Only God could make an organ of taste. By the tongue, you can tell whether the substance you place in the mouth is strawberry or pumpkin pie -- whether it is potatoes or plums. The taste remains the same all through life, and in every part of the world. Strawberries and watermelons never taste like apples. What a mess we would be in if vegetables, fruits, grains and meats should change their taste every year, or should taste differently in different parts of the world. Only God can preserve this condition, and only a living, personal God who loves us could or would have given us an organ of taste which could differentiate the different kinds of food.

The farmer should bow his head in thanksgiving because he does not need to plant all of his seeds right side up. What a job he would have placing each grain in the ground in the proper position. He never would get the job done, nor could he hire enough people to do it in a satisfactory manner. The living Lord has placed in each seed that peculiar thing which we call "Nature," so that the seed never gets confused about directions, but always "comes up." Who ever heard of a seed growing in the wrong direction? All seeds of every kind may be placed in the ground in any position and they will certainly find their way up to the light. If God should fail to do this, just once, in any one season, what a catastrophe it would be for the world.

The kindness of our wonderful Lord is revealed in the fact that He has made our bodies with a "one shot system." You put the food in your mouth, and get lubricating fluid in all the joints of the body. How would you like to rise each morning and grease all your joints? You never would get to work on time, and mother never would have breakfast ready. You would squeak at every move because you would certainly forget some of the joints. What a bedlam we would have in the schoolroom because many of the lazy children would never take care of their joints. God has taken care of this need by letting us put all the necessary ingredients in one place -- the mouth. He has arranged the body to take care of all the joints, the nerves, and every other part.

We are a thankless lot. We grasp after and grab every good thing that God has to offer, and usually forget to thank the One from whom we received it. He has placed our eyes in deep sockets, protected by overhanging ledges of bone, and eyebrows to catch the dust, yet how many of us thank God for thus preserving our eyes. He has placed the heart -- the most precious of all our organs -- within its bony prison, protected by ribs and by arms, but we take it for granted, and forget. The important blood vessels of the body and the principal nerve trunks are placed safely on the flexor, or inside places of the arms and legs, as well as in deep-seated places in the rest of the body. A wise and understanding God knew the hazards on the road of life and arranged special protection for these parts which are so essential for life.

Do you know why or how or when the human heart gives its first beat? There is a time in the life of the unborn child when there is no heart beat whatever. The heart is just being formed. The parts are not complete. Then, one day, that heart, tiny as it is, gives its first beat. Why does it do it? What makes it do it? The mother had nothing to do with it, nor the father. Certainly the child does not bring it about by any will power of its own. The great men of earth do not cause it to happen -- no laws have been passed in any country to govern it. God starts it. Only God will stop it. The God who made it -- the God who starts it beating, and the God who will stop its beating wants you to let Him have that heart of yours.

We should be thankful for the goodness of God in providing so richly for both the body and the soul. He has given us wool, cotton, linen, silk, and leather whereby the body may be clothed, preserved from heat and cold, and equipped for the conditions of life. He has given us grains, vegetables, fruits, meats and liquids for the sustenance of the body that we may be well, strong, and healthy. He has given us educational facilities, arithmetic and all other mathematics, all forms of languages, music, physical training, sciences and arts, that we may live intelligently, act efficiently, and serve successfully. All of these should lead us to want from His gracious and loving hand the provision He has made for our souls. The Word of the Lord is to teach us His will. The Work of the Lord is to reveal His mind. His Son is to cleanse us from our sins. Trust Him.

^.^ I love it! Each paragragh flows very well, although I don't always follow your transition from paragraph to paragraph(Some of it seemed intentional though so that just might be me.). <---We Should Be Thankful

Your post in Spanish makes me wish that I had remembered the little Spanish I took in fourth and sixth grade.

As for your earlier story, beautiful. I would love it to continue, but of course if I had my way no story would ever end...

I will think about it why not...nice idea to continue it yay
thanks for comenting
about the posts yeah i cut them so that help me out with the gold but I asked a mod and she said it was ok sowyyy!!!!
I have no time now to keep translating and my friend is busy too but next things I will write directly in english
thank you so much !!!! I appreciate it !!!!

Paradise

I used to live there. Every morning
The downtown streets were cobbled with gold, honey
Flowed—all that stuff. I'm not kidding. Summers
Lasted a lifetime, broken by Christmas
And New Year's.
Mornings were like waking to someone's scent
You hadn't yet met and married for life,
Though I didn't know that then—the night-cooled
Muskmelons rolling belly up to the stars,
And by late afternoon the dusk-colored
Dust of apricots on everything.
From that earth, my body
Assembled itself, and when the veil dropped,
I tried to say what I saw. The light winds
Around me died, the sheers of summer wavered
As though all of it were mirage. Cantaloupes,
Grapes, clusters of ruby flames like champagne,
Though I didn't know that then—
Nectarines like morphine—didn't know that either.
Oranges, almonds, rainbows,
Tangs—rolling in all year long, that bounty.
You tell people that, over and over,
And it's really crazy, they won't believe you.
All that sugar coaxed out of clay, and you
Can't even give it away—and each dawn
More is just piled on. I took in as much
As I could, like larder, and walked away.

