B. Royce

Another song without music to end another day. Serenity My Love, my Love, I love her sight; She loves to see right through the night. Of mystery and shadow far She sees the very why they are. Sealed things start opening, Secrets all are known; She gives a piercing look at them And makes them all her own. And when she looks at me------- Serenity. My Love, my Love, I love her face; Of purest "I" it shows the place. The smile of her is fine to know; She's always got a place to go. And somewhere there's a Far Away That has no guarantee, But wants the heart of every day To beat integrity. And when she looks at me------- Serenity. My Love, my Love, I love her love; She is the very splendor of; She fills my life with melody And we arise in harmony. And step by step we walk along, And step by step we sing, Till suddenly we're marching on For one ideal thing. And when she looks at me------ And when she looks at me------ Serenity! Brian Faulkner

Then, back 400 years out of the city, which most Elizabethans regarded as not a fit background for the expression of ideal life, to the centuries popular The Passionate Shepherd To His Love Come live with me and be my love, And we will all the pleasures prove That valleys. groves, hills, and fields, Woods or steepy mountains, yields. And we will sit upon the rocks, Seeing the shepherds feed their flocks By shallow rivers, to whose falls Melodious birds sing madrigals. And I will make thee beds of roses And a thousand fragrant posies, A cap of flowers, and a kirtle Embroidered all with leaves of myrtle; A gown made of the finest wool, Which from our pretty lambs we pull; Fair-lin-ed slippers for the cold, With buckles of the purest gold; A belt of straw and ivy-buds, With coral clasps and amber studs: And if these pleasures may thee move, Come live with me and be my love. The shepherd swains shall dance and sing For thy delight each May morning: If these delights thy mind may move, Come live with me and be my love. By Christopher Marlowe (1600) A fine poem, with a simplicity and smoothness which had rarely existed in English before. It served as the inspiration for the following song by me, here without music. Come My Love (after Marlowe) I have many many notes to sing, And I have many melodies. Come, come, come, oh come, my Love, I'll sing you anything you please. Sing you any rapture, sing you any try, Sing you any power right; Sing you anything you love to buy In daytime or in night. Sing you of the flowing breezes Swirling in your perfumed hair; Sing you of your eyes so steady And showing evermore, "I dare!" I can sing of any thing that passes through the sky; Every city on the earth is just a note of "I". Roaring and soaring, engines a-driving, Bridges and towers and all; Bells that are ringing, hammers a-pounding, Girders connecting, sing "I". Quiet time alone, Thinking what you'll do; Seeing what you've done so far, Where you're going to. This I sing inside of me, Singing all the time; I will sing you everything If you will be mine. I have many many many many notes to sing, And I have many melodies; Come, come, come, oh come! my Love, I'll sing you anything you please! Brian Faulkner (1979)

Here is another of my own. Published in "Conscious, Unbound", 1999. "And I Will Stand" (with a touch of sci-fi) " and I will stand on earth in selfish might And shoot a meteor from its earth-bound flight. I'll keep the towers of each wealthy street As free from danger as their climb is right. "Vain? I once levered steel right through the sky And clasped the promise of a pagan day. I saw the scattered jewels below me shine Brighter than stars above, and knew the beauty Of naked thought in hero-stance of truth. Then flew to my lips surge of praising song, And with the plane's motor grew mine more strong. Our motor, our lasting flight, merged, soared, curled. We landed, taxied; doors opened, winds swirled, And then I saw the greatest city in the world. And now I sing much prouder of man complete When carved with joy I walk each tow'ring street. And now I speak out loud for selfish kind, 'Man is good, life his all, sure his mind!' And I will stand on earth in selfish might And shoot a meteor from its earth-bound flight." Brian Faulkner And shoot a meteor from its earth-bound flight."

