If

IF you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too;
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or being lied about, don't deal in lies,
Or being hated, don't give way to hating,
And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise:
If you can dream - and not make dreams your master;
If you can think - and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
And stoop and build 'em up with worn-out tools:

If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breathe a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: 'Hold on!'

If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
' Or walk with Kings - nor lose the common touch,
if neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,
If all men count with you, but none too much;
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds' worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,
And - which is more - you'll be a Man, my son!

Rudgyard Kipling

I saw a birdy up a tree... Etsy Bloggers Team Blog Carnival for April 28, 2008

There's something about spring that brings out the poet in me. I don't know what it is but if we could bottle it what an interesting planet this would be?

Long, long ago in a place not very far away I wrote poetry, reams and reams of it, on a daily basis. It sprang from my pen like a live thing. In fact at one time I thught of publishing my poems. I did do a little chap book to give to friends and family. Some friends! Some Family! Not one copy remains of that book today!!! For my excuse, we had a few sewer back ups that flooded our family room. There's something about wading around knee deep in fecal sludgewaters that kind of makes you toss everything floating in it into a trash bag (no literary critique inteneded).

I also had one poem published in a professional magazine. What a thrill! No money. I thrilled easily in those days.

I took a poetry class one summer while still at university. The professor was amazing. He made medieval poetry come alive and have meaning for us. He showed us how to find the passion, the flavor in the poetry. The class was filled with teachers and student teachers.

I especially remember one personal story he shared with us that summer. He was blind and listened to the sound of shoes worn by his students as they entered and left the classes. He talked about the thickness and sturdiness of shoes always being worn by those who were well grounded in life and the flimsy, fragile soles of the shoes worn by those with a more fragile soul (pun intended). He recalled for us a time when he sadly, had to help out in a case where a student had committed suicide. He said it struck him then, as he picked up the shoe worn by that student. The sole of her shoe was paper thin with only the thinnest of straps supporting the foot. As he told us this story he held his hand and looked down as if he were seeing the shoe there.

Now, thirty-um some years later, I haven't forgotten. I wear flip flops now because my feet are so painful I can't bear anything touching them. But I wear flip flops with a thin strap supporting my feet. At least, the sole of the floppies are thick.

I think of all the poems I've read or written, this line from Robert Frost's poem, Stopping by a woods on a snowy evening plays continually through my life ...

...and miles to go before I sleep

...and miles to go before I sleep.

Make this week a good one. Remember to tell someone you love, that you do. Before it is too late.