B. Royce

I agree entirely with A is A. This whole question of the dividing line is not blurry at all. The so-called "miracle" of birth is that moment when the fetus fully departs from the womb (natural or artificial) and is a separate entity---a baby. This fact of being out in the world establishes its rights. The concept of "viability" is totally irrelevant. When you say that you find late-term abortion "disturbing" what exactly do you mean? Your feeling might be caused by calling a fetus a "completely viable baby" instead of a "viable fetus". Calling a fetus a baby has been the central ploy, and/or sloppy thinking, of the anti-abortion crowd since day one.

I don't have any of those recordings now, but I'd enjoy making and sharing new ones.

Here is my first sonnet in years; not perfect, but will have to do for now. Fear not, O Universe, the taking eyes of man (Embracing close your swirling spheres of fire), Nor shrink from reaching hands that would you grasp And purify your globes with calm desire. You're not alone now as you were before--- When thought was not, nor any hopeful scheme; You're wanted wholly, sought into your core, To fill the hunger of a dreamer's dream. This ball beneath man's foot, those unchained stars, Shake fascination through his questing mind; He trembles---but with joy, then flies to Mars; And all that's passed is noted, measured, signed. The taking eyes of Love hold all in thrall, And Universe, you've got a master after all. ___________________________________________ Brian Faulkner

I just noticed this. Yes, I have made my own recordings, and I've done Noyes' "The Highwayman", which is a vivid and dramatic read.

I interpret Lansing's comment to mean that most men sell their souls (or surrender their minds) for what appears to them to be a short-range advantage, but, like most things left in a pawn-shop, they are never reclaimed. The association with pawnshop is distinctly that of cheapness and shabbiness, of items "sold" for a small fraction of their original value, especially items that may have some personal, love-related value, displayed in a window for all eyes to see, and thus surrendering their "preciousness".

Still unsatisfied with My Cloud, I have rewritten it ---one last time. My Cloud A silver plane is writing I...LOVE...YOU Upon that paper called the sky, And someone down below---I'm sure it's true--- Feels lightly winged and high. This missile in my hand writes just the same Upon this cloud called paper sheet, Solidifying my ardent flame So snow-bound you may feel love's heat. The plane flies off, its letters stay, Then, having spoke, they drift away. My letter, too, shall take up wings, Until your hand the writ cloud clings. Now separate puffs of white blush pink To feel quick love of the sun's warm ink, As though lit eyes of her down here Winked softly back her pilot's cheer. But should you see, where far you stand, A tattering ice-paper sweep the land, Whole black-ink clarity will warm you through When you spread out my cloud---I...LOVE...YOU. __________________________________________ Guardian (or, The Anti-Missile Controller) Yes, I will stand on earth in selfish might And blast a missile from its New York sight. 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. My purpose---first night-time flight---swept, soared, curled. I landed, taxied, stepped out; winds swirled, And there I saw the greatest city in the world. And now I sing much prouder of man complete When carved with joy I walk each towering 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 blast a missile from its New York sight. __________________________________________ Brian Faulkner

There is a moment of real splendor in the film, and that is when Dominique wakes up in her house the next morning after Roark's passionate visit. The fully self-assertive way she walks to the window and throws open the curtain, as if signifying that the world has something of value to offer her, is magnificent.

I was not satisfied with the last two stanzas of the above poem, so, with a new title here is My Cloud A silver plane is writing I...LOVE...YOU Upon that paper called the sky, And someone down below---it's surely true--- Feels lightly winged and high. This missile in my hand writes just the same Upon this cloud called paper sheet, Solidifying my ardent flame So snow-bound you may feel love's heat. The plane flies off, its letters drift; A so light thing---that soul-filled gift. My letter, too, shall take up wings, Until your hand the writ cloud clings. Now separate lines of white blush pink To feel quick love of the sun's warm ink, As though lit eyes of her down here Tossed happ'ly back her pilot's cheer. But should you see, where far you stand, A blurred torn paper sweep the land, A black-ink rosiness will warm you through When you spread out my cloud---I...LOVE...YOU. ____________________________________________ Brian Faulkner

I wrote this a few days ago, after a walk at dawn looking up at the sky. The Scheming Sky A silver plane is writing I...LOVE...YOU Upon that paper called the sky, And someone down below---I'm sure it's true--- Feels lightly winged and high. The missile in my hand writes just the same Upon this cloud called paper sheet, Solidifying my ardent flame So snow-bound you may feel love's heat. The plane flies off, its letters drift; A so light thing---that soul-filled gift. My letter, too, shall take up wings Until your hand the writ cloud clings. Now separate lines of white blush pink To feel quick love of the sun's warm ink; With neither pen nor plane to spell, Its message none to clear can tell. But should you see, where far you stand, A lettery rosiness above the land, The plagiarized pilot---he, and I--- Are in cahoots with the scheming sky. ________________________________________ Brian Faulkner

