Inspirational Rumi Quotes and Poems on Love, Life & Happiness
HCHBB June Shannon Was Dating Mark McDaniel Before Sugar Bear's with McDaniel and had put her relationship with Sugar Bear aside. Here Comes Honey Boo Boo was canceled over relationship with Mark McDaniel. Here Comes Honey Boo Boo stars Mama June and Sugar Bear stepped out . Golden South Park moment South Park Memes, South Park Quotes, South. Mama June Shannon's boyfriend, Geno Doak, leaves her at the altar “Roses are red, you've got big thighs, I sucks at poems, butterflies. At the time, Mama June added that she was considering marriage “for the first time in my life.” . There, Mama June claimed she caught Sugar Bear using the dating.
Facts and dates may be slightly off for it was a long time ago, and facts and dates change. They are altered by the failings of human memory and embellishment, which is a human trait, but one thing is totally accurate: My uncle Edward died in his middle twenties and he indirectly died as a result of the Japanese people dropping a bomb on him and nothing in this world, no power or prayer, will ever return him to us.
He is gone forever. This is a strange way to introduce a book of poetry that expresses my feelings of deep affection for the Japanese people but it has to be done as as part of a map that led me to Japan and the writing of this book.
I will continue describing more places on the map that took me to Japan in the late spring of and these poems. I hated the Japanese all during the war. I thought of them as diabolical subhuman creatures that had to be destroyed so that civilization could prevail with liberty and justice for all.
In newspaper cartoons they were depicted as buck-toothed monkeys. Propaganda encourages the imagination of children. I killed thousands of Japanese soldiers playing war.
I wrote a short story called "The Ghost Children of Tacoma" that shows my dedication to killing Japanese when I was six, seven, eight, nine and ten years old.
I was very good at killing them. They were fun to kill.
Children need a lot less hospitals in war than grown-ups do. Children pretty much look at it from the all death side.
I remember when the war finally ended. I was in a theater watching a Dennis Morgan movie. I think it was a singing foreign legion desert picture but I cannot be certain. Suddenly across the screen came a piece of yellow paper with words typed on it saying that Japan had just surrendered to the United States and World War II was over.
Everybody in the theater started screaming and laughing and were in ecstasy. We rushed out into the streets where car horns were honking.
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It was a hot summer afternoon. Everything was in Pandemonium. Total strangers were hugging and kissing each other. Every car horn was honking. The streets were flooded with people. All traffic came to a halt.
People swarmed kissing each other and laughing like ants over honking cars filled with ecstatic people. What else could we do? The long years of war were over.
It was done with. We had defeated and destroyed these subhuman monkeys the Japanese people. Justice and the rights of mankind had triumphed over these creatures that belonged in jungles instead of cities.
Yet must I tell a tale of chivalry: Or wherefore comes that steed so proudly by? Wherefore more proudly does the gentle knight Rein in the swelling of his ample might? Therefore, great bard, I not so fearfully Call on thy gentle spirit to hover nigh My daring steps: Him thou wilt hear; so I will rest in hope To see wide plains, fair trees and lawny slope The morn, the eve, the light, the shade, the flowers; Clear streams, smooth lakes, and overlooking towers.
A Fragment Young Calidore is paddling o'er the lake; His healthful spirit eager and awake To feel the beauty of a silent eve, Which seem'd full loath this happy world to leave; The light dwelt o'er the scene so lingeringly. He bares his forehead to the cool blue sky, And smiles at the far clearness all around, Until his heart is well nigh over wound, And turns for calmness to the pleasant green Of easy slopes, and shadowy trees that lean And show their blossoms trim.
Scarce can his clear and nimble eye-sight follow The freaks, and dartings of the black-wing'd swallow, Delighting much, to see it half at rest, Dip so refreshingly its wings, and breast 'Gainst the smooth surface, and to mark anon, The widening circles into nothing gone. And now the sharp keel of his little boat Comes up with ripple, and with easy float, And glides into a bed of water lillies: Broad leav'd are they and their white canopies Are upward turn'd to catch the heavens' dew.
Near to a little island's point they grew; Whence Calidore might have the goodliest view Of this sweet spot of earth. The bowery shore Went off in gentle windings to the hoar And light blue mountains: These, gentle Calidore Greeted, as he had known them long before. The sidelong view of swelling leafiness, Which the glad setting sun in gold doth dress; Whence ever and anon the jay outsprings, And scales upon the beauty of its wings.
