Think someday he will just hang up his cap?
Time to head for the smoke?..
...Head for the hills?
Land ownership tax caps made the News for 2009.
Anyway, where can Santa go from here. His heart has truly been with all the children of the world, and the child in all of us; more importantly, it has been at heart to a gift of awakening and sharing a joyous Spirit; all he can for a season.
Also for this post, an old note from the Coalition of National Park Service Retirees; notes; Field Notes from Central Park N.P - "This is why we have interpretation as a profession."
That wasn't noted here for any tangent to "coal" words; besides, the breakdown is all about working together (co'aligned ~ coalition).
What kind of breakthrough does it take for us to get it.
Maybe we all just need a break.
Its hard to describe sometimes; are needs, sometimes we dont even know.
POETICLY..
The way a crow
Has given my heart
Ironicly, the only direction Santa can go is "South"!
Where should we go?
Maybe Santa has an island in a warm tropic; or a hut deep in an Oriental forest, high on a mountain ridge that huvers between some cosmic hotsprings...
Cosmic?
Does Santa have to look straight up to see the North Star?
How can we rigourously work with the best means we have that define our humanity and fit our functions within the world without neglecting our "Selfs". Elf characters~?~serious(that was humor), yet the way we behave in society and fullfill our daily tasks are very maticulous..; ..varyiously speaking, how our ways do varry.
We have professional areas engineered and tested to the best of our integrity; both field-types and all people, we deeply appreciate.
Earth we can not cheat WITHOUT CHEATING OUR "Selfs". Preferencials of truth and sound we share though impulse guides; yet even more, we rather not risk to much to some shaky compromise, especiallly when they overwhelm our selfs.
Can we find the times to observe and address the directions we are moving before we have to bear some consequences of our decoration of efforts for the sum of these intransigent images? Maybe the Frost poem was easier to understand but that was a message of awakening, as to where our sum of efforts are channeled around by our own design that may not even be of anything "earthly or human" at all; ahh, but "humane" we claim, or paint it to be so... Some Jupiter 7th and Saturn 6th exageration~?~funny, may be, but to what influence of directions do we have a sign; or know to determin in what it is, and to what we have, all ready and asigned? Our "PR."pṛcchati in postulation (or post-state-tulated)..
..decorum?
Probably even better to take note in the Spirit, to what we have as a gift ourSelfs, and to what is a gift as a gift itSelf .
And maybe with some wisdom, patience and the faculty to love.
Where do we stand to enduldge in love?
Our relationships take shape naturally and then on what we decide to, we look back at what we have built and connecting ourselves to others in our own compatable skill, or logic, sharing rational portions of our minds; oh, and just intellectually sometimes... as if the world has no matter of a reason of our sociable sensitivities. So then, here we are as caretakers of the world~in each other~ doing what we can through our acquisitions and material management; in each our own affective and spiritual capital is found.
The N.P as noted...'Feel Free' helped me recognize that I personally can do more to lead young and minority visitors to park experiences that will resonate personally for them. ... Parks commemorate not just our natural and historic treasures and our cultural ideals, but also our national shames, pains, crimes, and mistakes. These darker parts of our history are inevitably part of our most iconic places, because stories about the same events can be told through the voices of people in power and of people without, or with less, power. When the less-told stories are told in national parks, the experiences of cultural minorities are officially sanctioned – officially heard.
Heared The Music?
The horse knows the way to carry the sleigh... ...Santa has reindeer.
There will be scarry ghost stories and ...(Lyrics -Andy Williams The Most Wonderful Time Of The Year)
91. Lepanto
WHITE founts falling in the Courts of the sun,
And the Soldan of Byzantium is smiling as they run;
There is laughter like the fountains in that face of all men feared,
It stirs the forest darkness, the darkness of his beard;
It curls the blood-red crescent, the crescent of his lips; 5
For the inmost sea of all the earth is shaken with his ships.
They have dared the white republics up the capes of Italy,
They have dashed the Adriatic round the Lion of the Sea,
And the Pope has cast his arms abroad for agony and loss,
And called the kings of Christendom for swords about the Cross. 10
The cold queen of England is looking in the glass;
The shadow of the Valois is yawning at the Mass;
From evening isles fantastical rings faint the Spanish gun,
And the Lord upon the Golden Horn is laughing in the sun.
Dim drums throbbing, in the hills half heard, 15
Where only on a nameless throne a crownless prince has stirred,
Where, risen from a doubtful seat and half attainted stall,
The last knight of Europe takes weapons from the wall,
The last and lingering troubadour to whom the bird has sung,
That once went singing southward when all the world was young. 20
In that enormous silence, tiny and unafraid,
Comes up along a winding road the noise of the Crusade.
Strong gongs groaning as the guns boom far,
Don John of Austria is going to the war,
Stiff flags straining in the night-blasts cold 25
In the gloom black-purple, in the glint old-gold,
Torchlight crimson on the copper kettle-drums,
Then the tuckets, then the trumpets, then the cannon, and he comes.
Don John laughing in the brave beard curled,
Spurning of his stirrups like the thrones of all the world, 30
Holding his head up for a flag of all the free.
Love-light of Spain—hurrah!
Death-light of Africa!
Don John of Austria
Is riding to the sea. 35
Mahound is in his paradise above the evening star,
(Don John of Austria is going to the war.)
