Treatment Abuse, Behavior Modification, Thought Reform > Daytop Village

It's getting harder to remember...

<< < (2/4) > >>

SEKTO:
Yep.

SEKTO:
Under the spreading chestnut tree
I sold you and you sold me:
There lie they, and here lie we
Under the spreading chestnut tree...

Paul St. John:
have to live with myself and so
I want to be fit for myself to know.
I want to be able as days go by,
always to look myself straight in the eye;
I don't want to stand with the setting sun
and hate myself for the things I have done.
I don't want to keep on a closet shelf
a lot of secrets about myself
and fool myself as I come and go
into thinking no one else will ever know
the kind of person I really am,
I don't want to dress up myself in sham.
I want to go out with my head erect
I want to deserve all men's respect;
but here in the struggle for fame and wealth
I want to be able to like myself.
I don't want to look at myself and know that
I am bluster and bluff and empty show.
I never can hide myself from me;
I see what others may never see;
I know what others may never know,
I never can fool myself and so,
whatever happens I want to be
self respecting and conscience free.

Edgar A Guest

Inculcated:
One chair alone in the jungle
In the vines’ tight grip
a sacred tree groans.
Other vines spiral skyward,
bloodspattered creatures howl deep within the shadows,
giant leaves drop from the green sky.
A snake shakes
the dry rattles on its tail,
A bird flashes through the foliage
like an arrow aimed at a flag
while the branches shoulder their violins.
Squatting on their flowers
Insects
Pray without stirring.
-Neruda

Gratitude, for not always having to be where they put you.

SEKTO:
A bud has burst on the upper bough
(The linnet sang in my heart today);
I know where the pale green grasses show
By a tiny runnel, off the way,
And the earth is wet.
(A cuckoo said in my brain: “Not yet.”)

I nabbed the fly in a briar rose
(The linnet to-day in my heart did sing);
Last night, my head tucked under my wing,
I dreamed of a green moon-moth that glows
Thro’ ferns of June.
(A cuckoo said in my brain: “So soon?”)

Good-bye, for the pretty leaves are down
(The linnet sang in my heart today);
The last gold bit of upland’s mown,
And most of summer has blown away
Thro’ the garden gate.
(A cuckoo said in my brain: “Too late.”)

--Trumbull Stickney

Navigation

[0] Message Index

[#] Next page

[*] Previous page