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Showing posts from October, 2016

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10 Essential Tips to Find That Perfect Corporate Gift

Your regarded customers, steadfast clients and stunning representatives are your most significant resource. The correct blessing picked with care and consideration will fortify connections, regardless of whether to remunerate accomplishment or commend achievement. Why settle for a conventional blessing when you can dazzle with the phenomenal?

I have assembled the fundamental tips to locate that corporate blessing.

Simply read on

1) Must Always Select A Quality Gift

As a matter of first importance, you should choose a blessing that you would be glad to put your organization name on. Your client and customers are destined to accept your blessing as an impression of how you view and worth relationship with them.

On the off chance that your initial introduction taking a gander at the blessing, is floating towards it being modest or normally accessible stuff, odds are that they will see precisely the same way.

2) Always and Always Check Corporate Policies

In all honesty, numerous associat…

Ticket to Rise (please)

The Clash may live by the river as rats reconnoiter sunken ships and somewhere in Southwark a play will ensue, top-bill or slide- me-in-standby: just let me see a still-life drawn out dynamically!
Tennessee Williams tells all in Monk’s local tavern, a cry quite far from abandoned dark boxes of grounded confessions, taken by God-forbid primates less fit to fill pews than bowling shoes.
There’s Leona, a barmaid, tally- queen of lives under-blown and overseen, at least by those who go in and order a few (Monk will make do, mostly to stall the cop in damn you); Leona is listening.
The Doc is a female drunk who stops in to rebunk her calling to the oath Hippocratic; today she shifts fifty abortion bucks to the shush fund for births-gone-bad and a mother by-the-way killed.
There’s Bill, belaboring the bar and her maid with brash touch- stones and Violet, equally cheap, jerking the place to Pluto moon of choice, whispering “take Nix” (’cause of course the mood fits).
Take in whomever you like, as renders run-away natu…

The Courage To Continue

Every Thought...

Week 44: Thunder To Humanity

To be a human person, a part of humanity, is not always to be humane and personal, yet when called upon to give, it is in our nature to respond and in our hearts to care.  This giving and caring is all we can leave behind.


TWL, Lines 401-410: Thunder To Humanity

402Datta: what have we given?
403My friend, blood shaking my heart
404The awful daring of a moment's surrender
405Which an age of prudence can never retract
406By this, and this only, we have existed
407Which is not to be found in our obituaries
408Or in memories draped by the beneficent spider
409Or under seals broken by the lean solicitor
410In our empty rooms

402. THUNDER’S FIRST DISCIPLINE: Eliot: “'Datta, dayadhvam, damyata' (Give, sympathize, control). The fable of the meaning of the Thunder is found in the Brihadaranyaka– Upanishad, 5, 1. A translation is found in Deussen's Sechzig Upanishads des Veda, p. 489.”  See Paul Deussen’s German translation (1897), and…

Ballad of Adalbert, Intended

In the very back of our little church, the visiting nun scrolled her iPhone 7 to recheck some notes, if left in the lurch (maybe to use a life-line to heaven).
The point, after mass, was assigned to us, a parish most canonized in the land: we’d have to latch on to the omnibus rolling, from sources not long ago banned.
The matter? a statue of martyred Saint Vojtech—yet to be cast, sure to inspire: the chatter of clergy, beyond complaint, bets pilgrimage business will catch on fire.
He’s ‘Adalbert’, after all, shining bright, an upstanding man to have in your fold; the nun swipes to say our timing is right, sanctioned by bishops increasingly old.
I had to recall Sienna’s best voice, buried, at will, beneath altars of prayer, witnessing Rome and retracting by choice, knowing it wasn’t much good going there.
She spidered her journey of ‘time will tell’; Vojtech, I’m sure, would attest to this stance, acting beyond papists’ heaven or hell, given a glimmer of staid happenstance.
We’re tethered en masse to be th…

Another invitation

Okay all, I'm adding another post today, for three (or four, or five) reasons.

First, because I had to make one edit in this week's Waste Land section, as I had inadvertently dropped a paragraph about what the devils heard.

Second, to invite you all to read this week's installment especially, even if you have only glazed over some of the previous ones.  I'm kinda happy with how this week has turned out!

And third, to announce the invitation of Cara to our Symposia.  I have been sharing poems with her for months, and this week, as you will see, is a fitting time to let her be a part of this.

And while I am at it, four, to re-invite more voices to these pages.  I know I have monopolized this year's Symposia, as I jumped at Dan's invitation almost a year ago to do a poem a day thing - I already had something 90% ready to go and could not resist!  But please, all, consider following my lead now: it doesn't have to be a poem, and it doesn't have to be daily or w…

A Ring of Poetry

Every Thought...