Here is a poem which I love for its noble expression. It is by Shelley, first published posthumously by his wife in 1824. Hymn of Apollo The sleepless Hours who watch me as I lie, Curtained with star-inwoven tapestries From the broad moonlight of the sky, Fanning the busy dreams from my dim eyes, Waken me when their Mother, the gray Dawn, Tells them that dreams and that the moon is gone. Then I arise, and climbing Heaven's blue dome, I walk over the mountains and the waves, Leaving my robe upon the ocean foam; My footsteps pave the clouds with fire; the caves Are filled with my bright presence, and the air Leaves the green Earth to my embraces bare. The sunbeams are my shafts, with which I kill Deceit, that loves the night and fears the day; All men who do or even imagine ill Fly me, and from the glory of my ray Good minds and open actions take new might, Until diminished by the reign of Night. I feed the clouds, the rainbows and the flowers With their aethereal colours; the moon's globe And the pure stars in their eternal bowers Are cinctured with my power as with a robe; Whatever lamps on Earth or Heaven may shine Are portions of one power, which is mine. I stand at noon upon the peak of Heaven, Then with unwilling steps I wander down Into the clouds of the Atlantic even; For grief that I depart they weep and frown: What look is more delightful than the smile With which I soothe them from the western isle? I am the eye with which the Universe Beholds itself and knows itself divine; All harmony of instrument or verse, All prophecy, all medicine is mine, All light of art or nature; to my song Victory and praise in its own right belong. Percy Bysshe Shelley

I, on the other hand, read each one of Miss Rand's novels as an enjoyable end in itself, Anthem first, Atlas Shrugged, then The Fountainhead and We The Living.

Deedlebee, if you want to read a great story in three or so hours, pick up "Anthem". I note that you said you sneer or stare at those you consider irrational. But do you have intellectual ammunition with which to speak up and defend your values when appropriate?

A new day! Again! Time to get to work! Self-Employed Star-dash cars now zip along the street, Wink into the town, Swerving like party-colored leaves Surfing the wind. Everyone's going going going SOMEwhere! Gone. Here? "Yes! Straight to the top! Another perfect day For another perfect dollar!" Mine! I have made it! Now send up flowers And sky-hearted piano players! I want clouds to break, And stars to take, With craft ever true up-soaring! Sky, sun, time----won! Won for the president Of company Me! Am I too bold, too free, too loud? Just wait till I'm more proud! No, I can't be quiet. Love, come now, with me, all night! Brian Faulkner

Also, don't overestimate the present Euros, they could become Nazis again sooner or later.

Thanks, Bill. That was heartwarming, actually brought tears to my eyes. Brian

Welcome, Tasha. I was 18 when I read Anthem (years ago). It's a great end in itself as well as a great introduction to the only fully rational philosophy in existence. Wishing you the best; Brian.

In the Kinsey thread the issue of hedonistic sex has arisen. What about teenagers who only like each other very much, yet want to discover the pleasure-possibilities of their bodies? Cannot this be an innocent endeavor? Two poems from my youth(after breaking free from a Baptist upbringing, and the guilt I was taught I should feel): Thou Art God Thou art God, O Naked Girl, And all of Thee be fine. I, too, God, With air for wearing, And all of Me be Thine. Come! Let's roll upon the bed And set the springs asinging; Two into One, God unto God, Our virginity far-flinging! ------------------------------------ Two, as one, we go, Walking in the shadowed rain. The grass softens, The long green branches reach. Thick as raindrops fall Kisses fall, and fall again. Hands grow heavy, Pulses bound; And Oh, the heavenly motion, And Oh, the joyful sound! Brian Faulkner

