Scaramouche, Scaramouche, will you do the Fandango?

Imagine everybody in the Mirthmobile banging heads to this banger.

As a Long-Time Guardians Fan, I Know This Pain

Casey at the Bat:

With a smile of Christian charity great Casey’s visage shone;

He stilled the rising tumult; he bade the game go on;

He signaled to the pitcher, and once more the spheroid flew;

But Casey still ignored it, and the umpire said, “Strike two.”

“Fraud!” cried the maddened thousands, and echo answered fraud;

But one scornful look from Casey and the audience was awed.

They saw his face grow stern and cold, they saw his muscles strain,

And they knew that Casey wouldn’t let that ball go by again.

The sneer is gone from Casey’s lip, his teeth are clinched in hate;

He pounds with cruel violence his bat upon the plate.

And now the pitcher holds the ball, and now he lets it go,

And now the air is shattered by the force of Casey’s blow.

Oh, somewhere in this favored land the sun is shining bright;

The band is playing somewhere, and somewhere hearts are light,

And somewhere men are laughing, and somewhere children shout;

But there is no joy in Mudville—mighty Casey has struck out.

Ernest Lawrence Thayer.

You Got It Down When You Appear to Be in Pain

I had piano sheet music of Yes songs, and played Mood for a Day for recital one year.

Hokku

I:

Bits of song—what else?
I, a rider of the stream,
Lone between the clouds. 

Yone Noguchi.

#throwbackthursday

That time Mex made friends with some strange dogs. (2020)

Yes, I understand that every life must end

Ericka would have turned 53 today.

Don’t Have My Name Inscribed Into the Stone

Here Lies Love:

Though books said nothing could save
Love from an early grave
And love from the wear and tear,
What flesh and blood was ours for love's repair
We freely gave. 

This way and that we have
Eased love into the grave
And covered all with dirt
And laid the spirit too, through that witch's heart
Knocking the stave. 

Donald Justice.

Oh, so many years have gone though I'm older but a year

Your mother's eyes, from your eyes, cry to me.

Regard your life as the most priceless treasure.

Қарттық келді:

Old age is here-sad thoughts, poor sleep and all.
Quick anger's poison fumes inflame your sullen soul.
Not one to share a thought with. Who will come
To soothe and sympathise in answer to your call? 

All men are doomed. All who are born must die.
Nobody can recover days gone by.
Both joy and grief must fade into the past. 

All plans and deeds cruel time will nullify.
In struggle fortify your soul-if you are wise.
Only the giftless bow to fate with downcast eyes.
Only the feckless play up to the mob. The truly wise man on himself relies.

Abai Qūnanbaiūly.

Dear friend, goodbye

No tears in my eyes.

It's My Seventh Birthday

Lady Lazarus:

Dying

Is an art, like everything else.   

I do it exceptionally well.

I do it so it feels like hell.   

I do it so it feels real.

I guess you could say I’ve a call.

It’s easy enough to do it in a cell.

It’s easy enough to do it and stay put.   

It’s the theatrical

Comeback in broad day

To the same place, the same face, the same brute   

Amused shout:

‘A miracle!’

That knocks me out.   

There is a charge

For the eyeing of my scars, there is a charge   

For the hearing of my heart——

It really goes.

And there is a charge, a very large charge   

For a word or a touch   

Or a bit of blood

Or a piece of my hair or my clothes.   

So, so, Herr Doktor.   

So, Herr Enemy.

I am your opus,

I am your valuable,   

The pure gold baby

That melts to a shriek.   

I turn and burn.

Do not think I underestimate your great concern.

Ash, ash—

You poke and stir.

Flesh, bone, there is nothing there——

A cake of soap,   

A wedding ring,   

A gold filling.

Herr God, Herr Lucifer   

Beware

Beware.

Out of the ash

I rise with my red hair   

And I eat men like air.

Sylvia Plath.

Matthew 8:32

All good children gather around, come join your hands and sing along.

Numbers Keep Falling off the Calendar’s Floor

Days:

What are days for?

Days are where we live.   

They come, they wake us   

Time and time over.

They are to be happy in:   

Where can we live but days?

Ah, solving that question

Brings the priest and the doctor   

In their long coats

Running over the fields.

Philip Larkin.