; the vessel puffs her sail: There gloom the dark, broad seas. My mariners, Souls that have toil'd, and wrought, and thought with me— That ever with a frolic welcome took The thunder and the sunshine, and opposed Free hearts, free foreheads—you and I are old; Old age hath yet his honour and his toil; Death closes all: but something ere the end, Some work of noble note, may yet be done, Not unbecoming men that strove with Gods. The lights begin to twinkle from the rocks: The long day wanes: the slow moon climbs: the deep Moans round with many voices. Come, my friends, 'T is not too late to seek a newer world. Push off, and sitting well in order smite The sounding furrows; for my purpose holds To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths Of all the western stars, until I die. It may be that the gulfs will wash us down: It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles, And see the great Achilles, whom we knew. Tho' much is taken, much abides; and tho' We are not now that strength which in old days Moved earth and heaven, that which we are, we are; One equal temper of heroic hearts, Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.

In Praise of KJ

1) a sonnet in praise of KJ A screen's allure, a figure held in grace, She steps into a world of scripted light. With poise and passion shining on her face, She claims the scene and holds it with her might. Her presence fills the lens, a burning art, A confident and captivating soul, She gives a scene a pulse, a beating heart, And makes the chaos feel entirely whole. A master of the moment, pure and true, She finds the truth within the staged design, And in her work, reveals a vision new, A captivating form, a bold, clear line. Her talent shines, a star in its own space, And brings a fierce and elemental grace. 2) After the Style of Milton Lo, Muse, that with a solemn strain dost sing Of Adam's Fall, and man's first disobedience, In humble strain, attend my voice, and praise A different grace, by modern light revealed. For in this age, that lesser glories knows, A name resounds, not on the fields of war Nor from the halls where kings their scepters hold, But from the glimmer of a glassen screen, Where Kenna James, with visage passing fair, And form by Nature’s cunning hand well-wrought, Doth move. Not as a shepherdess, whose pleas Could sway a god to grant a fruitful spring, Nor as a Queen, with sceptre and with throne; But as a player, who doth lend her soul To fictions born of light, and fleeting shade. Her motion, like a goddess in her stride, Her glance, as Venus from the Cyprian shore, Can stir the senses, and with artful sway Command the sight, and hold the captive mind In momentary thrall. Thus, doth she stand, A living form, a beauty self-possessed, Who in a world of artifice, doth lend A breath of Truth, to visions made by man. 3) After the Style of the Inferno In media vita, in a world estranged, I found myself within a shadowed wood, Where digital streams and fleeting moments ranged. From error’s path, I sought a truth I would Not find in sacred tome or ancient lore, When from a mist, a silent figure stood. He, with a countenance I’d seen before In verse of Mantua, did bid me come, And tread a circle none had trod before. “Lo,” Virgil said, his voice a quiet drum, “We pass beyond the realm of wrath and greed, To where a new and living art has come.” We came to where a single, glowing reed Projected forms upon a screen of night, And watched a spirit plant a living seed. Here, in this circle of electric light, She sits, a figure on a gilded throne, A soul possessed of power and of might. Kenna, she is, whose form is not her own, But lent to visions, fleeting and intense, A spirit in a body made of bone, Who gives to scenes a fevered, urgent sense. The torment here is not in fire’s bite, But in the art of feigned impermanence. For she must play a part, both day and night, And feel the weight of every given word, And make a crafted passion burning bright. The souls who follow her are seen and heard, In endless loops of joy and deep despair, Like endless flocks of an unwary bird. Thus, did my guide reveal a realm laid bare, Not damned, but shaped by art’s peculiar claim, Where human passion hangs within the air. And so we passed, and left her with her flame, A queen of passion's kingdom, named by fame.