Week 43: Waiting For Rain

All my life I have been waiting for rain, and when it comes, as it does regularly, seasonally, necessarily and purposefully, I am renewed.  Inevitably I forget this, but by this I know that God is good.


  TWL, Lines 396-400: Then Spoke The Thunder

  396Ganga was sunken, and the limp leaves
  397Waited for rain, while the black clouds
  398Gathered far distant, over Himavant.
  399The jungle crouched, humped in silence.
  400Then spoke the thunder

  396. GANGA is India’s River Ganges, said to sustain a tenth of the world’s population. In Indian legend, Ganga, a river goddess, flowed in the mountains of Paradise until King Bhagiratha prayed a thousand years to bring her down to earth. See Valmiki, Ramayana 1 (Bala Kanda, Book of Youth): 42-43 (ca. 400 BC).

  398. HIMAVANT is a holy mountain in the Himalayas, literally the snowy mountain. Himavant is also the mountain personified, the Hindu God of Snow, father of the river goddess Ganga. See Valmiki…


While the nation's added 40 years, I remember 1976 and the patriotic fire hydrants all around Park Ridge, and painting my BMX to match. 200 is an interesting number, more than a little, still less than 2 thirds a year. Part of Jon's project 'Every Thought Is A Prayer' is to span those days of full year, and I've tried to do my bit with a weekly (sometimes very weakly;), this week exceptional due to the Nobel Prize for literature, which compelled its own response.

We hope Stillwater Symposia can have a new challenge for 2017, by the way, with more contributors. Visuals, for instance, can feature in our photos, sketches, Google image grabs--as I've included at the bottom of this 200th Lost Menagerie poem:

A Marathon Stone
Hidden in here is a marathon stone, not ‘Dare’, the pebble that loiters in my shoe (a friend I couldn’t pace with on my own), instead, a road-trip made in mind with you.
A colleague defined philology once as ‘syllable to story’—language play, measures of…


A bit on purpose, my last poem was 'all over the map'--Dylanesque, one might say! It was my quick homage to a unique event that happens to happen in my favorite month: the Nobel Prize for literature.

There is no Nobel Prize for music. Nor for theology, parenting, sports broadcasting and other things that matter. Alfred Nobel made dynamite, pragmatically or otherwise. It's good to think he wanted more of a legacy, beyond the 'breaking down'.

So here is a more serious poem on the Nobel Prize for literature, crafted around my favorite poet, 1996 laureate Wislawa Szymborska, whom I quote here and there:


Because somebody wins our shutters open and close, almost instinctively (a question for nature/nurture) but surely beyond deliberately, allowing time to contemplate and cry.
I learned from literature the number π—what can’t be comprehended by composite means or prime, squirreling through the world and “all the bottomless bloated heavens”
of icebergs twice imagined (being the…

Holding To My Place...

Every Thought...

Week 42: The Chapel Of The Wind

12:30 is a late night poem, perhaps my darkest:“My heart is heavy, soul is sad, mind is numb...,” but it alludes to a gospel commandment, called our greatest instruction, to give it all to God.


  TWL, lines 386-395: The Chapel Of The Wind

  386In this decayed hole among the mountains
  387In the faint moonlight, the grass is singing
  388Over the tumbled graves, about the chapel
  389There is the empty chapel, only the wind's home.
  390It has no windows, and the door swings,
  391Dry bones can harm no one.
  392Only a cock stood on the rooftree
  393Co co rico    co co rico
  394In a flash of lightning.  Then a damp gust
  395Bringing rain

  388. THE CHAPEL PERILOUS , a term first used in Thomas Malory, Le Morte d’Arthur (1485) 6.14-15, is where a weeping Hellawes the Sorceress sends Sir Lancelot to retrieve a magical sword and cloth that will heal her brother.  Her ulterior motive is to seduce Lancelot, but when he refuses to …

So, you probably know: Minnesota is on the map...

you who philosophize disgrace
this is my memo, October twelfth: mono* the minutes of one Donald Trump [means *monitor surely: yet then my mind leaps to Twin Cities’ man-of-Major Leagues Molitor, who (heaven forfend) has nothing to do with memes (meaning memo) and frankly (Viola?) should not intervene with matters of import (most likely from China.., as meanderings go)]…
thank God, then, for more days a month: Dylan has entered a ten- thousandth time [today codified with the blessing of he who made thunder (in dynamite form—the jury is more than just out (Oliver Holmes had cleared that town hall)) and one wonders why any on anyone’s side (Judas or justice) would hobo on in, save for some Lorax strain, innate]…
go ahead, then, and figure out fate, you and others off-white: say who auditions to play [tambourines and other such reels of rhyme (while senses are stripped beyond tapping in time); I’ve always sojourned to bohemian minds, full of non-spite (if touches of spit on stage never hurt): that’s …