Scribbles

I dreamed I stood in a studio And watched two sculptors there The clay used was a young child's mind And they fashioned it with care One was a teacher -the tools he used Were books, music and art. The other, a parent, worked with a guiding hand. And a gentle, loving heart. Day after day, the teacher toiled with touch That was deft and sure. While the parent laboured by his side And polished and smoothed it o'er And when at last their task was done. They were proud of what they had wrought. For the things they had moulded into the child Could neither be sold nor bought And each agreed they would have failed If each had worked alone For behind the teacher stood the school And behind the parent the home Author Unknown

Listen to the trees as they sway in the wind, Their leaves are telling secrets, Their bark sings songs of olden days as it grows around the trunks, And their roots give names to all things, Their language has been lost, but not the gestures. Mpanji Siame

Hold fast to dreams For if dreams die Life is a broken-winged bird That cannot fly. Hold fast to dreams For when dreams go Life is a barren field Frozen with snow. Langston Hughes

How neatly my wife sleeps, I should like to sleep like her. She must be dreaming of me, I must long to see her dreams; Her breathe so smooth, Her turnings so soft, She must be using hydraulics, For her to turn without struggles. Her lips once again so tempting, But I do not want to disturb her, In her dreams she Takes care of all our dreams; She solves our day long problems. Through her eye lids I long to read all her eyes, And join her in her dreams. Moffat Mbuzi (Zambian)

P ART  O NE   The wind was a torrent of darkness among the gusty trees.    The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas.    The road was a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,    And the highwayman came riding—           Riding—riding—  The highwayman came riding, up to the old inn-door.  He’d a French cocked-hat on his forehead, a bunch of lace at his chin,    A coat of the claret velvet, and breeches of brown doe-skin.  They fitted with never a wrinkle. His boots were up to the thigh.    And he rode with a jewelled twinkle,           His pistol butts a-twinkle,  His rapier hilt a-twinkle, under the jewelled sky.  Over the cobbles he clattered and clashed in the dark inn-yard.  He tapped with his whip on the shutters, but all...

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 come back. 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. Robert Frost (1920)

Death is a fisherman, the world we see His fish-pond is, and we the fishes be; His net some general sickness; howe'er he Is not so kind as other fishers be; For if they take one of the smaller fry, They throw him in again, he shall not die: But death is sure to kill all he can get, And all is fish with him that comes to net.                  Benjamin Franklin

When you get what you want in your struggle for self And the world makes you king for a day Just go to the mirror and look at yourself And see what that man has to say. For it isn’t your father, or mother, or wife Whose judgment upon you must pass The fellow whose verdict counts most in your life Is the one staring back from the glass. He’s the fellow to please – never mind all the rest For he’s with you, clear to the end And you’ve passed your most difficult, dangerous test If the man in the glass is your friend. You may fool the whole world down the pathway of years And get pats on the back as you pass But your final reward will be heartache and tears If you’ve cheated the man in the glass.   By Peter Dale Wimbrow Sr.