Hey You

Back when my head like an egg in a nest
was vowel-keen and dawdling, I shed my slick beautiful
and put it in a basket and laid it barefaced at the river
among the taxing rocks. My beautiful was all hush
and glitter. It was too moist to grasp. My beautiful
had no tongue with which to lick—no discernable
wallowing gnaw. It was really a breed of destruction
like a nick in a knife. It was a notch in the works
or a wound like a bell in a fat iron mess. My beautiful
was a drink too sopping to haul up and swig!
Therefore with the trees watching and the beavers abiding
I tossed my beautiful down at the waterway against
the screwball rocks. Even then there was no hum.
My beautiful was never ill-bred enough, no matter what
you say. If you want my blue yes everlasting, try my
she, instead. Try the why not of my low down,
Sugar, my windswept and wrecked.

Two Poems

There is a Bird We Cannot See

There is a bird we cannot see,
Who calls out often, between treetops.
She intervenes upon the mind
In wild interrogation,
Outside words—We hear her
As daylight starts, wears on indifferently, dies out.
She asks something
In three bass notes,
A three-tone tune,
A far-west song
In afternoon, in cottonwoods.
Call it tenderness, concern,
A kind of love,
A simple sound in a big décor
Of old blue mountains.
She calls out—as we walk on—under branches,
A song against routine, the known,
Yet part of it.
She says
There is destiny in western sun,
Hopefulness manifest.
There are ways of being spoken to
And indirectly heard.
She says
We live—we choose between—
Despair and splendor—.


Lullaby for After Hours

Undress—lay thee down—rest:

lay down doctrines—lay down routines—
—now—sticky leaves shut, boughs
sway—gray—rain rivulets—wait
like that, lay still, lay flat—

(if the far gone-sea-
bird returned to its sand,
if refuse, weed and slime caressed—so
wait like that, lay still, lay like sand-
dollars in dust.)

—what was said wasn't—what was meant—wasn't—
No one answers now—no one talks.

Be patient—not tomorrow—not now—mind-
made no more—said, no more
words: the news: known—
the wine—drunk—the cake—gone.
Sleep in the groan room.

Lay thee down now—
lay thee down in time parenthetical,
between twelve
and two and two and six—
the gale dwindles

when babes
fidget—not—rest—
when the jay calls not—
—when the mockingbird mock not

—all syllables of the sea are
silent—at anchor take a slow turn,
big-rig driver
somewhere down that lonely river
a night welder trills and jangles another
no-name song,
a silent song—listen:

Aftermath

Somewhere there are omens.
Somewhere all the bodies have been buried, and survivors keep watch
Over skeletons they also had been.
The children are raising each other.

Bodies are buried; survivors keep watch.
Somewhere the earth is burning, eager for new skin.
Each child is raising another;
Music and meaning are patient.

The earth is just burning.
There are terrible questions—
Somewhere music is patient, and meaning.
Somewhere those who had been slaughtered feel unanswerable longing.

We have terrible questions,
And those who slaughtered have longing.
Those who have been slaughtered lie unanswered.
Languages lift from ashes like these

And those who slaughtered feel the same longing.
Hope comes home, somewhere in us;
Language lifts from ash.
Rightly, we are cautious.

Somewhere hope hovers over
What we would have done, whatever did we do.
Rightly, we are cautious;
Stories everywhere.

Auroras

It began in a foyer of evenings
The evenings left traces of glass in the trees
A book and a footpath we followed
Under throat-pipes of birds

We moved through a room of leaves
Thin streams of silver buried under our eyes
A field of white clover buried under our eyes
Or a river we stopped at to watch
The wind cross it. Recross it

Room into room you paused
Where once on a stoop we leaned back
Talking late into daylight
The morning trees shook off twilight
Opening and closing our eyes auroras

Beyond groves and flora we followed a path
Dotted with polished brown bottles,
Scoured furrows, a wood emptied of trees

It was enough to hollow us out
The evenings left grasses half-wild at our feet
Branches with spaces for winds

The earth changes
The way we speak to each other has changed
As for a long while we stood in a hall full of exits
Listening for a landscape beyond us

n Another Year of Fewer Disappointments

The minor angel mops his brow and laughs
his miraculous laugh, ringing with sorrow.
His face—if this is his face—this mask
of wrecked grace says, Sit with me.
Come sit with me for a while.
Ah, to be as wise as he is—

but we can't know what suffering will cost us.
It could cost the very self that longed for it,
that winked at its specter, lurking,
blueing the sky. In the wake of its coming,
the small boat of our souls—
where we imagined we'd ride out the gale
in high style—has splintered and sunk,
one gunwale washed onto the beach
for the jittery, pea-brained seagulls to perch on
and spatter. What does that matter,
the angel asks. One rib made the world once.

