Category Archives: FRIENDS

Where did you come from, Baby dear? Out of the everywhere into the here. Where did you get your eyes so blue? Out of the sky as I came through. [George MacDonald (1824-1905), Scottish poet. At the Back of the North Wind

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A mother is the truest friend we have, when trials, heavy and sudden, fall upon us; when adversity takes the place of prosperity; when friends who rejoice with us in our sunshine, desert us when troubles thicken around us, still will she cling to us, and endeavour by her kind precepts and counsels to dissipate the clouds of darkness, and cause peace to return to our hearts.  

Washington Irving

Read more wishes and quotes: http://www.wishesquotes.com/quotes/mother-quotes-sayings-about-moms-and-motherhood#ixzz3hwpMHaAl

Friends are like fiddle-strings, they must not be screwed too tight.

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The Old Violin

The Touch of the Masters Hand

 

‘Twas battered and scarred,
And the auctioneer thought it
hardly worth his while
To waste his time on the old violin,
but he held it up with a smile.

“What am I bid, good people”, he cried,
“Who starts the bidding for me?”
“One dollar, one dollar, Do I hear two?”
“Two dollars, who makes it three?”
“Three dollars once, three dollars twice, going for three,”

But, No,
From the room far back a gray bearded man
Came forward and picked up the bow,
Then wiping the dust from the old violin
And tightening up the strings,
He played a melody, pure and sweet
As sweet as the angel sings.

The music ceased and the auctioneer
With a voice that was quiet and low,
Said “What now am I bid for this old violin?”
As he held it aloft with its’ bow.

“One thousand, one thousand, Do I hear two?”
“Two thousand, Who makes it three?”
“Three thousand once, three thousand twice,
Going and gone”, said he.

The audience cheered,
But some of them cried,
“We just don’t understand.”
“What changed its’ worth?”
Swift came the reply.
“The Touch of the Masters Hand.”

“And many a man with life out of tune
All battered and bruised with hardship
Is auctioned cheap to a thoughtless crowd
Much like that old violin

A mess of pottage, a glass of wine,
A game and he travels on.
He is going once, he is going twice,
He is going and almost gone.

But the Master comes,
And the foolish crowd never can quite understand,
The worth of a soul and the change that is wrought
By the Touch of the Masters’ Hand.

– by Myra Brooks Welch

“The human capacity for burden is like bamboo- far more flexible than you’d ever believe at first glance.” ― Jodi Picoult, My Sister’s Keeper

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You ask how many friends I have? Water and stone, bamboo and pine.
The moon rising over the eastern hill is a joyful comrade.
Besides these five companions, what other pleasure should I ask? ”
–  Yon Sun-do (1587-1671), Korean Poet,
Sigo  

Most men who have really lived have had, in some share, their great adventure. This railway is mine. – James J. Hill

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“My heart is warm with the friends I make,
And better friends I’ll not be knowing,
Yet there isn’t a train I wouldn’t take,
No matter where it’s going.” 


― Edna St. Vincent MillayThe Selected Poetry

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That’s what I consider true generosity: You give your all, and yet you always feel as if it costs you nothing.”  ― Simone de Beauvoir

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An onion shared with a friend tastes like roast lamb.

— Egyptian – See more at: http://josephsoninstitute.org/quotes/quotations.php?q=Generosity,%20forgiveness#sthash.aoKLdaCe.dpuf

An insincere and evil friend is more to be feared than a wild beast; as a wild beast can harm your body, but an evil friend can wound your soul. – See more at: http://friends.com/bad-friend-quotes#sthash.LP8JOirV.dpuf

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It is a great evil to look upon mankind with too clear vision. You seem to be living among wild beasts, and you become a wild beast yourself.

The Story of Prince Alasi and the Princess Firouzkah.

― William Beckford, Episodes of Vathek

There may be times when we are powerless to prevent injustice, but there must never be a time when we fail to protest.” ― Elie Wiesel

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When we honestly ask ourselves which person in our lives mean the most to us, we often find that it is those who, instead of giving advice, solutions, or cures, have chosen rather to share our pain and touch our wounds with a warm and tender hand. The friend who can be silent with us in a moment of despair or confusion, who can stay with us in an hour of grief and bereavement, who can tolerate not knowing, not curing, not healing and face with us the reality of our powerlessness, that is a friend who cares.”

― Henri J.M. Nouwen, Out of Solitude

Come and share a pot of tea, My home is warm and my friendship’s free . Emilie Barnes

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Anybody can look at a pretty girl and see a pretty girl. An artist can look at a pretty girl and see the old woman she will become. A better artist can look at an old woman and see the pretty girl that she used to be. But a great artist-a master-and that is what Auguste Rodin was-can look at an old woman, portray her exactly as she is…and force the viewer to see the pretty girl she used to be…and more than that, he can make anyone with the sensitivity of an armadillo, or even you, see that this lovely young girl is still alive, not old and ugly at all, but simply prisoned inside her ruined body. He can make you feel the quiet, endless tragedy that there was never a girl born who ever grew older than eighteen in her heart…no matter what the merciless hours have done to her. Look at her, Ben. Growing old doesn’t matter to you and me; we were never meant to be admired-but it does to them.”

