Old Ironsides

Old Ironsides
By Oliver Wendell Holmes

Ay, tear her tattered ensign down!
         Long has it waived on high,
And many an eye has danced to see
         That banner in the sky;
Beneath it rung the battle-shout,
         And burst the cannon's roar:
The meteor of the ocean air
         Shall sweep the clouds no more!

Her deck, once red with heroes' blood,
         Where knelt the vanquished foe,
When winds were hurrying o'er the flood,
         And waves were white below,
No more shall feel the victor's tread,
        Or know the conquered knee:
The harpies of the shore shall pluck
        The eagle of the sea!

Oh, better that her shattered hulk
        Should sink beneath the wave!
Her thunders shook the mighty deep,
        And there should be her grave:
Nail to the mast her holy flag,
        Set every threadbare sail,
And give her to the god of storms,
        The lighting, and the gale!

The Sea Gypsy

The Sea Gypsy
By Richard Hovey

I am fevered with the sunset,
I am fretful with the bay,
For the wander-thirst is on me
And my soul is in Cathay.

There's a schooner in the offing,
With her topsails shot with fire,
And my heart has gone aboard her
For the Islands of Desire.

I must forth again to-morrow!
With the sunset I must be
Hull down on the trail of rapture
In the wonder of the sea.

Young in New Orleans

Young in New Orleans
By Charles Bukowski


starving there, sitting around the bars,
and at night walking the streets for
hours,
the moonlight always seemed fake
to me, maybe it was,
and in the French Quarter I watched
the horses and buggies going by,
everybody sitting high in the open
carriages, the black driver, and in
back the man and the woman,
usually young and always white.
and I was always white.
and hardly charmed by the 
world.
New Orleans was a place to
hide.
I could piss away my life,
unmolested.
except for the rats.
the rats in my dark small room
very much resented sharing it
with me.
they were large and fearless
and stared at me with eyes
that spoke 
an unblinking
death.

women were beyond me.
they saw something
depraved.
there was one waitress
a little older than
I, she rather smiled,
lingered when she
brought my
coffee.

that was plenty for
me, that was
enough.

there was something about
that city, though
it didn't let me feel guilty
that I had no feeling for the
things so many others
needed.

it let me alone.

sitting up in my bed
the lights out,
hearing the outside
sounds,
lifting my cheap
bottle of wine,
letting the warmth of
the grape
enter
me
as I heard the rats
moving about the
room,
I preferred them
to
humans.

being lost,
being crazy maybe
is not so bad
if you can be
that way
undisturbed.

New Orleans gave me
that.
nobody ever called
my name.

no telephone,
no car,
no job,
no
anything.

me and the
rats
and my youth,
one time,
that time
I knew
even through the
nothingness,
it was a
celebration
of something not to
do
but only
know.

When I Heard the Learn'd Astronomer

When I Heard the Learn'd Astronomer
By Walt Whitman

When I heard the learn'd astronomer
When the proofs, the figures, were ranged in columns before
       me;
When I was shown the charts and the diagrams, to add,
       divide, and measure them;
When I, sitting, heard the astronomer, where he lectured with
       much applause in the lecture-room,
How soon, unaccountable, I became tired and sick;
Till rising and gliding out, I wander'd off by myself,
In the mystical moist night-air, and from time to time,
Look'd up in perfect silence at the stars.

The Weary Blues

The Weary Blues
By Langston Hughes

Droning a drowsy syncopated tune,
Rocking back and forth to a mellow croon,
       I heard a negro play.
Down on Lenox Avenue the other night
By the pale dull pallor of an old gas light
       He did a lazy sway ...
       He did a lazy sway ...
To the tune o' those Weary Blues.
With his ebony hands on each ivory key
He made that poor pieno moan with melody.
       O Blues!
Swinging to and for on his rickety stool
He played that sad raggy tune like a musical fool.
       Sweet Blues!
Coming from a black man's soul.
       O Blues!
In a deep song voice with a melancholy tone
I heard that Negro sing, that old piano moan --
        "Ain't got nobody in all this world,
          Ain't got nobody but ma self.
          I's gwine to quit ma frownin'
          And put ma troubles on the shelf."