I posted the following poem last year. I have added two stanzas and made a few other changes. I am at last REALLY pleased. Christmas, Go On! What a bubbling jollity and what keen delight With "Golly! Everything!" deep in the night; Hands-On packages----all there are; Rippling ribbons fluttering out far! Open that box, there; what've you got? "All that I dreamed of, dreamed a lot! Tickets and maps, yes! Trips over sea! Ah, and for you, dear, a present from me." So grand the shape, and so firm each part, I know what it is, it's my new heart! A gold one, a bold one, with a verse inside---- 'May your life be integrity and your mind your pride.' It certainly is! and yours is, too; That's why we're living, naught lesser will do! Giving, and taking, glad to have won, Like bankers, like merchants, hey! we have fun! "Now put on the coffee and turn up a light; We'll open a map into many a sight: Vales little thought of, mounts never touched, Trails just beginning, wonders half-clutched; Plateaus of promise waiting man's right---- Planet impassioned with trader's delight; New dams awaiting, new cities, new farms, Sparkways of business spreading out charms; Thousands of earth-stars----Edison's eyes---- Set to all angles of wid'ning surprise; Shipyards and airports humming deep strength; Trainways and highways freighting out length; Tap-footed uptowns, where Top-Competence climbs With Honor's dealings and Profit's chimes (Ting! rings the money; cling! rings again! Desires exchanging, happy are men); Marble-halled Fame and bronze-palaced Art, Where Beauty's power drives the heart--- Heart and soul, and the mind of man---- To clasp the gaze of his self-command! To these we'll go, all these we'll see, And learn us the march of history; Though Reason holds up her torch so high, There's less of 'March' and more of----'Fly!' Now down the lights. Hey, what've you got?" A new beginning of an ancient plot---- Some bubbly, bright, for the coming year, And me, myself, right now, right here! "And now Love touches; a kiss----one....two! Our true destination's a self-made brew. A trip for tomorrow, a sip for today; To have no sorrow we gladly pay! Routing and plannign, and shouting, "To be!" Sweet is the music rounding the tree. "Yea!" to life's pleasure, "Hail!" to this dawn! Worldly happiness, Christmas, go on!" _________________________________________ Brian Faulkner

In celebration of Thanksgiving Day here are some stanzas from my "Conscious, Unbound". I call it The Producers' Hymn Men's thoughts are their conquests Of all they can scan. This earth and that starway Take spirit from man. He gives to all forces, All things of all kind, The touch of first purpose, The aim of his mind. Their use for his living, Their use for his bliss, This use is their heaven And man creates this. His motive's pure profit--- For no men the same, But no creed of needing And no need to blame. Hard work, and so challenging Good men may rise, While he who is masterful Draws up their eyes. Yes, men can be heroes If work is man's heart, And if each end accomplished Strikes another to start. For men of high virtue Each morning is one--- To stand up in gladness For the things to be done. The raking of oceans, Cutting down trees, Exploding through granite--- His hands are for these. Scooping the earth up For truckloads of ore; This, too, is his virtue--- To take, and take more. Pipe lakes into deserts, Turn rivers around; Give them direction, "For market you're bound!" Bend steel over chasms, Sweep concrete o'er streams, Plant signs on the highways--- DRIVE FOR YOUR DREAMS! Raise towers and statues And smokestacks and light, Then lift up new cities Like gems in the night. Like gems, and like silver, Like gold piled high On the desk of the trader With that look in his eye. If these would reach climax, If triumphs you'd see, Then one thing is certain--- Man must be free. For no man can prosper, And each man must need, If he's not the reaper Of this, the soul's creed: MY work, MY achievement, My worth without strife; My strength and my nature, Their whole cause---MY life. Self-love is my virtue, Self-will is my right, My reason my standard, My pride and my light. _____________________________ Brian Faulkner Happy Thanksgiving!

You're welcome; glad you were taken.

Dawn (November, 2005) I lie and worship at the shrine Of every feature, every line, Held by my mouth and hands. Of sacred love for two I'm on the pedestal with you, Above the windless sands. Beyond all things that be, From lightening sky to sea, Is your cupped length under me. Your turning hips and thighs, Your closing lips----all of me defies; This through your taking eyes I see. Now with your grasp of light, That is my mast'ry's might, I claim my life's desire: To be an only selfish thing Possessing one possessing thing In passion's ramping fire. Light dawn is almost done; Bright day has now begun; Ripe majesty of rapture rules the sky. There is not more of worth Upon this whole live earth Than having you, my Love, in having I. _____________________________________ Brian Faulkner

