SO (extraordinarily) "FITTING"...

AND  JUST

WHERE  MIGHT  "YOU''

FIT  IN?

We're all different...and that's a fact!!

IN MEMORIUM

IN MEMORIUM

JEAN PORTER DEVINE

May 1924-March 3, 2014

May the road rise up to meet you.
May the wind be always at your back.
May the sun shine warm upon your face;
the rains fall soft upon your fields
and until we meet again,
may God hold you
 in the palm of His hand.

 

Do not stand at my grave and weep,
I am not there, I do not sleep.

I am a thousand winds that blow;
I am the diamond glints on the snow. I am the sunlight that 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 star that shines at night. Do not stand at my grave and cry. I am not there;

 I did not die...

 

Only one day before your mother's birthday anniversary you, yourself, departed this world. And now she has all four of her beloved children with her...at rest.

To my late Grandmother, Elizabeth Raleigh, you were right [we 'are'; my DNA proves it].

AND A PINCH TO GROW AN INCH, (or two) !

…

YOU’RE ONE IN

A MILLION !!!

HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO YOU…

MAY YOUR BEST DREAMS

COME TRUE…

TURNING “4” IS SO ‘SPECIAL’

[JUST] NOT ‘HANDSOME’

LIKE YOU, JIM!!!!

          2-18-2014: Happy 4^th !

SENDING OUR BEST FROM MILES AWAY!!!!!  XOXOX

P.S. Don’t let Uncle Richie get you too wound up, either!

                                { Rich and J.J. at Georgetown game}

P.S.  And a very happy belated birthday wish to your mom (1-8-2014),

as well. You see, she is ‘one in a million’ just like you!

XOX, ‘Grandma’ Lisa

P.S. Be careful with that generous fire hose, little Jim!!!!

Waxing Exceptionally Bellicose:

       Oh!  Such Sublimely Sanguine ‘Bellicosity’

       … as spoken from the salubrious tongue of a distant relative!

… “can’t lie, can’t lie, can’t lie”

 The Lie

Go, Soul  … the body's guest,

Upon a thankless errand;

Fear not to touch  the best;

The truth shall be thy warrant:

Go now… since my  needs must die,

And give the world  “THEIR LIE”.

Say to the court, it glows

And shines like rotten wood;

Say to the church, it shows

What's good, and doth no good:

If church and court reply,

Then give them both  “the lie”.

Tell potentates, they live

Acting by others' action;

Not loved unless they  give,

Not strong, but by a faction.

If potentates reply,

Give potentates “the lie”.

Tell men of high condition,

That manage vast estate,

Their purpose is ambition,

Their practice,  only ‘hate’:

And if they once reply,

Then give them ALL the lie.

Tell those that brave it most,

They beg for more by spending,

Who, in their greatest cost,

Seek nothing but commending.

And if they make reply,

Then give them all the lie.

Tell zeal it wants devotion;

Tell love it is but lust;

Tell time it metes but motion;

Tell flesh it is but dust:

And wish them not reply,

For thou must give the lie.

Tell age it daily wasteth;
Tell honour how it alters;
Tell beauty how she blasteth;
Tell favour how it falters:

And as they shall reply,

Give every  ONE the lie.

Tell wit how much it wrangles

In ticklish points of niceness;

Tell wisdom she entangles

Herself in over-wiseness:

And when they do reply,

Straight give them both the lie.

                                          Tell physics of her boldness;

Tell skill it is pretension;
Tell charity of coldness;
Tell law it is contention:
And as they do reply,
So give them [still] the lie.

Tell fortune of her blindness;
Tell nature of decay;
Tell friendship of unkindness;
Tell justice of delay:
And if they will reply,
Then give them all the lie.

Tell ‘arts’ they have no soundness,
But vary by esteeming;
Tell schools they want profoundness,
Yet stand too much on seeming:
If arts and schools reply,
Give arts and schools their lie.

Tell faith it's fled the city;
Tell how the country  erreth;
And manhood shakes off pity
As virtue least preferreth:

And if they should reply,

Spare not to give “the lie”.

So when thou hast [as I],
‘Commanded thee’,  done blabbing--
Although to give the lie
Deserves no less than stabbing--
Stab at thee… “He that will”;
No stab the soul can kill.

Sir Walter Raleigh was an English explorer, soldier and writer who was imprisoned in the Tower of London and eventually put to death after being accused of treason by King James I. 

Prior to serving in the Huguenot army in France, he had studied at Oxford. Raleigh later became a favorite of Queen Elizabeth, following distinguished service allied with her army in Ireland. He was knighted in 1585, and within two years became captain of the queen's guard. Between 1584 and 1589, Raleigh also established a colony near Roanoke Island. Unfortunately, much of his writings and poetry from that time were either destroyed or lost. He composed his poem The Lie while imprisoned. If living today, I would surmise that he’d take the likes of Fox News, [et. al] to task for their reserve of ‘twisted truths’, as well!

Post-script: strange how my DNA results are showing both Raleigh and Drake ancestry…however, the elder Raleigh’s 1^st wife WAS named Joan Drake!

… “can’t lie, can’t lie, can’t lie”
  ‎   

www.youtube.com/watch?v=hT_nvWreIhg 

   {MAHALO}  

Lisa Porter-Grenn

IT HAS BEEN SAID THAT…

They called him the Grand Inquisitor back then…and in those days, the nickname had made him smile.

A propos The Brothers Karamazov: Jesus Christ, returned to earth 15 hundred years after his crucifixion, was also spoken to by a Grand Inquisitor of sorts:  “Thou lookest meekly at me and deignest not even to be wrought with me. But let me tell Thee that now, today, people are more persuaded than ever that they have perfect freedom, yet they have brought their freedom to us and laid it humbly at our feet. And we, .....we have brought this on ourselves. Was this what Thou didst?  Was this Thy freedom?

“And what's strange, what would be marvelous, is not that God should really exist; the marvel is that such an idea, the idea of the necessity of God, could enter the head of such a savage, vicious beast as man.” 

― Fyodor Dostoyevsky, The Brothers Karamazov

                          Nothing like post-holiday angst!