Thump, thump, thump, went his foot on the floor..
He played a few chords then sang some more --
         "I got the Weary Blues
          And I can't be satisfied.
          Got the Weary Blues
          And can't be satisfied --
          I ain't happy no mo'
          And I wish that I had died."
And far into the night he crooned that tune.
The stars went out and so did the moon.
The singer stopped playing and went to bed
While the Weary Blues echoed through his head.
He slept like a rock or a man that's dead.

Gunga Din

Gunga Din
By Rudyard Kipling

You may talk o' gin and beer
When you're quartered safe out 'ere
An' you're sent to penny-fights an' Aldershot it;
But when it comes to slaughter
You will do your work on water,
An' you'' lick the bloomin' boots of 'im that's got it.
Now in Injia's sunny clime,
Where I used to spend my time
A-servin' of 'Er Majesty the Queen,
Of all them blackfaced crew
The finest man I knew
Was our regimental bhisti, Gunga Din.
         He was 'Din! 'Din! 'Din!
         You limping lump o' brick-dust, Gunga Din!
         Hi! slippery hitherao!
         Water, get it! Panee lao!
         You squidgy-nosed old idol, Gunga Din.

The uniform 'e wore
Was nothin' much before,
An' rather less than 'arf o' that be'ind,
For a piece o' twisty rag
An' a goatskin water-bag
Was all the field-equipment 'e could find.
When the sweatin' troop-train lay
In a sidin' through the day,
Where the 'eat would make your bloomin' eyebrows crawl,
We shouted 'Harru By!'
Till our throat were brick dry,
Then we wopped 'im 'cause 'e couldn't serve us all.
          It was 'Din! 'Din! 'Din!
          You 'eathen, where the mischief 'ave you been?
          You put some juldee in it
          Or i'll marrow you this minute
          If you don't fill up my helmet, Gunga Din!

          'E would dot an' carry one
          Till the longest day was done;
An' 'e didn't seem to know the use o' fear.
          If we charged or broke or cut,
          You could bet your bloomin' nut,
'E'd be waitin' fifty paces right flank rear.
          With 'is mussick on 'is back,
          'E would skip with our attack,
An' watch us till the bugles made 'Retire,'
           An' for all 'is dirty 'ide
           'E was white, clear white, inside
When 'e went to tend the wounded under fire!
           It was 'Din! 'Din! 'Din!
With the bullets kickin' dust-spots on the green.
           When the cartridges ran out,
           You could hear the front-lines shout,
'Hi! ammunition-mules an' Gunga Din!'

           I sha'n't forgit the night
           When I dropped be'ind the fight
With a bullet where my belt-plate should 'a' been.
           I was chokin' mad with thirst,
           An' the man that spied me first
Was our good old grinnin', gruntin' Gunga Din.
           'E lifted up my 'ead,
           An he plugged me where I bled,
An' 'e guv me 'arf-a-pint o' water-green:
           It was crawlin' and it stunk,
           But of allt he drinks I've drunk,
I'm gratefullest to one from Gunga Din.
          It was 'Din! 'Din! 'Din!
'Ere's a begger with a bullet through 'is spleen;
          'E's chawin' up the ground,
          An' 'e's kickin' all around:
For Gawd's sake git the water, Gunga Din!

          'E carried me away
           To where a dooli lay,
An' a bullet come an' drilled the beggar clean.
          'E put me safe inside,
          An' just before 'e died:
'I 'ope you liked your drink,' sez Gunga Din.
         So I'll meet 'im later on
         At the place where 'e is gone -
An' I' get a swing in hell from Gunga Din!
         Yes, Din! Din! Din!
You Lazarushian-leather Gunga Din!
          Though I've belted you and flayed you,
          By the living Gawd that made you,
You're a better man than I am, Gunga Din!

Chicago - Music Playlist

Chicago

Chicago
By Carl Sandburg

Hog Butcher for the World,
Tool Maker, Stacker of Wheat,
Player with Railroads and the Nation's Freight Handler;
Stormy, husky, brawling,
City of Big Shoulders:

They tell me you are wicked and I believe them, for I have
         seen your painted women under the gas lamps luring the
         farm boys.
And they tell me you are crooked and i answer: Yes, it is true
         I have seen the gunman kill and go free to kill again.
And they tell me you are brutal and my reply is: On the faces
         of the women and children I have seen the marks of
         wanton hunger.
And having answered so I turn once more to those who sneer
          at this my city, and i give them back the sneer and say
          to them:
Come and show me another city lifted head singing so
         proud to be alive and coarse and strong and cunning.