Robert A. Heinlein

“There were rules among friends, commandments, really, and the most important one was Thou Shalt Not Lust After Thy Friend’s Sister.”

Julia Quinn, The Duke and I

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SHIT POEM

by JAS H. DUKE

I’m in the shit business 
I work for the sewerage department 
I analyse experiments 
I draw graphs and flow charts 
and conclusions 
today I was sitting at my desk 
trying to explain 
the dissolved air flotation process 
where streams of little bubbles are released 
into a tank full of sewerage 
to float the suspended solids up to the surface 
to be skimmed off 
but what I was really thinking about 
was lunchtime 

http://www.takver.com/history/925/925_sum.htm

As I come down the hill from Toro Poutini’s house My feet are sore, being bare, on the sharp stones And that is a suitable penance.

James K. Baxter, Collected Poems (OUP 1979)

http://www.australianpoetry.org/2012/11/26/the-sacred-politics-of-james-k-baxter/

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“I was surrounded by friends, my work was immense, and pleasures were abundant. Life, now, was unfolding before me, constantly and visibly, like the flowers of summer that drop fanlike petals on eternal soil. Overall, I was happiest to be alone; for it was then I was most aware of what I possessed. Free to look out over the rooftops of the city. Happy to be alone in the company of friends, the company of lovers and strangers. Everything, I decided, in this life, was pure pleasure.” 

― Roman Payne, Rooftop Soliloquy

Sentimental irony is a dog that bays at the moon while pissing on graves. Karl Kraus

http://www.lexiyoga.com/moon-quotes

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FOTO  John May’s dog at a Raleigh Rumbling. 

 

The Vagabond And His Dog.

 http://www.wolfweb.com.au/acd/vagabond.htm

By Robert X Leeds.It was another Christmas day
And God looked out to see
What scripture promise came to pass,
What promise would not be.

Andturning aside, HE turned his eyes
To those who’d dwell inside,
To those who’d warm by Heaven’s hearth
And those who’d be denied.

And HE saw a man at St. Peter’s gate,
A mongrel dog at his feet,
And a line that reached to the dark of night
As far as the eye could see.

And St. Peter looked at the disheveled two
And challenged the wretch to say,
What deeds he’d done, what praise he’d won
To walk in Heaven’s way.

And the vagrant stood in his shabby robe
And not one word he spoke,
As though he heard not a single word
This man in the tattered cloak.

 

“What deeds have you done to think you’ve won
The grace of Heaven’s line?
What honors earned? What evils spurned?
Pray help me be inclined.”
 

But the wretched soul and his shepherd hound
Stayed on without a sound
As though no deed could come to mind,
As though no reason found.

“Can you not find one deed so fine,
To merit entrance here?
Can none attest some honored quest,
A challenge still unclear?”

And still he stood and but held the leash
That stayed the mongrel hound.
Until he knelt to feel the ground
And kiss the furry crown.

As love was cast in skin and bone,
He held the dog around,
And Heaven watched and Heaven judged
This vagabond and his hound.

“What seeds were sowed that a flower’d grow
When you’d depart the scene?
A single tree? One slave made free?
One clean and shining sea?

Was not one life made free of strife
Along the path you strolled?
Was not one child encouraged to smile?
No good that can be told?”

And all looked on at the vagabond
Who held the unkempt hound.
But not one voice to sway the choice,
No plaintiff voice was found.

when at last, his patience past,
St. Peter bid unkind
And motioned on to the dark beyond,
“No reason you can find?”

“Not one but simple virtue be
That all of us may see?
Not one redeeming act of faith
Did bring you here to me?

In all your time can you not find
One voice for yours to plea?
In all your time can you not find
One voice to vouch for thee?”

And now at last his time though past,
The vagabond turned to speak;
And his eyes were filled with tears that spilled
And coursed the craggy cheeks.

And from his heart the speech did start
To argue not his sake,
But to plead the cause of the mongrel dog,
That lay in Heaven’s wake.

“Perhaps it ain’t for me to see
The paradise within.
I was a simple soul on earth
This hound’s my only kin.

But if the children’s smiles count,
His cup’s filled to the brim.
Oh, I can vouch for this hound, your grace.
I can vouch for him.

You should’ a seen them laugh and run
When he was all their game.
You should’ a seen the love he gave
And never once complain.

And when the tide of time arose
And naught was there to eat,
He shared the taste of an empty plate
And stayed at these failing feet.

It ain’t for me,” he whispered soft,
“It ain’t for me I ask.
But don’t deprive this poor old hound
For what his master lacks.

