"Katherine"
by Robert Louis Stevenson

We see you as we see a face
That trembles in a forest place
Upon the mirror of a pool
Forever quiet, clear and cool;
And in the wayward glass, appears
To hover between smiles and tears,
Elfin and human, airy and true,
And backed by the reflected blue.

"Anne"
by Adrian Hickford

A baffled query to our Lord above:
Tell me how to earn her love.
A way to fall into her eyes;
A superb kindness that is ever wise;
To float, content, into a sweet embrace...
Under pressure: calm, always grace.
Alpha! Unsurpassed! A perfect ten!
I need to be beside her. Amen.

The Sick Rose, by William Blake

O Rose, thou art sick!
The invisible worm
That flies in the night,
In the howling storm,

Has found out thy bed
Of crimson joy:
And his dark secret love
Does thy life destroy.

William Blake's "The Sick Rose" offers the hint that even in the young, most joyously attractive, blooms hidden horridness, hidden sorcery within.

It's food for thought.

Invictus, by William Ernest Henley

Out of the night that covers me,
Black as the pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.

In the fell clutch of circumstance
I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeonings of chance
My head is bloody, but unbow'd.

Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the Horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
Finds and shall find me unafraid.

It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll,
I am the master of my fate:
I am the captain of my soul.

Invictus by William Ernest Henley.
A quiet, thoughtful child, educated at The Crypt School (of Gloucester), who unfathomably suffered from tubercular disease of the bone; a sad, harsh leg amputation followed, then twenty months accommodated in Scotland transformed him back to health. He then befriended Scottish author Robert Louis Stevenson, who, in the memory of his one-stumped companion, wrote of flamboyant charlatan Captain Silver, the brash commander, naughty chap!
He died at Woking aged fifty-three.

Chopping Carrots
by Jack Cannon

I don't draw the blinds anymore
It's no big deal in itself
It's simply a small part of my drive
to eradicate futile actions
It's a rough calculation
but I figure I've spent over
six months of my life
cleaning the fridge
Nearly a two whole years
chopping carrots
I don't intend to throw away
another moment tuning the television
(practically two entire weeks)
The amount of time people spend
tiling the bathroom is appalling
I caught Mr. Dawson
the man across the street
pruning his petunias only this morning
Perhaps I should drop by
and set him straight
with a ballpark calculation.

Petunia Cultivars
by Harold Dawson

My petunias.
I adore them with unconditional love,
Clipping or picking them.
They not only brighten my outlook on life;
they teach me startling new facts, too.
For instance:
Mr. Cannon, who lives opposite
at number thirty-six,
is continually bloodshot-staring at us,
nibbling carrots while I prune.
His curtains are drawn again,
perhaps to hide the fool's disgraceful
smeg-ridden refrigerator.
The crackpot's wearing cotton pyjamas
in the daytime. Again.
The balding simpleton
claims to waste all his time
writing flippant poems.
I love my purple-headed plants:
that's another fact.

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