Flinging magnetic curses amid the toil of piling job on job,
         here is a tall bold slugger set vivid against the little soft
         cities;
Fierce as a dog with tongue lapping for action, cunning as a
         savage pitted against the wilderness,
               Bareheaded,
               Shoveling,
               Wrecking,
               Planning,
               Building, breaking, rebuilding,
Under the smoke, dust all over his mouth, laughing with
           white teeth,
Under the terrible burden of destiny laughing as a young man
           laughs,
Laughing even as an ignorant fighter laughs who has never
            lost a battle,
Bragging and laughing that under his wrist is the pulse and
            under his ribs is the heart of the people,
                  Laughing!
Laughing the stormy, husky, brawling laughter of Youth, half-
            naked, sweating, proud to be Hog Butcher, Tool Maker,
            Stacker of Wheat, Player with the Railroads and Freight
            Handler to the Nation.

To A Mouse

To A Mouse
By Robert Burns

On Turning Her Up in Her Nest with the Plough, 1785

I

Wee, sleekit, cowrin, tim'rous beastie,
O, what a pani's in thy breastie!
Thou need na start awa sae hasty
Wi' bickering brattle!
I was be laith to rin an' chase thee,
Wi' murdering pattle!

II

I'm truly sorry man's dominion
Has broken Nature's social union,
An' justifies that ill opinion
Which makes thee startle
At me, thy poor, earth-born companion
An' fello mortal!

III

I doubt na, whyles, but thou may thieve,
What then? poor beastie, thou maun live.
A daimen icker in a thrave
'S a sma' request;
I'll get a blessin wi' the lave,
An' never miss't!

IV

Thy wee-bit housie, too, in ruin!
Its silly wa's the win's are strewin!
An' naething, now, to big a new ane,
O' foggage green!
An' bleak December's win's ensuin,
Baith snell an' keen!

V

Thou saw the fields laid bare an' waste,
An' weary winter comin fast,
An' cozie here, beneath the blast,
Thou thought to dwell,
Till crash! the cruel coulter past
Out thro' thy cell.

VI

That wee bit heap o' leaves an' stibble,
Has cost thee monie a weary nibble!
Now thou's turned out, for a' thy trouble,
But house or hald,
To thole the winter's sleety dribble,
An' cranreuch cauld!

VII

But Mousie, thou art no thy lane,
In proving foresight may be vain:
The best laid schemes o' mice an' men
Gang aft agley,
An' lea'e us nought but grief an' pain,
For promis'd joy!

VIII

Still thou art blest, compared wi' me!
The present only toucheth thee:
But och! I backward cast my e'e,
On prospects drear!
An' forward, tho' I canna see,
I guess an' fear!

English Translation

Small, crafty, cowering, timorous little beast,
O, what a panic is in your little breast!
You need not start away so hasty
With argumentative chatter!
I would be loath to run and chase you,
With murdering plough-staff.

I'm truly sorry man's dominion
Has broken Nature's social union,
And justifies that ill opinion
Which makes thee startle
At me, thy poor, earth born companion
And fellow mortal!

I doubt not, sometimes, but you may steal;
What then? Poor little beast, you must live!
An odd ear in twenty-four sheaves
Is a small request;
I will get a blessing with what is left,
And never miss it.

Your small house, too, in ruin!
Its feeble walls the winds are scattering!
And nothing now, to build a new one,
Of coarse grass green!
And bleak December's winds coming,
Both bitter and keen!

You saw the fields laid bare and wasted,
And weary winter coming fast,
And cozy here, beneath the blast,
You thought to dwell,
Till crash! the cruel plough passed
Out through your cell.

That small bit heap of leaves and stubble,
Has cost you many a weary nibble!
Now you are turned out, for all your trouble,
Without house or holding,
To endure the winter's sleety dribble,
And hoar-frost cold.

But little Mouse, you are not alone,
In proving foresight may be vain:
The best laid schemes of mice and men
Go often awry,
And leave us nothing but grief and pain,
For promised joy!

Still you are blest, compared with me!
The present only touches you:
But oh! I backward cast my eye,
On prospects dreary!
And forward, though I cannot see,
I guess and fear!

Books in 2012

Time To Murder And Create
Making Movies
Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy
In The Midst of Death
A Purple Place for Dying
Savages

The Road Not Taken

The Road Not Taken
By Robert Frost

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long i stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;
Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,
And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, i kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever comeback.
I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I -
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.