The lonely turret, shatter'd, and outworn, Stands venerably proud; too proud to mourn Its long lost grandeur: The little chapel with the cross above Upholding wreaths of ivy; the white dove, That on the window spreads his feathers light, And seems from purple clouds to wing its flight.
Green tufted islands casting their soft shades Across the lake; sequester'd leafy glades, That through the dimness of their twilight show Large dock leaves, spiral foxgloves, or the glow Of the wild cat's eyes, or the silvery stems Of delicate birch trees, or long grass which hems These pleasant things, and heaven was bedewing The mountain flowers, when his glad senses caught A trumpet's silver voice. Friends very dear to him he soon will see; So pushes off his boat most eagerly, And soon upon the lake he skims along, Deaf to the nightingale's first under-song; Nor minds he the white swans that dream so sweetly: His spirit flies before him so completely.
And now he turns a jutting point of land, Whence may be seen the castle gloomy, and grand Nor will a bee buzz round two swelling peaches, Before the point of his light shallop reaches Those marble steps that through the water dip Now over them he goes with hasty trip, And scarcely stays to ope the folding doors Anon he leaps along the oaken floors Of halls and corridors.
What a kiss, What gentle squeeze he gave each lady's hand! How tremblingly their delicate ancles spann'd! Into how sweet a trance his soul was gone, While whisperings of affection Made him delay to let their tender feet Come to the earth; with an incline so sweet From their low palfreys o'er his neck they bent And whether there were tears of languishment, Or that the evening dew had pearl'd their tresses, He feels a moisture on his cheek, and blesses With lips that tremble, and with glistening eye All the soft luxury That nestled in his arms.
A dimpled hand, Hung from his shoulder like the drooping flowers Of whitest cassia, fresh from summer showers And this he fondled with his happy cheek As if for joy he would no further seek; When the kind voice of good Sir Clerimond Came to his ear, like something from beyond His present being: Amid the pages, and the torches' glare There stood a knight, patting the flowing hair Of his proud horse's mane: So that the waving of his plumes would be High as the berries of a wild ash tree, Or as the winged cap of Mercury.
His armour was so dexterously wrought In shape, that sure no living man had thought It hard, and heavy steel: Soon in a pleasant chamber they are seated; The sweet-lipp'd ladies have already greeted All the green leaves that round the window clamber, To show their purple stars, and bells of amber. Sir Gondibert has doff'd his shining steel, Gladdening in the free and airy feel Of a light mantle; and while Clerimond Is looking round about him with a fond And placid eye, young Calidore is burning To hear of knightly deeds, and gallant spurning Of all unworthiness; and how the strong of arm Kept off dismay, and terror, and alarm From lovely woman while brimful of this, He gave each damsel's hand so warm a kiss, And had such manly ardour in his eye, That each at other look'd half staringly; And then their features started into smiles Sweet as blue heavens o'er enchanted isles.
Softly the breezes from the forest came, Softly they blew aside the taper's flame; Clear was the song from Philomel's far bower; Grateful the incense from the lime-tree flower; Mysterious, wild, the far heard trumpet's tone; Lovely the moon in ether, all alone Sweet too the converse of these happy mortals, As that of busy spirits when the portals Are closing in the west; or that soft humming We hear around when Hesperus is coming.
Sweet be their sleep. To one who has been long in city pent To one who has been long in city pent, 'Tis very sweet to look into the fair And open face of heaven, — to breathe a prayer Full in the smile of the blue firmament.
Who is more happy, when, with heart's content, Fatigued he sinks into some pleasant lair Of wavy grass, and reads a debonair And gentle tale of love and languishment?
Returning home at evening, with an ear Catching the notes of Philomel, — an eye Watching the sailing cloudlet's bright career, He mourns that day so soon has glided by E'en like the passage of an angel's tear That falls through the clear ether silently.
There warm my breast with patriotic lore, Musing on Milton's fate — on Sydney's bier — Till their stern forms before my mind arise Perhaps on the wing of poesy upsoar, Full often dropping a delicious tear, When some melodious sorrow spells mine eyes. To a Friend Who Sent Me Some Roses As late I rambled in the happy fields, What time the sky-lark shakes the tremulous dew From his lush clover covert; — when anew Adventurous knights take up their dinted shields I saw the sweetest flower wild nature yields, A fresh-blown musk-rose; 'twas the first that threw Its sweets upon the summer graceful it grew As is the wand that queen Titania wields.
I could be content Happy is England! I could be content To see no other verdure than its own; To feel no other breezes than are blown Through its tall woods with high romances blent Yet do I sometimes feel a languishment For skies Italian, and an inward groan To sit upon an Alp as on a throne, And half forget what world or worldling meant. Happy is England, sweet her artless daughters; Enough their simple loveliness for me, Enough their whitest arms in silence clinging Yet do I often warmly burn to see And float with them about the summer waters.