Living in a small old town in which little happens can keep one alert to the seemingly smallest improvements. Telephone Pole I sit like that pole that is standing outside, Firm and purposeful, whole. It bears up the wires of worldly desires; Like me it is strong with soul. One simple thing touched with Man's thought, It stands up tall for good; One happy thing for all who'd out-sing, An always-at-work man-of-wood. Brown in the sun, black in the rain, Straight in a wild storm's run, It carries supreme each "I-will-do" dream Till east/west ride into one. Birds skip around as though to catch sound, As happy light bells were their feet. An in-house "brrr!"----the whole flock whirr! Swaying the wires sweet! I look at that pole that is standing outside, Bold and purposeful, whole. "Wave"-thoughts intersect, desires connect; Speech has a sailing soul. Now a man climbs, steady and fast; Straight up the sky he goes! He's got to the top----no tool can drop---- And expertly does what he knows. (Shirt red, pants blue; Face, hands, dust gold; White-capped in blue sky, Light, ready, bold!) Around one shoulder loops the line, To a slope, down-sweeping away. But up, the end, he clamps right in, Deft handling all the way. Quick in the sun, grim in the rain, Strong in a wild storm's run, He's got to be there to anchor a pair Of "I-will-do" dreams to come! In front, each side, runs a squared-off spar, Where tell-waves peak up to cross. He keys a device for splice-beauty, nice---- "Nice work, sky-way boss!" It's done. He looks. Far about him. He sees where the young town will grow. Now climbs to the earth. All 'round him The sun just brightens it so. Now off, to a new one, to anchor and climb, Then a new, and a new, and a new. He'll stand and he'll ply at the top of the sky For a dream sailing east/west due. Up through the dawn, on through today, Week, month and year he is good. He throws 'cross the land each hear-a-bit strand; He's clearly the god of that wood. It waits. Birds wait. And I stand up, Glad, attentive, light. The sky is so near and the tree-tops so clear I feel like that tall pole's height. Now it's easy to see it once was a tree, And maybe a pretty one, too; But I strongly avow, "You're a handsomer, now, Now you've got a more man-thing to do". Handsomer, straighter, keen thought its creator, Brrr! efficient-sky-topper for guide, There's a pure million more as tall-standing, I'm sure, But this one's my due again pride! Brian Faulkner There is a special delight in reading this one aloud, as all poetry should be read, and in a full voice, not a whisper---I've known people who have done this last one; they are amazed that they don't get anything more out of reading it aloud. I wonder, do they play their favorite music barely above mute? And don't read slowly, as if it were a new philosophical treatise. Be at ease, have fun.

And the Europeans themselves are not? From where do European government officials come?

This is slightly off topic. It was written after hearing someone one a TV show speak as though Christianity had a monopoly on love. I Love I love the leaves dancing with the air; I love the sun catching women's hair; I love the trains roaring into town; I love the towers spiring all around. I love the bright-faced shops with winking jewels displayed; I love the factories stacking, proud of what they've made; I love the city lights, the glass-cubed nights, the dreams unsleeping that outrace the dawn; I love my babe's first step, my boy's first job, my girl of science thinking on and on; I love good work, love my life, I love this earth. I love the clouds changing, gathering, blackening to storm; I love the multitudes of thunder blasting deep, in form. I love the daisies, dandelions, roses, silv'ry now with rain; I love the fresh sweet smell of life when sunshafts shoot again. I love the streets, lawns, fields and parks Where children leap and swing----"Push, swing higher! Toe a leaf!" I love the screams of wild delight----"Swing higher! See!" that know no grief. I love the hands that shape some clay into a laughing maze; I love the mind that has its way----creative pride ablaze. I love the singer singing sweeter, longer, the song's words making hearts beat stronger; I love the rugged tales of heroes undefeated who battle on till everything's completed; I love the peace at night in a quiet space; I love the eyes of cheer in my mirror's face; I love hard work, I love my life, I love this earth. I love the trucks and cars, sputt-utt-purring in the morn; I love the sparrows cheeping as if they'd just been born; I love the ice in winter lying on the wires, and the wires' strength that hardly ever tires; I love the tree that stands alone, needing but dirt and sky; I love the person who stands alone, who needs no others by; I love the righteous will that does what it must do; I love the self that chooses, and to itself is true; I love my self, I love my flesh, I love this earth. I love my competence, my striving to do better; I love to think my best, speaking, writing song, poem or letter. I love rewards for my good work; I love money, silver, gold; I love the crinkle, jingle, clink for all I've bought and sold. I love walking down the street, running up a hill, Tumbling on the grass, lying on the earth, breathing it in; I love the feel of joy in thighs and chest and chin. I love the truth, I love the beautiful, I love reality; I love logic, I love sight, I love love. I love and I love and I love. I love the child who wakes up singing; Though shouts of "Quiet!" try to make him wrong, He proudly leaves the house and fills the sky with song. I love the girl who's judged just what she wants---- No matter what the price, it is like gold, Because her thinking makes it worth her hold. I live the young man cashing his first check---- He knows he earned it, feels himself supreme, And trusts himself to realize every dream. I love the man, the man who knows his worth; His thoughts, his feelings, actions, all----his own; All confidence, competence, effort, gain, are in his mirror shown. I love machines; each activating part Precisely put together, like a heart In smoothly-working perfect health That beats and clicks and beats for wealth---- Wealth of power, speed and youth, Accomplishing the highest truth, The truth that's in the wheel sped---- Invention is man's fountainhead. I love this pen that's in my hand, I love this paper marked with ink; I love the things I understand, I love the thoughts I love to think. I love the sky, I love myself, I love this earth; I love and I love and I love. Brian Faulkner