Vitae Lampada

Vitae Lampada
By Sir Henry Newbolt

There's a breathless hush in the Close tonight -
Ten to make and the match to win -
A bumping pitch and a blinding light,
An hour to play and the last man in.
And it's not for the sake of a ribboned coat,
Or the selfish hope of a season's fame,
But his Captain's hand on his shoulder -
"Play up! play up! and play the game!"

The sand of the desert is sodden red, -
Red with the wreck of a square that broke; -
The gatling's jammed and the Colonel dead,
And the regiment blind with dust and smoke.
The river of death has brimmed his banks,
And England's far, and Honour a name,
But the voice of a schoolboy rallies the ranks:
"Play up! play up! and play the game!"

This is the word that year by year,
While in her place the School is set,
Every one of her sons must hear,
And none that hears it dare forget.
This they all with a joyful mind
Bear through life like a torch in flame,
And falling fling to the host behind -
"Play up! play up! and play the game!"

Shaking Off

Stepping to the plate, all the ghosts vanished and he wore the cocky smile he knew pissed off opposing pitchers (and had led to his getting on base numerous times from getting hit). The ghosts used to come with him into the batter’s box. The ghost of the one who could have played, but had the chance taken away from him. The ghost of the one who wanted to play, but didn’t have the skill. The ghosts of all those who loved the game, but just didn’t play. He had realized in here it had to be him and the pitcher and the challenge of the ball.


Copyright 2012 by Casey Moore

Dr. John - Take Me Out To The Ballgame

Invictus

Invictus
By William Ernest Henley

Out of the night that covers me,
Black as the pit form pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.

In the full clutch of circumstance
I have not winced or cried aloud.
Under the bludgeonings of chance
My head is bloody, but unbowed.

Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the Horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
Finds, and shall find, me unafraid.

It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll,
I am the master of my fate:
I am the captain of my soul.

Song Of Myself

Song of Myself
By Walt Whitman

I

I celebrate myself, and sing myself
And what I assume you shall assume
For every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you

I loafe and invite my soul,
I lean and loafe at my ease observing a spear of summer grass

My tongue, every atom of my blood, form'd from this soil, this air,
Born here from parents born here from parents the same, and their
parents the same,
I, now thirty-seven years old in perfect health begin,
Hoping to cease not til death.

Creeds and schools in abeyance,
Retiring back awhile sufficed at what they are, but never forgotten,
I harbor for good or bad, I permit to speak at every hazard
Nature without check with original energy.

Ozymandias

Ozymandias
By Percy Bysshe Shelley

I met a traveller from an antique land
Who said: Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert ... Near them, on the sand,
Half sunk; a shattered visage lies, whose frown,
And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
The hand that mocked them, and the heart that fed;
And on the pedestal these words appear:
"My name is Ozymandias, king of kings:
Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!"
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare
The lone and level sands stretch far away.

Stupid Thoughts

He didn’t like the look of the three guys walking down the street towards him. He know this was stupid, and more than likely there would be nothing, and they would pass and say hi or howdy to each other (he had never been able to shake from saying howdy - maybe too many cowboy movies as a kid). But he still didn’t like the look of the three, so he moved his hand to his knife on his hip. In reality, the knife was nothing more than a security blanket, and he knew this. Sure, in his head and fantasies he liked to think he could use it fast enough to take out any attacker, like Zatoichi. He knew though he would just wind up a bloody mess on the ground like any other victim.

He flipped his shirt up just like in those old westerns, but his common sense was right and the three passed him except there was no hi or howdy since the boys could care less about him and were more interested in talking to each other.


Copyright 2012 by Casey Moore

If

If
By Rudyard Kipling

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 away to hating,
And yet don't look too good, nor talk to 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 to 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!

Sea-Fever

Sea-Fever
By John Masefield

I must down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky,
And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by,
And the wheel's kick and the wind's song and the white sails shaking,
And a grey mist on the sea's face and a grey dawn breaking.

I must down to the seas again, for the call of the running tide
Is a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied;
And all I ask is a windy day with the white clouds flying,
And the flung spray and the blown spume, and the sea-gulls crying.

I must down to the seas again, to the vagrant gypsy life,
To the gull's way and the whale's way where the wind's like a whetted knife;
And all I ask is a merry yarn from a laughing fellow-rover,
And quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long trick's over.