I wrote this just the other day. All Night Long All night long my hands were burning, Dreaming of you and your beautiful hair. All night long, tossing and turning, Turning, and hoping to find you there. All night long your name I've spoken, Calling your image into my view. All night long, beaten and broken, Oh! not one of my wants came true. All night long you lay beyond me, All night long, with your lips so sweet; And never a kiss to catch and wake me, And never a touch of your love-tap feet. All night long my arms were empty---- Oh! how I wanted to have you there! Holding, snuggling, you and your body---- Clasping your heartbeat, breathing your hair. __________________________________________ Brian Faulkner

Here are two poems from Pagan Pictures (1927), which is composed of translations of, and additions to, Ancient Greek lyrics. The translator/writer is Wallace Rice, who was a Chicago engineer. Love's Coming, by Wallace Rice The sky is sad----the silly sky, To frown when my Love's coming by! The sun is hid-----the simple sun, To hide when she abroad doth run! Yet there is sunlight in my room----- The thought of her hath made it bloom; And there is heaven in my heart----- The hope of her hath made it start. Go hide, O sun! Be sad, O sky! Smile we on you, my Love and I. _____________________________________ Adventure Wanderers, adventurers, Storm along the wine-dark seas, Seek the deed that lives and stirs Past the Gate of Heracles On to the Hesperides, Meeting death as conquerors. Round the corner, down the street, Stands the house of Bacchylis. Not to know her spells defeat; Never wings of Nemisis Thrill the spirit like her kiss As un-sure as honey-sweet. Down the world a world away Scarlet sails through purple waves, Whirling winds and hurling spray, Quest for gems the spirit craves Where Poseidon's thunder laves Golden shores in azure day. Here at home is high emprise In the market-place and fair: Amethysts in Timo's eyes, Garnets that her lips despair, Gold in gay Chrysilla's hair; Love that every fate defies. O'er how many a surging sea Old Odysseus voyaged far With a courage high and free! Yet above the bending spar Hearth and woman still his star: Ithaca-----Penelope. Far or near man plays his part Fast or loose to meet his fate, Soul asleep or soul astart, Miserable or fortunate, Learning early, learning late, True adventure's in the heart. _________________________________ Conflagration, by Meleager Thy kiss is like the clinging snare, Thy melting eyes like wasting fire, Thy glances conflagration bear, Thy very touch burns with desire. So, Heliodora, bid me go, But make no least last kiss thine aim; How can I, when thou kissest so, Depart, with all my strength aflame? ____________________________________ Olympus(anonymous) A long , soft kiss, and murmurous The silence with deep sighs As joys divine distil; and thus With consecration in our eyes, Soaring beyond in azure skies Above Olympian heights we rise.

Thank you. It was fun writing it. I wrote the first four stanzas Friday (4th) morning inside the back of a book as I was walking through a park. Finished it yesterday.

I just finished this today. Lightness! If the life in you is the life you love And the joy of life is your purpose, Then stand up and sing, Speak loud of that thing, And never be heavy again. Ha! For the body of right is a lightness, And its engine a rational will; And the self-leading soul, now a fighter, Will never be heavy again! Ha! If the thought in you is the thought you live And the aim of thought is your profit, Then stand up and sing, Speak loud of that thing, And never look down again! Ho! For the cup that is full is a lightness, However so large it be; And the self-loving soul, now a giant, Will never look down again. Ho! If the flesh of Ideal is the flesh you want, And her mind-in-body your mast'ry, Then clasp her and swing, Bell bound to that thing, And never be heavy again! Ah! For the Altar Of Want is a lightness, Where no one's true love is lost, And the power of pride, so inspiring, Will never be heavy again. Ah! If kisses, embraces, and profits, and life, Aren't misses and chases, and losses and strife, Then get them and do them and earn them and win, And never be never be heavy again! Hah! ______________________________________________ Brian Faulkner

I like the noble soul of Coriolanus. I have seen A Midsummer Night's Dream on stage; it was sheer delight. Years ago I played the old father in A Comedy Of Errors. It is great fun.

Maybe a chance we'll see a perfect game by the Astro's big O.

God exists---in the mind of each believer. God is a believer's capacity for wishful thinking when he implicitly regards it as having power over existence and calls it God. A fairy is a believer's capacity for wishful thinking when he implicitly regards it as having power over a limited aspect of existence and calls it a fairy. Discussion or debate about gods and/or fairies based on accepting the believer's assertion that the figments of his imagination exist anywhere else but in his own mind is not only a waste of a rational man's time, but grants the believer a level of seriousness he does not deserve.