After having heard my neice complain about having to practice every morning I wrote this for her: Practice Grand piano for hands that take command, Speaking keys and rods and hammers, Striking new, softly, felt on steel strings, Felt of the soul dreaming, laughing, Ringing, as it vibes into the wood The do-able dong! of indelible swellable song, The fusable ding! of how thinly and fragible thing, The beautiful beat of repeatable needable gain---- The phrase that skips in the sky---- "Undefeated too, am I!" Ringing, hammering, playing, Again and again and again! Brian Faulkner

The worst thing about this is that Microsoft is trying to comply!

A light-hearted way to end the day: The Revolutionary Bee Off in the roses The rose-bee dozes; Oh, what a shirker, he. Asleep in the lily, The lily-bee, silly, Yawns so languidly. Down in the daisy The daisy-bee, lazy, Dreams of a honey-bee sweet. Up in the honey-comb, Buzzing with Boston, Dumping the honey, he! Brian Faulkner

Deedlebee, have you got as far as Henry Cameron? He's not that far into the story, and he is a fiercely admirable man. However, you might ask yourself what you think about Ayn Rand's style of writing. Do you like it, or not like it, and why? Also, try being specific about what you don't like about certain characters; how are they similar, how are they different? Do they suggest people you know in real life?

Christopherschlegel, you certainly cleared up Debussy. I always wondered why, in listening to him, I felt an expectation for something that never showed up.

