Till The End Of Time


Sometimes in life, we often wonder

Why the hard roads that we have to climb

Some days it seems

We just can’t go on

With the burdens and heartaches

We have at the time


But somehow, somewhere

 New strength is found

Given by these kindly souls

Who have wandered far and near

In search of true love

That they could share

All their joys and sorrows with

Till the end of time


Adele G. Tnning, 3650 Mississippi Street, San Diego, California 92104

September 26, 1970

Some mere chitchat to start with:

 What is the most beautiful thing here on our wisely organized earth spinning just below the Heaven’s eternal shinning and infinite light?

The most beautiful thing to me is an enlightened mind wisely understanding the infinite beauty of the gift of life with Its ability of love.

Anyone who enlightens another’s mind to see & understand that true love is always there, despite every problem, shall not live in vain.

Yes, only a true friend will share the most beautiful thing with many without harming any.






                                  WHO ARE MY PEOPLE?

                                 By  ROSA ZAGNONI MARINONI



        MY PEOPLE? Who are they?

         I went into the church where the congregation

         Worshiped my God. Were they my people?

         I felt no kinship to them as they knelt there.

         My people! Where are they?

         I went into the land where I was born,

         Where men spoke my language .

         I was a stranger there.

         “My people,” my soul cried. “Who are my people?”


         Last night in the rain I met an old man

         Who spoke a language I do not speak,

         Which marked him as one who does not know my God.

         With apologetic smile he offered me

         The shelter of his patched umbrella.

         I met his eyes. . . And then I knew. . .



 The Best Treasure

By: John J. Moment


There are veins in the hills where jewels hide,
And gold lies buried deep;
There are harbor-towns where the great ships ride,
And fame and fortune sleep;

But land and sea through we tireless rove,
And follow each trail to the end,
Whatever the wealth of our treasure-trove,
The best we shall find is a friend.




By bob with help

There’s a comforting thought
At the close of the day,
When I’m weary and lonely and sad,
That sort of grips hold of my crusty old heart
And bids it be merry and glad.
It gets in my soul and drives out the blues,
And finally thrills through and through,
It is just a sweet memory that chants the refrain:
“I’m glad for good friends just like you!”





                 by: Robert Frost


Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the tother, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy ans wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I -
I took the one less traveled by
And that has made all the difference.



By Sarah Michaels

When it’s cloudy outside
I have sun in my day
Because of a friend like you.

When my purse hold no coin
I’m still richer than kings
Because of a friend like you.


Friends like you share the good times
Friends like you share the tough times;
And all in-between times too


And though I don’t say it
As oft’ as I should
I’m glad for a friend like you.





          by: Robert Frost


It was long I lay

Awake that night

Wishing the tower

Would name the hour

And tell me whether

To call it day

(Though not yet light)

And give up sleep.

The snow fell deep

With the hiss of spray;

Two winds would meet,

One down one street,

One down another,

And fight in a smother

Of dust and feather.

I could not say,

But feared the cold

Had checked the pace

Of the tower clock

By tying together

Its hands of gold

Before its face.


Then came one knock!

A note unruffled

Of earthly weather,

Though strange and muffled

The tower said, ‘One!’

And then a steeple.

They spoke to themselves

And such few people

As winds might rouse

From sleeping warm

(But not unhouse).

They left the storm

That struck en masse

My window glass

Like a beaded fur.

In that grave One

They spoke of the sun

And moon and stars,

Saturn and Mars

And Jupiter.

Still more unfettered,

They left the named

And spoke of the lettered _

The sigmas and taus

Of constellations.  —

They filled their throats

With the furthest bodies

To which man sends his


Beyond which God is;

The cosmic motes

Of yawning lenses.

Their solemn peals

Were not their own:

They spoke for the clock

With whose vast wheels -~

Theirs interlock.

In that grave word

Uttered alone

The utmost star 

Trembled and stirred,

Though set so far

Its whirling frenzies

Appear like standing

In one self station.

It has not ranged,

And save for the wondei

Of once expanding

To be a nova,

It has not changed

To the eye of man

On planets over

Around and under

It in creation

Since man began

To drag down man

And nation nation.




                                         Love Them Now

                              By bob with help


                               If you are ever going to love anyone

                              Love them now, so they can know

                              The sweet and tender feelings,

                              From which true affection flow.


                              Love them  now, While they are living

                              Do not wait until they are gone,

                              And then have it chiseled in marble

                              Sweet words on ice-cold stone.


                              If you have tender thoughts of  them,

                              Please, tell them now,

                              If you wait until they are sleeping,

                              Never to awaken.


                             Then there will be death between ya’ll,

                              And they won’t hear you at all.

                              So, if you love them, even a little bit,

                               Let them know it while they are living,

                               So they can treasure it evermore in their heart, mind, and soul.




The House By The Side Of The Road

By: Sam Walter Foss

There are hermit souls that live withdrawn
In the place of their self-content;
There are souls like stars, that dwell apart,
In a fellowless firmament;
There are pioneer souls that blaze their paths
Where highways never ran—
But let me live by the side of the road
And be a friend to man.

Let me live in a house by the side of the road,
Where the race of men go by—
The men who are good and the men who are bad,
As good and as bad as I.
I would not set in the scorner’s seat,
Or hurl the cynic’s ban—
Let me live in a house by the side of the road
And be a friend to man.

