Anger is the most impotent of passions. It effects nothing it goes about, and hurts the one who is possessed by it more than the one against whom it is directed.
Early this morning, I read this poem and it struck a chord…
“Cool Tombs”
by: Carl Sandburg (1918)
When Abraham Lincoln was shoveled into the tombs, he forgot the copperheads and the assassin . . . in the dust, in the cool tombs.
And Ulysses Grant lost all thought of con men and Wall Street, cash and collateral turned ashes . . . in the dust, in the cool tombs.
Pocahontas’ body, lovely as poplar, sweet as a red haw in November or a pawpaw in May, did she wonder? does she remember? . . . in the dust, in the cool tombs?
Take any streetful of people buying clothes and groceries, cheering a hero or throwing confetti and blowing tin horns . . . tell me if the lovers are losers . . . tell me if any get more than the lovers . . . in the dust . . . in the cool tombs.
Nice find Pribek, Carl S is a very cool, tomb-like guy… but I am concerned:
Let me be lucid — Where is the 1-Hour Photo \ Three — 5 minute rounds\ Bienfang Tornado’s Downtown \ big Red Target Balls Sponsored \ Street light pole art announcement… for the Mike Phelps Friday Night Smash Mouth and Head ‘n Shoulder’s Dander Friday Night Cage Match?
:: some of us, me included, are creatures of habit. Maybe not such good habits, but ne’rtheless…. eh?