Ayn Rand has meant more to me, to my development as a person, to ennabling me to preserve a positive spirit, than anyone. My poem, "Conscious, Unbound", while being in the way of a tribute to the heroes of Tiananmen Square, is even more a tribute to Ayn Rand. Here is roughly the first third of it. Conscious, Unbound 'Round Altruist Square in Say-We, the Red city, Half bent down in prayer a grey crowd of half pity. So hungry, so helpless, yet aimless and still, They waited Mao's spirit to bow to his will. For far below ground there He turned His dark wheel To grind up their grain, as His flesh, for their meal. And with eyes swerving inward and hands against breasts They beat down the doubtings of He-Who-Knows-Best. Up on a low wall hung the image of Mao, With face of loose rubber, rough plastic His brow. His eyes were deep shallows, His limp lips intent; "I am what you make me"---that's what it meant. And bound underground there, on knees and on hands, Around and around men plowed through the sands. They were weighted with chains of the chant of "Deny!" They were bitted with guilt for the ill of an "I"; They were drilled into drudges to do without dreams And tear, while Hope trudges, smiles above screams. From first step to last step, all night and all day, Mao's message rolled through them to "save" and to slay. "Your dreams", He admonished, "breed violence, hate, And only the ignorant dare to beat fate. And song", He commanded, "must only be sung To pound into union the souls of the young. "Now virtue", He told them, "is duty to need, And the first ones must hold them the last ones to feed. And height of attainment", this ruler extolled, "Is sigh in contentment whenever you're told. "But vice of all vices and lie of all lies Is to do your own thinking or ask any whys. For thought is a jungle you cannot control; Much safer one leader to thrust up the soul. "Close eyes and breathe deeply, then tone down your mind; Tranquillity waits you when thought's far behind. Those 'beasts' are not wiser, nor happy, nor free, Who think that they're thinking or dream that they see. "So give up, good people, these urges to know, For I will be with you wherever you go". From first step to last step, all night and all day, Mao's "message' slid through them to slave and to slay. The wheel ground slowly, it groaned through the wall; The plastic and rubber seemed laughing at all. The whole crowd of pity half-lowered their eyes, A half-blank within them and no strength to rise. But to lift up light eyelids and to trust that first sight; To shake off the shamebelt of the rust-reign of fright; To lash back with tethers of cowing now done, Swear life to Sharp Focus and rise as the sun; To grasp a sound vision of meaning so rare One boasts, in defiance, "I'm blind to the Square!" To turn on false places, false faces, false ways, And follow one's logic straight through the maze; To break through the wall there of "damned till you die" And know that its "iron" was always a lie; To pry out the sin-wire they stuck 'round your birth That not one desire could climb to bright worth; To reach down inside you, reach deeper, attain, And rip out the sentence "Life is but pain"; To level right Anger's pure curse on Mao men And vow not to ever know "nothing" again; To walk with eyes open, one's self as one's guide, And claim, as a master, the hard ground of pride; To switch on the sacred high beam of man's light Till all that seemed sunken soars into sight; To clasp, in grave rapture, grand sign of Ayn Rand And squeeze out the essence of all that was banned; To drink in completeness, in sweetness, in youth, Of choice that is reason and life that is truth; Then raise, with rare measure, thine egoist tone, And, glad-mouthed with treasure, set out-----alone. This is man's promise---- conscious, unbound; His sure staff--- existence, his clear brow his crown. No fist can take it, no laws thereof bind; The claws of the ages cannot change the mind. Brian Faulkner

A new day! What shall i sing? Something philosophical. I I, firm, I, solid, I, I am touch and sight and thought. The stars, the earth, the universe, They know nothing. Only I know things known. I, flesh, I, blood, I mortal, I, I am invention, I am desire, I am joy. Trees, clouds, waves, the wind, They are hopeless. Only I choose what I want; Only I choose what I do. I, lifting, I, standing, I, flying, I, ecstatic, I, I am will, I am direction, I am closer, I am right. Far islands, deep fountainheads, high vallies, galaxies, deeds, They are something, But only I know what they are, And I'm myself, I am solid, I'm an entity. This I am that moment I first separately began; This I am every moment; sovereign, moral, rational----man. ---------------------------------------------------------------- The Mind Of Man (originally a song) I stand on the earth and I work out a plan To have all I desire. I know what to do, and I shall go through; I am the mind of man. I test every place, I see what is here, Buried in deep, half-hidden. I know what to do, and I shall go through; I am the mind of man. I dare all the earth to keep what it has, "Hold tight! long as you can! No giant rock will turn me aside; I am the mind of man". I blast, and I drill, I drive endless still; It gives me nothing easy. I laugh and I sing for this very thing; I am the mind of man. Pry I, and pull, till my hands are too full! I have all I desire! I stand on the earth with all I am worth; I am the mind of man. Brian Faulkner