To My Brother George Many the wonders I this day have seen The sun, when first he kist away the tears That fill'd the eyes of morn; — the laurel'd peers Who from the feathery gold of evening lean; — The ocean with its vastness, its blue green, Its ships, its rocks, its caves, its hopes, its fears, — Its voice mysterious, which whoso hears Must think on what will be, and what has been. E'en now, dear George, while this for you I write, Cynthia is from her silken curtains peeping So scantly, that it seems her bridal night, And she her half-discover'd revels keeping.
But what, without the social thought of thee, Would be the wonders of the sky and sea? To My Brother George Full many a dreary hour have I past, My brain bewilder'd, and my mind o'ercast With heaviness; in seasons when I've thought No spherey strains by me could e'er be caught From the blue dome, though I to dimness gaze On the far depth where sheeted lightning plays; Or, on the wavy grass outstretch'd supinely, Pry 'mong the stars, to strive to think divinely That I should never hear Apollo's song, Though feathery clouds were floating all along The purple west, and, two bright streaks between, The golden lyre itself were dimly seen That the still murmur of the honey bee Would never teach a rural song to me That the bright glance from beauty's eyelids slanting Would never make a lay of mine enchanting, Or warm my breast with ardour to unfold Some tale of love and arms in time of old.
But there are times, when those that love the bay, Fly from all sorrowing far, far away; A sudden glow comes on them, naught they see In water, earth, or air, but poesy. It has been said, dear george, and true I hold it, That when a Poet is in such a trance, In air he sees white coursers paw, and prance, Bestridden of gay knights, in gay apparel, Who at each other tilt in playful quarrel, And what we, ignorantly, sheet-lightning call, Is the swift opening of their wide portal, When the bright warder blows his trumpet clear, Whose tones reach naught on earth but Poet's ear.
When these enchanted portals open wide, And through the light the horsemen swiftly glide, The Poet's eye can reach those golden halls, And view the glory of their festivals Their ladies fair, that in the distance seem Fit for the silv'ring of a seraph's dream; Their rich brimm'd goblets, that incessant run Like the bright spots that move about the sun; And, when upheld, the wine from each bright jar Pours with the lustre of a falling star.
Yet further off, are dimly seen their bowers, Of which, no mortal eye can reach the flowers; And 'tis right just, for well Apollo knows 'Twould make the Poet quarrel with the rose. All that's reveal'd from that far seat of blisses, Is, the clear fountains' interchanging kisses, As gracefully descending, light and thin, Like silver streaks across a dolphin's fin, When he upswimmeth from the coral caves, And sports with half his tail above the waves.
These wonders strange he sees, and many more, Whose head is pregnant with poetic lore. Should he upon an evening ramble fare With forehead to the soothing breezes bare, Would he naught see but the dark, silent blue With all its diamonds trembling through and through? Or the coy moon, when in the waviness Of whitest clouds she does her beauty dress, And staidly paces higher up, and higher, Like a sweet nun in holy-day attire? These are the living pleasures of the bard But richer far posterity's award.
What does he murmur with his latest breath, While his proud eye looks through the film of death? The sage will mingle with each moral theme My happy thoughts sententious; he will teem With lofty periods when my verses fire him, And then I'll stoop from heaven to inspire him. Lays have I left of such a dear delight That maids will sing them on their bridal night.
Gay villagers, upon a morn of May, When they have tired their gentle limbs with play, And form'd a snowy circle on the grass, And plac'd in midst of all that lovely lass Who chosen is their queen, — with her fine head Crowned with flowers purple, white, and red For there the lily, and the musk-rose, sighing, Are emblems true of hapless lovers dying Between her breasts, that never yet felt trouble, A bunch of violets full blown, and double, Serenely sleep — she from a casket takes A little book, — and then a joy awakes About each youthful heart, — with stifled cries, And rubbing of white hands, and sparkling eyes For she's to read a tale of hopes, and fears; One that I foster'd in my youthful years The pearls, that on each glist'ning circlet sleep, Gush ever and anon with silent creep, Lured by the innocent dimples.
To sweet rest Shall the dear babe, upon its mother's breast, Be lull'd with songs of mine. Thy dales, and hills, are fading from my view Swiftly I mount, upon wide spreading pinions, Full joy I feel, while thus I cleave the air, That my soft verse will charm thy daughters fair, And warm thy sons!