This Morning

At dawn I stared at the fog. Two young stags
Edged through the blackberries, onto the blue lawn.
The tree gate behind their high brown haunches

Didn't move. But the grass below their hooves
Broke and turned dark, and white coils of clouds
Rolled from their low snorting noses. They stood

And then lilted and stepped and stood distant
Again, looking. Locking their tall new racks,
They were like shy lovers breaking the ice.

I could hear the muffled clicks as spring down
Sloughed from their horns. They pulled, stood on two legs,
Boxed in the mist. And my heart opened into parts.

Online Relationships

Im in love with a girl that I barely know.
I'm always thinking about her and saying how I wish I could see her.
But these online relationships, just keep us too far apart.
And now I have to face the fact that this screen is about as close as I might get to her.


On the day that we met,
I was talking to you on the internet.
Never did I think I could feel this way,
but love is what was found that day.

I thought love was a delusion,
but us meeting ended that confusion.
Right then I knew it was meant to be,
You showed me love was real and existed in me.

It would have to be the things you say,
that make all the bad things fade away.
You showed me how a true friend would care,
by cheering me up when others would stare.

Someone told me that instant love could be
but I never thought it was meant for me.
Now I can admit that I was wrong about that,
for love has struck me within a five minute chat.

This could be a relationship in the making,
but our distant hearts keep on aching.
I want be the person you see every day,
but the problem is that you live so far away.

All I want to do is be with you,
But we're limited to this monitor view.
We live so far apart,
and theres nothing we can do.
I'd have to cross the border,
just to persue.
These online relationships...
Make it so difficult to be with you.
I wanna say it's okay,
But you're so far away,
and theres nothing we can do.
These online relationships...

We live miles and miles apart.
Although so far you've touched my heart.
If we could rendezvous in a certian place,
I would run through this empty space.

I can only wish to have you in my arms,
But being this far I can't protect you from harm.
But your laugh, your eyes, your adoring smile,
They seem to shorten every one of these miles.

On the internet your images are near,
but I know you're not as close as you appear.
And we may be countless miles apart
but I say we try to stay close in the heart.

Love's something that I am going through,
and now I find myself always thinking of you.
I cannot believe the way you make me feel .
There's no way that this can be real.

This could be a relationship that we're seeking,
but this distance just makes our hearts start reaching.
I want to say that everything is okay,
but the problem is that you live so far away.

All I want to do is be with you,
But we're limited to this monitor view.
We live so far apart,
and theres nothing we can do.
I'd have to cross the border,
just to persue.
These online relationships...
Make it so difficult to be with you.
I wanna say it's okay,
But you're so far away,
and theres nothing we can do.
These online relationships...

All I want to do is be with you,
But we're limited to this monitor view.
We live so far apart,
and theres nothing we can do.
I'd have to cross the border,
just to persue.
These online relationships...
Make it so difficult to be with you.
I wanna say it's okay,
But you're so far away,
and theres nothing we can do.
so far away~
and theres nothing we can do...
These online relationships...

I just want you to know that no matter the distance...
Nothing can stop these feelings I feel for you...

Don't Write History as Poetry

Don't write history as poetry, because the weapon is
the historian. And the historian doesn't get fever
chills when he names his victims, and doesn't listen
to the guitar's rendition. And history is the dailiness
of weapons prescribed upon our bodies. "The
intelligent genius is the mighty one." And history
has no compassion that we can long for our
beginning, and no intention that we can know what's ahead
and what's behind ... and it has no rest stops
by the railroad tracks for us to bury the dead, for us to look
toward what time has done to us over there, and what
we've done to time. As if we were of it and outside it.
History is not logical or intuitive that we can break
what is left of our myth about happy times,
nor is it a myth that we can accept our dwelling at the doors
of judgment day. It is in us and outside us ... and a mad
repetition, from the catapult to the nuclear thunder.
Aimlessly we make it and it makes us ... Perhaps
history wasn't born as we desired, because
the Human Being never existed?
philosophers and artists passed through there ...
and the poets wrote down the dailiness of their purple flowers
then passed through there ... and the poor believed
in sayings about paradise and waited there...
and gods came to rescue nature from our divinity
and passed through there. And history has no
time for contemplation, history has no mirror
and no bare face. It is unreal reality
or unfanciful fancy, so don't write it.
Don't write it, don't write it as poetry!