Here is another dancing song written after reading OPAR The Doorway Of "Be" At the gateway of grace, when I glance at your face, I can see, I can feel, I can sway, Peerless spirit free, Palm to palm with me, With lips aglow And eyes that show The might of ecstacy. In the garden of "Found", when I whirl you 'round, I do curl, I do bend, I do send, Flowers hailing light, Circling 'bout the night; And while you draw I stand in awe---- There is no star so right. At the doorway of "Be", when you spin back to me, I can say (I could sing, I could shout!), "Joy is mine, I know! A door of light does grow. I hold the key---- It's you and me; We lead each other----so!" In the hallway of "Near", when we've locked in the cheer, I do kiss, I do clasp, I do kiss, Gold and silver free, Breath to breath with me; With eyes aglow And arms that know The rites of ecstacy! When the music is past, and night doesn't last, They will turn, they will smile, they will rise, Rise in you and I, Starry gazes nigh; We'll step along And sing this song, "Together you and I". We'll step along And sing this song, "Together you and I". Brian Faulkner

About seven years ago I worked in the rolling hills of Aston, Pennsylvania, for a small company which manufactured plastic water pipes for chickenhouses. One inch holes are cut into the pipe about every five inches and plastic nipples are inserted and welded into place. In the chickenhouses the chicken reaches up his beak, pecks the metal stem in the nipples' center, and gets his clean drink. The old way was a dirty trough on the floor. One of the most competent people I ever worked with was Rose. She inspired the following two poems. When I gave her copies I was rewarded with the most brilliantly happy smile I've ever seen---and then hard hugs and kisses. The Hands Of Rose The hands of Rose Open, close, Twist and snap, Count, put back, Seal, restack, Slap that strap, Tip, weigh, ship, Wave! Clap! Rest on hips. Slender, dark brown outside, Pink brown in the palms, Tender, nails purple, gold, or silver, Gold-ringed----bright-haloed grasp! The hands of Rose are: Swift as birds, Light as snowflakes, Gentle as joy. And competent and sure and sharp they are, Turning the saddles, Pushing the buttons, Dancing all day. Tapering long fingers go toe to toe, Bend, kick, straighten, stride just so; Leap for a pencil, write down a lot, Bags all ripe bulging, none forgot. The hands of Rose are: Graceful as wind, Soft as sunbeams, Cool as night. And gathering, setting, filling the bodies, Dropping the pins in, pounding the caps, Or pulling the pipe down, welding the plastic, Repeating it evenly, expert, fantastic, The hands of Rose are: Gladder than sparrows, Pure as her eyebrows, Calm as her lips are---- Atop of their time. They touched me once in laughing cheer; Smile of beauty led them, eyes light, clear. No wasted motion there, for I, too, Felt put together exactly right. The Touch passes, moves on to other things to do, Make true, instill Rose' spirit into; Fill up boxes, load up trucks, Cram, jam, sail the highway! Vessel the world! Sell it goods, Buy some back; Count up dough, Stack on stack; Fold it in, Press with lips; Hold it firm, Rest on hips. Nothing better anyone knows than: A day's work done, Man's thoughts in close, The hands of Rose. ------------------------------------ (These poems were first published by David Gulbraa in a slender volume entitled "Conscious, Unbound", 1999.) The Rose I Know The Rose I know is not a flower, But she's more sweet to me Than all the blossoms all around On every bush and tree. And this whole valley, bright with dews, Like a chandelier laid down, Has most intense of sparkling views When Rose comes into town. Sometimes the wind is soft and free, And sometimes hard and strong. Or is it Rose that's walking by, Or running up with song? And when machines begin their humming, And builders start to pound, I know that Rose is doing something To make the world go 'round. The flowers we have are only flowers; The wind, a something that somehow goes; At work we have the measure-notes of beauty---- The steady, singing competence of Rose. Brian Faulkner

AMERICONORMAN, fair enough; remember, anything you do, do it to the best of your ability---for your own sake; that has to come first. And don't start so many projects at once. You make it very easy to give yourself an excuse for not fully finishing anything. Best wishes to your endeavors, Brian

Yes, this is absolutely false. Rachmaninoff was physically normal in every way.