He moves a mighty turban on the timeless houri's knees,
His turban that is woven of the sunsets and the seas.
He shakes the peacock gardens as he rises from his ease, 40
And he strides among the tree-tops and is taller than the trees;
And his voice through all the garden is a thunder sent to bring
Black Azrael and Ariel and Ammon on the wing.
Giants and the Genii,
Multiplex of wing and eye, 45
Whose strong obedience broke the sky
When Solomon was king.
They rush in red and purple from the red clouds of the morn,
From the temples where the yellow gods shut up their eyes in scorn;
They rise in green robes roaring from the green hells of the sea 50
Where fallen skies and evil hues and eyeless creatures be,
On them the sea-valves cluster and the grey sea-forests curl,
Splashed with a splendid sickness, the sickness of the pearl;
They swell in sapphire smoke out of the blue cracks of the ground,—
They gather and they wonder and give worship to Mahound. 55
And he saith, "Break up the mountains where the hermit-folk can hide,
And sift the red and silver sands lest bone of saint abide,
And chase the Giaours flying night and day, not giving rest,
For that which was our trouble comes again out of the west.
We have set the seal of Solomon on all things under sun, 60
Of knowledge and of sorrow and endurance of things done.
But a noise is in the mountains, in the mountains, and I know
The voice that shook our palaces—four hundred years ago:
It is he that saith not 'Kismet'; it is he that knows not Fate;
It is Richard, it is Raymond, it is Godfrey at the gate! 65
It is he whose loss is laughter when he counts the wager worth,
Put down your feet upon him, that our peace be on the earth."
For he heard drums groaning and he heard guns jar,
(Don John of Austria is going to the war.)
Sudden and still—hurrah! 70
Bolt from Iberia!
Don John of Austria
Is gone by Alcalar.
St. Michaels on his Mountain in the sea-roads of the north
(Don John of Austria is girt and going forth.) 75
Where the grey seas glitter and the sharp tides shift
And the sea-folk labour and the red sails lift.
He shakes his lance of iron and he claps his wings of stone;
The noise is gone through Normandy; the noise is gone alone;
The North is full of tangled things and texts and aching eyes, 80
And dead is all the innocence of anger and surprise,
And Christian killeth Christian in a narrow dusty room,
And Christian dreadeth Christ that hath a newer face of doom,
And Christian hateth Mary that God kissed in Galilee,—
But Don John of Austria is riding to the sea. 85
Don John calling through the blast and the eclipse
Crying with the trumpet, with the trumpet of his lips,
Trumpet that sayeth ha!
Domino gloria!
Don John of Austria 90
Is shouting to the ships.
King Philip's in his closet with the Fleece about his neck
(Don John of Austria is armed upon the deck.)
The walls are hung with velvet that is black and soft as sin,
And little dwarfs creep out of it and little dwarfs creep in. 95
He holds a crystal phial that has colours like the moon,
He touches, and it tingles, and he trembles very soon,
And his face is as a fungus of a leprous white and grey
Like plants in the high houses that are shuttered from the day,
And death is in the phial and the end of noble work, 100
But Don John of Austria has fired upon the Turk.
Don John's hunting, and his hounds have bayed—
Booms away past Italy the rumour of his raid.
Gun upon gun, ha! ha!
Gun upon gun, hurrah! 105
Don John of Austria
Has loosed the cannonade.
The Pope was in his chapel before day or battle broke,
(Don John of Austria is hidden in the smoke.)
The hidden room in man's house where God sits all the year, 110
The secret window whence the world looks small and very dear.
He sees as in a mirror on the monstrous twilight sea
The crescent of his cruel ships whose name is mystery;
They fling great shadows foe-wards, making Cross and Castle dark,
They veil the plumèd lions on the galleys of St. Mark; 115
And above the ships are palaces of brown, black-bearded chiefs,
And below the ships are prisons, where with multitudinous griefs,
Christian captives sick and sunless, all a labouring race repines
Like a race in sunken cities, like a nation in the mines.
They are lost like slaves that sweat, and in the skies of morning hung 120
The stair-ways of the tallest gods when tyranny was young.
They are countless, voiceless, hopeless as those fallen or fleeing on
Before the high Kings' horses in the granite of Babylon.
And many a one grows witless in his quiet room in hell
Where a yellow face looks inward through the lattice of his cell, 125
And he finds his God forgotten, and he seeks no more a sign—
(But Don John of Austria has burst the battle-line!)
Don John pounding from the slaughter-painted poop,
Purpling all the ocean like a bloody pirate's sloop,
Scarlet running over on the silvers and the golds, 130
Breaking of the hatches up and bursting of the holds,
Thronging of the thousands up that labour under sea
White for bliss and blind for sun and stunned for liberty.
Vivat Hispania!
Domino Gloria! 135
Don John of Austria
Has set his people free!
Cervantes on his galley sets the sword back in the sheath
(Don John of Austria rides homeward with a wreath.)
And he sees across a weary land a straggling road in Spain, 140
Up which a lean and foolish knight for ever rides in vain,
And he smiles, but not as Sultans smile, and settles back the blade....
(But Don John of Austria rides home from the Crusade.)
BIBLIOGRAPHIC RECORD http://www.bartleby.com/br/103.html
Louis Untermeyer, ed. (1885–1977).
Modern British Poetry. 1920.
G. K. Chesterton. 1874–
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