At times, 'tis true, I've felt relief from pain When some bright thought has darted through my brain Through all that day I've felt a greater pleasure Than if I'd brought to light a hidden treasure.
As to my sonnets, though none else should heed them, I feel delighted, still, that you should read them. Of late, too, I have had much calm enjoyment, Stretch'd on the grass at my best lov'd employment Of scribbling lines for you.
These things I thought While, in my face, the freshest breeze I caught. E'en now I'm pillow'd on a bed of flowers That crowns a lofty clift, which proudly towers Above the ocean-waves.
EXCLUSIVE: Mama June Opens Up About Her Current Relationship With Sugar Bear: 'He Pisses Me Off'
The stalks, and blades, Chequer my tablet with their quivering shades. On one side is a field of drooping oats, Through which the poppies show their scarlet coats; So pert and useless, that they bring to mind The scarlet coats that pester human-kind. And on the other side, outspread, is seen Ocean's blue mantle streak'd with purple, and green.
Now 'tis I see a canvass'd ship, and now Mark the bright silver curling round her prow. I see the lark down-dropping to his nest, And the broad winged sea-gull never at rest; For when no more he spreads his feathers free, His breast is dancing on the restless sea. Now I direct my eyes into the west, Which at this moment is in sunbeams drest Why westward turn? To Charles Cowden Clarke Oft have you seen a swan superbly frowning, He slants his neck beneath the waters bright So silently, it seems a beam of light Come from the Galaxy anon he sports, — With outspread wings the Naiad Zephyr courts, Or ruffles all the surface of the lake In striving from its crystal face to take Some diamond water drops, and them to treasure In milky nest, and sip them off at leisure.
But not a moment can he there insure them, Nor to such downy rest can he allure them; For down they rush as though they would be free, And drop like hours into eternity.
Just like that bird am I in loss of time, Whene'er I venture on the stream of rhyme; With shatter'd boat, oar snapt, and canvass rent, I slowly sail, scarce knowing my intent; Still scooping up the water with my fingers, In which a trembling diamond never lingers. Thus have I thought; and days on days have flown Slowly, or rapidly — unwilling still For you to try my dull, unlearned quill. Nor should I now, but that I've known you long; That you first taught me all the sweets of song The grand, the sweet, the terse, the free, the fine; What swell'd with pathos, and what right divine Spenserian vowels that elope with ease, And float along like birds o'er summer seas; Miltonian storms, and more, Miltonian tenderness; Michael in arms, and more, meek Eve's fair slenderness.
Who read for me the sonnet swelling loudly Up to its climax and then dying proudly? Who found for me the grandeur of the ode, Growing, like Atlas, stronger from its load? Who let me taste that more than cordial dram, The sharp, the rapier-pointed epigram? Shew'd me that epic was of all the king, Round, vast, and spanning all like Saturn's ring?
HCHBB June Shannon Was Dating Mark McDaniel Before Sugar Bear’s Infidelity
You too upheld the veil from Clio's beauty, And pointed out the patriot's stern duty; The might of Alfred, and the shaft of Tell; The hand of Brutus, that so grandly fell Upon a tyrant's head.
What my enjoyments in my youthful years, Bereft of all that now my life endears? And can I e'er these benefits forget? When spirit enters, a man begins to wander freely, escaped and overrunning through the garden plants, spontaneous and soaking in.
In my heart you rose like the moon but as I glanced at you, you disappeared. Having had a glimpse of Your garden, I have no more the patience to endure my existence…. Dear one, you can be wild and rebellious… But when you meet him face to face… His charm will make you docile like the earth, Throw away your shield and bare your chest… There is no stronger protection than him.
You are yourself the animal we hunt when you come with us on the hunt. You are in your body like a plant is solid in the ground, yet you are wind. You are the fish. In the ocean are many bright strands and many dark strands like veins that are seen when a wing is lifted up. Your hidden self is blood in those, those veins that are lute strings that make ocean music, not the sad edge of surf, but the sound of no shore.
Wisteria and Jasmine twist on themselves. Violet kneels to Hyacinth, who bows. Narcissus winks, wondering what will the lightheaded Willow say of such slow dancing by Cypress. Painters come outdoors with brushes. I love their hands. The birds sing suddenly and all at once.
The soul says Ya Hu, quietly. A dove calls, Where, ku? Soul, you will find it. Now the roses show their breasts. No one hides when the Friend arrives. The Rose speaks openly to the Nightingale. Notice how the Green Lily has several tongues but still keeps her secret. Now the Nightingale sings this love that is so recklessly exposed, like you.