In Praise of Bob Dylan

1) A Haiku in Praise of Bob Old voice, new song found, Words like rain, now a new breeze, Still the times they change. 2) A Sonnet in Praise of Blood on the Tracks Your heart laid bare upon the vinyl's grooves, A fractured love, a landscape torn apart. The weary soul through winter's echo moves, And finds no solace for a broken heart. "Tangled Up in Blue" begins the tale, Of memories like smoke that drift and fade. A phantom scent on every biting gale, A promise whispered, now a lie betrayed. The mandolin's lament, a lonely cry, The weary tramp of feet on cobblestone. You sing of what it means to say goodbye, And sit within the silence, now alone. So perfect in its pain, its raw design, A masterpiece of sorrow, truly thine. 3) A Sestina in Praise of Blonde on Blonde In Memphis heat, the sessions came to be, A sound electric, filled with Nashville tones. The amp and organ swelled for all to see, As weary minstrels sang their cryptic groans. No single thing could ever make him cease, This double album, built on shifting stones. The harmonica in "Visions" gives no peace, A weary traveler, caught between two tones. A restless poet, setting souls at ease, With words like fire, or just the gentle groans. A restless fever, granting no release, Among the clutter of the shifting stones. He sings of witches, filled with odd unease, A lover's promise shattered by the tones. The organ groans a desperate plea for peace, While broken feelings turn to silent groans. The endless, swirling patterns never cease, Upon a path of unhewn, shifting stones. He speaks of tangled webs, and deep unease, Of broken promises, and weary tones. The midnight hours offer no release, He finds a truth in fractured, lonely groans. The weary heart in love's chaotic cease, Is caught between the shifting, weathered stones. A frantic rhythm, searching for some peace, A jangling guitar, filled with strange new tones. The siren's call, a promise of release, A broken vow that ends in hollow groans. The endless road where visions never cease, Is paved with polished, beautiful, worn stones. The double album grants a strange release, A monument of sound, with cryptic tones. The final song provides a moment's peace, A whispered truth beyond the anguished groans. A masterpiece that never seems to cease, This fragile house of lonely, shifting stones.

Psalm 23

23 The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want. 2 He maketh me to lie down in green pastures: he leadeth me beside the still waters. 3 He restoreth my soul: he leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for his name's sake. 4 Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me. 5 Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies: thou anointest my head with oil; my cup runneth over. 6 Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life: and I will dwell in the house of the Lord for ever.

In Praise of King David

A Sonnet in Praise of King David O mighty David, from whose blood did flow The wise and noble Solomon’s bright reign, Through valleys dark and deserts you did go, Yet rose as king through trials, toil, and pain. Your harp did sing, your courage did ignite The hearts of men, to battle and to peace. A shepherd’s hand, yet wielding mighty might, Your legacy through ages will not cease. The lion’s heart within you did not fall, Though faced with giants and the weight of war, With faith in God, you answered to His call, And sought His will, to guide your every door. Great David, through your lineage light did shine, In Solomon, your wisdom did define

for Scojo

Her voice, a velvet rasp, a smoky grace, Her gaze, a starlit depth, a knowing gleam, From phantom whispers in a digital space, To worlds of painted canvas, waking dream. A widow's strength, a hero's fierce desire, A subtle humor, sharp and deftly spun, She sets the silver screen ablaze with fire, A modern icon, brightly, bravely won. Through veils of mystery, her spirit shines, A nuanced power, delicate and bold, In every role, a truth that intertwines, A story whispered, centuries old. So raise a glass, to beauty, wit, and art, Scarlett's bright essence, captured in our heart.

My Sharona and the Knack

The Knack, an American rock band formed in Los Angeles in 1978, achieved meteoric success with their debut single, "My Sharona," in 1979. This iconic song, with its distinctive, driving rhythm, propelled them to international fame.   Here's a breakdown of their key aspects: "My Sharona" and "Get the Knack": Their debut album, "Get the Knack," was a massive commercial success, largely driven by the popularity of "My Sharona." Their style, a blend of power pop and new wave, resonated with audiences seeking a return to straightforward rock and roll. Controversy and Backlash: The band's image and some of their lyrics drew criticism, leading to a backlash that impacted their subsequent releases. The band recived critisism regarding perceived misogyny. Later Career: Despite the initial surge in popularity, The Knack struggled to maintain the same level of success with their later albums.   They experienced periods of disbandment and reunions, continuing to perform and release music.   The bands lead singer Doug Fieger died in 2010, which resulted in the band disbanding.   Legacy: "My Sharona" remains a timeless rock classic, frequently featured in films and media. The band is remembered for its contribution to the late 1970s and early 1980s power pop scene. The Knack's story is one of rapid ascent, intense scrutiny, and enduring musical impact. Based on the information available, Sharona was: Sharona Alperin: She is the real-life inspiration behind The Knack's hit song "My Sharona."   She met Doug Fieger, The Knack's lead singer, when she was a teenager.   They later had a romantic relationship.   She also was in the picture on the single sleeve of the record.   She has gone on to have a successful career in real estate.