If caring and sharing and loyalty
Are virtues of your size,
Consider one who lacks of none,
Let Heaven be his prize.

It matters not what comes of me,
Or what may come about.
But it just ain’t fair. It wouldn’t be fair
To keep my poor hound out.

No friend has ever been so true.
No man has walked a line,
Who never strayed, but not this dog,
This hound that I call mine.”

His fingers stroked the shaggy coat
And the dog licked back the hand;
And as much was said in the silence there,
Than since God’s quest began.

And then abrupt, the hound looked up
And labored with its head
To lick this face of human grace,
This man of tattered thread.

And suddenly a calm would be
That tethered every sound.
And a warm breeze blew that embraced the two,
This vagabond and his hound.

And St. Peter turned to the mist beyond
And paused with uplifted head.
To heed the voice of Almighty God
And to do as HE has said.

I’ve set the task and I have asked
For virtues held and shared.
To dwell in a world of every kind
And for every kind have cared.

And now I’ve seen dimensions dreamed
That seldom I’ve seen before,
A simple man and his faithful hound,
Denied at my own door?”

With pen in hand, St. Peter began
To enter on his list,
The names of those whom God had chosen
To dwell in Heaven’s bliss.

And one belonged to a vagabond
And the other he called his kin;
The man who vouched for an old hound dog
And the hound dog who vouched for him.

Submitted by John Chandler

http://www.wolfweb.com.au/acd/vagabond.htm

Then bury me deep ‘neath the foaming sea, that grave for the plaything of destiny. by G.F.P.

http://nla.gov.au/nla.news-article31738793

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foto – vic manuel’s launch of bury me deep at the bellingen memorial hall october 2013

 

 

“Do not keep on with a mockery of friendship after the substance is gone – but part, while you can part friends.  Bury the carcass of friendship: it is not worth embalming.”


–  William Hazlitt

http://www.gardendigest.com/friendship.htm

Animals are such agreeable friends — they ask no questions, they pass no criticisms.

http://archive.org/stream/cu31924027664907/cu31924027664907_djvu.txt

 

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To everybody's prejudice I know a thing or two; 
I can tell a woman's age in half a minute— 

and I do. 

Yet everybody says I'm such a disagreeable man ! 

And I can't think why

“When a man’s best friend is his dog, that dog has a problem.”

– Edward Abbey

 

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The Queensland Dog
Author unknown
A stranger came from New South Wales, and he was tall and brown,
He lined up beside us at the bar and sank his schooners down.
And all the while, to pass the time, he told us doubtful tales
Of the country he laid claim to, that remarkable New South Wales….

With soil so rich and fertile, so ran his line of talk,
That pumpkin vines fair sprinted along, as fast as a man can walk.
He said it took two hours sometimes, to ride through the hollow logs,
For the timber grew so thick and tall… ..and then he mentioned DOGS!

Little McGinnis spoke up then, arising from his seat, 
“I dunno about them other things, but in dogs we got ya beat”
“I was boundary ridin’ once,” he said, “on a station out Longreach way,
And lost me bearin’s among them hills, right at the end of day.

So I let the old moke poke along and find his own way in the dark,
Until in the distance I saw a light and then I heard him bark.
Well, station dogs are mostly noise, I never took no heed,
I only wanted me bearin’s, and I could have done wiv a feed.

So I went on ridin’ towards the light, just followin’ me nose,
And then I heard him bark agin and this time he’s up close!
I needn’t ‘ave worried, he’s only a dog, the kind the cockies keep,
That chase the Dingos away all night, then lay all day and sleep.

When we gits nearer ‘e whines a bit, friendly and quiet and deep.
Then he stands on his hind legs to lick me face, and I see his gentle eye,
and his dusty coat and wagging tail by the starlight in the sky.
And the horse I was sittin’ on was seventeen hands high!”

The stranger paled and admitted, with the wind took out of his sails,
That dogs do grow bigger in Queensland than they do in New South Wales!

http://www.barkingbuddies.com/dogpoems.html

They are not wanton, but in the course of solving the practical problems of making a comfortable shelter, several trees may have to go

Boyd

http://westerlymag.com.au/wp-content/uploads/issues/pdf/1961Westerly+no.+1.pdf

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Old And New

Thou hast made me known to friends whom I knew not. 
Thou hast given me seats in homes not my own. 
Thou hast brought the distant near and made a brother of the stranger. 

I am uneasy at heart when I have to leave my accustomed shelter; 
I forget that there abides the old in the new, 
and that there also thou abidest. 

Through birth and death, in this world or in others, 
wherever thou leadest me it is thou, the same, 
the one companion of my endless life 
who ever linkest my heart with bonds of joy to the unfamiliar. 

When one knows thee, then alien there is none, then no door is shut. 
Oh, grant me my prayer that I may never lose 
the bliss of the touch of the one 
in the play of many.

Rabindranath Tagore

 

shelter