I see from my house by the side of the road,
By the side of the highway of life,
The men who press with the ardor of hope,
The men who are faint with the strife.
But I turn not away from their smiles nor their tears,
Both part of an infinite plan----
Let me live in a house by the side of the road
And be a friend to man.

I know there are brook-gladdened meadows ahead,
And mountains of wearisome height;
That the road passes on through the long afternoon
And stretches away to the night.
But still I rejoice when the travelers rejoice,
And weep with the strangers that moan,
Nor live in my house by the side of the road
Like the man who dwells alone.

Let me live in my house by the side of the road
Where the race of men go by—
They are good, they are bad, they are weak, they are strong,
Wise, foolish—so am I;
Then why should I sit in the scorner’s seat,
Or hurl the cynic’s ban?
Let me live in my house by the side of the road
And be a friend to man.




        By  John Keats


A thing of beauty is a joy for ever:

Its loveliness increases; it will never

Pass into nothingness; but still will keep

A bower quiet for us, and a sleep

Full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing.

Therefore, on every morrow, are we wreathing

A flowery band to bind us to the earth,

Spite of despondence, of the inhuman dearth

Of noble natures, of the gloomy days,

Of all the unhealthy and o’er-darkened ways

Made for our searching: yes, in spite of all,

Some shape of beauty moves away the pall

From our dark spirits. Such the sun, the moon,

Trees old and young, sprouting a shady boon

For simple sheep; and such are daffodils

With the green world they live in; and clear rills

That for themselves a cooling covert make

‘Gainst the hot season; the mid-forest brake,

Rich with a sprinkling of fair musk-rose blooms:

And such too is the grandeur of the dooms

We have imagined for the mighty dead;

All lovely tales that we have heard or read:

And endless fountain of immortal drink,

Pouring unto us from the heaven’s brink.

Nor do we merely feel these essences

For one short hour; no, even as the trees

That whisper round a temple become soon

Dear as the temple’s self, so does the moon,

The passion poesy, glories infinite,

Haunt us till they become a cheering light

Unto our souls, and bound to us so fast,

That, whether there be shine, or gloom o’ercast,

They always must be with us, or we die.





Clay Harrison


The gift of life is ours today

To mold and shape like blocks of clay. _

Each day unveils an open door

 That wasn’t open there before.

   The gift of life is ours today

   To use before it ticks away

  Like sand within an hourglass,

 For this day too is soon to pass.

Our yesterdays have all been spent

They can’t be saved or sold or lent.

   The gift of life is ours today

To worship, work, or rest and play.

  The hours pass so quickly by,

We sometimes laugh and sometimes cry.

There is so much we need to do

If we would have a dream come true.

Who knows which day will be our last

Before it fades into the past?

Our time is precious, come what may —

The gift of life is ours today.





By: Ella Wheeler Wilcox

Laugh and the world laughs with you;
Weep and you weep alone
This grand old earth must borrow its mirth,
It has troubles enough of its own.

Sing and the hills will answer,
Sigh, it is lost on the air,
The echos bound to a joyful sound
But shrink from voicing care.

Be glad and your friends are many;
Be sad and you lose them all,
There are none to decline your nectared wine,
But alone you must drink life’s gall.

There is room in the halls of pleasure
For a long and lordly train,
But one by one we must all file out
Through the narrow aisles of pain.

Feast and your halls are crowded,
Fast and the world goes by,
Succeed and give, ‘twill help you live
But no one can help you die.

Rejoice and men will seek you,
Grieve and they turn and go;
They want full measure for all your pleasure,
But they do not want your woe!




It’s A Good Idea, Anyhow

Don Blanding (1950)
Hawaii’s most favorite poet.


“As a man thinketh....so is he,”
Oh, I know its true;
So is he and so are we,
So am I and you

         I will think on beauty
          Still, serene and cool;
         I will dunk my thinking
         In a tropic pool.

                  I can see it dreaming
                   In the twilight calm...
                  (I wonder if those Russians
                  Have the atomic bomb?)

                           Cut it out! Cut it out!
                            Beauty is my goal....
                           (What is Uncle saying
                           about the eighteenth hole?)

                                    Let him yap. Let him brag.
                                    I will dwell on peace,
                                    I will think of Temples
                                    In bali and Greece;

I will think of incense
In a holy shrine...
(who in heck borrowed
that book of mine?)

         Try again......remember,
         “As a man thinketh.....”
         I will think of Egypt
          And the silent Sphinx;

                  Never moves a muscle
                  Of its dead-pan face.
                  (Can’t you do your typing
                  some other place?”)

                           What’s the use? What’s the use?
                           Guess I’ll count sheep.
                           (Bet I’ll have nightmares
                           in my sleep)

                                    Try again....try again....
                                    We crawled before we stood.
                                    “As a man thinketh.....”
                                    I think GOOD!





By  Nixon Waterman

It seems to me I”d like to go
Where bells don’t ring, nor whistles blow,
Nor clocks don’t strike, nor gongs sound,
And I’d have stillness all around.

Not real stillness, but just the trees,
Low whispering, or the hum of bees,
Or brooks faint babbling over stones,
In strangely, softly tangled tones.

Or maybe a cricket or katydid,
Or the songs of birds in the hedges hid,
Or just some sweet sounds as these,
To fill a tired heart with ease.

If ‘tweren’t for sight and sound and smell
I’d like the city pretty well,
But when it comes to getting rest,
I like the country lots the best.

Sometimes it seems to me I must
Just quit the city’s din and dust,
And get out where the sky is blue,
And say, now, how does it seem to you?

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