The Honest Creationist's Hymn There is no god found anywhere, Or on the land or in the air, Or back of stars or under sea; But when imagination flies (inside my head----God's paradise) Then all the world is made by me. For I am God, it's plain to see, And what I wish, it must be true. That's why Creation must be taught---- I wish, and what I wish is "ought". And schools are made for wishes' brew, From wish in me to wish in you. ___________________________________ Brian Faulkner

An innocent frolic apropo to the thread on masturbation: In The Moonlight Bright Dancing light in the moonlight bright, Oh, what a joy! Oh, what a sight! Prancing rare on the grass-hair fair, Dance what you can, dance what you dare! Body bends back, body bends low, Body springs up again, body lets go! Naked we run again, nude again sing, Breakin' in tune again, doin' our thing. Hoppin' up, boppin' up, moppin' up glee, Skippin' up buttercup, butterfly free! Feet are ashine again, rampin' is fair, Off with your coverups, down with your hair! Starlight is waiting now, waiting won't bide, Open up in of you, let it outside! Hummin' out, strummin' out, comin' out big, Jumpin' up beautiful! don't need a fig! Had to be, mad to be, glad to be free, Stewed again prude again never will be. Dancing light in the moonlight bright, Oh, what a joy! Oh, what a sight! ____________________________________ Brian Faulkner

And She Said, "I am the flower rising to your lips; You are the sun that bends to mine. I the butterfly at your fingertips; You the hand of delicate design. "Burn me to my roots, O Mighty Sun! I will catch the fire from your brow. Or touch me till I'm utterly undone And I will bite the hand that feeds me now." ________________________________________ Brian Faulkner

A couple of years ago I met my nephew's wife. Besides her home-run computer business and her husband, she loves the harp, and plays it excellently. After that first two-hour meeting, having seen the love which shone so brightly in their eyes whenever they looked at each other, I wrote this: I Play The Harp I play the harp; It understands What's in my hands; And what's in me my hands set free: Delicate joy For simply being, Delicate love For all I'm seeing: Quiet hills That roll out far To where all shimm'ring Waters are; Where, up with sun, Fulfilling dawn, Arising birds Flash on and on; Where laughter, silent, Shouts up leaves, List'ning, quiv'ring, Through the harp-like breeze. For I am a wind That is never still, Unbeatable rush Of a trembling trill, And through soft hands, Quick fingers, light, I ripple the message "All is right". For all IS right In the center----me, When I'm free to be What I choose to be: A teller of tales That weave a spell In the heart and mind Of who listens well; A spell of innocence Void of fears, A spell of trust That fakes no tears, A spell of the awe Of my childhood's flight When Lo! I saw The perfect sight! A face reflecting Mine brand new, A mindful soul Connecting through, A being glad To spell in me And weave one life Of integrity. Integrity, Adventure, Flight, Joined in joy In our marriage rite. And that is why, Seeing eye to eye, I play the harp. It understands what's in my hands. ____________________________________ Brian Faulkner

I wrote this several years ago for my cousin. Angel Sun and Rebel Star The sweetest child I've ever known Is now a grown up girl; She knows her self, Her judgment's clear, She's competent and smart. And most of all she's logical In mind and soul and heart. Right now she dreams, and boasts, and sings, Of one who's just her type---- Who thinks things through, Who's got a clue, Who has himself in hand, But disagrees with the world he sees And yearns to understand. They both hear much hypocrisy 'Bout what is right and wrong, But follow their own reason out And guide themselves along. They've honesty and self-respect And love of their own sight, And always this----Logic's torch burning through the night. What is this night that's all around, Whose shadows chill the soul? That love of self is ill, unsound, That sacrifice is whole. But get this, that's amiss. For if you didn't love yourself You wouldn't breathe or eat; If your whole life you gave away Your heart just wouldn't beat. But he or she you love the most, Who makes you feel more whole, Is like a glass you always pass Reflecting your own soul. So loving him is loving you, Him loving you the same, While sacrifice would mean give up Your one life's only game. Death----one, Life----zero, Before you've shot the ball; Death----two, Life----through, When sacrifice is all. The good self-love of rose and dove, Of sea and sun and sky, Becomes complete in summer's heat When happy lovers sigh. They sigh and kiss And breathe in bliss Of selfhood's love divine; Their minds say, "Yes, I understand What joyous work is mine. "When I create, It's for myself To see and feel my soul, Look how it flares, builds, wakens, dares, And shapes the truth I give. Why, in myself and for myself I stand and sing and live." The sweetest child, This grown up girl, Her lover strong, sincere, I hope they see themselves entire, Accept, and never fear. Nor crack Love's glass for others, Their glaring expectations, Their poisoned defamations, Their meanly razored pokes And ugly beastly smearing jokes. Shine, shine, shine against the wintry day Of freeze-your-dreams-to-deedless-grey; And aim, O Star, against the night Of trust-yourself-is-never-right; And while the night is not yet day Shoot! and blaze the dark away! Mirror, mirror, on the wall, Who's the bravest of them all? Angel Sun and Rebel Star, Shining real, seeing far, Taking in each other's light---- Happy sparks of selfish might. ________________________________ Brian Faulkner