"Blessed is the man who trusts in the Lord, whose trust is the Lord. He is like a tree planted by water, that sends out its roots by the stream, and does not fear when heat comes, for its leaves remain green, and is not anxious in the year of drought, for it does not cease to bear fruit."

Jeremiah 17:8,9

Green things. Purple specs. Cool Weather. Weekends. Distractions. Penguins. Butter Waflns. Google. Dictionary.com. Wiki. Smooth vocals.Prata suppers. Teh tarik. Fort Canning park. Dogs. Trees.Swimming. Sun.Sand.Sea. Hills. Montreal. Nooos. Choirs. Passerine birds. Cells.





agnes
becky
christabel
damien
diane
eliza
fish
gill
ivan
jacinta
jan
kelvin tan
laiyee
lihao
margaret
ngxy
oliver
pam
rachel
san
sk
shuyi
si en
sunzi
taitong
tze
victoria
weili
xiaoen
yunfei
ms wang
csa
4a1






photo album

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• Current Posts

Photo from: sxc.hu
Layout modified from: solitude91

Science reveals the sheer elegance in nature's design.
And as students, the more we learn,
The more we stand in awe of nature's creator.


The Word of God
by Catherine Faber

From desert cliff and mountaintop we trace the wide design,
Strike-slip fault and overthrust and syn and anticline...
We gaze upon creation where erosion makes it known,
And count the countless aeons in the banding of the stone.
Odd, long-vanished creatures and their tracks & shells are found;
Where truth has left its sketches on the slate below the ground.
The patient stone can speak, if we but listen when it talks.
Humans wrote the Bible; God wrote the rocks.

There are those who name the stars, who watch the sky by night,
Seeking out the darkest place, to better see the light.
Long ago, when torture broke the remnant of his will,
Galileo recanted, but the Earth is moving still
High above the mountaintops, where only distance bars,
The truth has left its footprints in the dust between the stars.
We may watch and study or may shudder and deny,
Humans wrote the Bible; God wrote the sky.

By stem and root and branch we trace, by feather, fang and fur,
How the living things that are descend from things that were.
The moss, the kelp, the zebrafish, the very mice and flies,
These tiny, humble, wordless things -- how shall they tell us lies?
We are kin to beasts; no other answer can we bring.
The truth has left its fingerprints on every living thing.
Remember, should you have to choose between them in the strife,
Humans wrote the Bible; God wrote life.

And we who listen to the stars, or walk the dusty grade
Or break the very atoms down to see how they are made,
Or study cells, or living things, seek truth with open hand.
The profoundest act of worship is to try to understand.
Deep in flower and in flesh, in star and soil and seed,
The truth has left its living word for anyone to read.
So turn and look where best you think the story is unfurled.
Humans wrote the Bible; God wrote the world.

Why the change?
Blame it on hTR and hTERT.

O Lord, please fill my mouth with worthwhile stuff,
and nudge me when I've said enough.

i'm irritated with myself.
grr.

I love Danny Elfman's music.
That man is a genius.

I find it odd

That a golliwog

Escorts the ladies to the ball.

Yet

I note

That girls and golliwog alike

Are but dolls

All the same.

In dolly high society,

Who is the true civil party?

For all fine clothes

And civil dress

Hide not heightened awareness

Of difference.

And in emphasizing cultural uniqueness,

Celebrating ethnic roots,

Calling it "racial sensitivity",

Are we not imagining

Division,

The very thing we fear,

Into existence?

huzzah!

to celebrate the completion of my first draft, I shall...

zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz

oh now i do love eggs.

Boo.

Clocked approx. 20 hours working on it and it's still not finished!

Hopefully another 7 hours tonight will do the trick.

ten page paper.

draft due by 4pm today.

no thesis in sight.

mission impossible?

by God's grace,

i certainly hope not.

Here Comes The Sun
doodoodoodoo :)

Here comes the sun, here comes the sun
And I say it's all right
Little darlin' it's been a long cold lonely winter
Little darlin' it feels like years since it's been here
Here comes the sun, here comes the sun
And I say it's all right
Little darlin' the smiles returning to their faces
Little darlin' it seems like years since it's been here
Here comes the sun, here comes the sun
And I say it's all right
Sun, sun, sun, here it comes
Sun, sun, sun, here it comes
Sun, sun, sun, here it comes
Sun, sun, sun, here it comes
Sun, sun, sun, here it comes
Little darlin' I feel the ice is slowly meltin'
Little darlin' it seems like years since it's been clear
Here come the sun, here comes the sun
And I say it's all right
Here come the sun, here comes the sun
It's all right, it's all right

Strangely enough, I'm not sleepy.

Aching.

This must be the paradox to trump all paradoxes.

grr.
can't find that primary source!
been trying for days!
stresssssss...

Hearing a certain song on your blog has really made my day.

This is ridiculous. You have no idea how hard you've made me laugh on just one mouse click:)

We're so saturated with sense, it's high time for some nonsense.

Hah! I trample on logic! I defy it!

So there.

Tiredness compounded by stress is an awful thing.

Just a quickie:)

For the first time in a long while...
I'm going jogging!
Absolutely fantabulously thrilled!

We sang this song at CG.
I liked it.

One Pure And Holy Passion
Words and Music by Mark Altrogge

Verse:
Give me one pure and holy passion,
Give me one magnificent obsession,
Give me one glorious ambition for my life,
To know and follow hard after You.

Chorus:
To know and follow hard after You,
To grow as Your disciple in the truth,
This world is empty, pale and poor,
Compared to knowing You, my Lord.
Lead me on, and I will run after You.
Lead me on, and I will run after You.

A narrow fellow in the grass
Occasionally rides;
You may have met him,--did you not,
His notice sudden is.

The grass divides as with a comb,
A spotted shaft is seen;
And then it closes at your feet
And opens further on.

He likes a boggy acre,
A floor too cool for corn.
Yet when a child, and barefoot,
I more than once, at morn,

Have passed, I thought, a whip-lash
Unbraiding in the sun,--
When, stooping to secure it,
It wrinkled, and was gone.

Several of nature's people
I know, and they know me;
I feel for them a transport
Of cordiality;

But never met this fellow,
Attended or alone,
Without a tighter breathing,
And zero at the bone.

E. Dickinson
*************************
I've discovered something;
It appeals to me.

I should kickstart every day with one of these :)


A 19th Century Paradoxical Poem

Ten weary, footsore travellers,
All in a woeful plight,
Sought shelter at a wayside inn
One dark and stormy night.

'Nine rooms, no more,' the landlord said
'Have I to offer you.
To each of eight a single bed,
But the ninth must serve for two.'

A din arose. The troubled host
Could only scratch his head,
For of those tired men not two
Would occupy one bed.

The puzzled host was soon at ease -
He was a clever man -
And so to please his guests devised
This most ingeneous plan.

In a room marked A two men were placed,
The third was lodged in B,
The fourth to C was then assigned,
The fifth retired to D.

In E the sixth he tucked away,
In F the seventh man.
The eighth and ninth in G and H,
And then to A he ran,

Wherein the host, as I have said,
Had laid two travellers by;
Then taking one - the tenth and last -
He logged him safe in I.

Nine single rooms - a room for each -
Were made to serve for ten;
And this it is that puzzles me
And many wiser men.

This poem appeared in Current Literature, vol 2, April 1889. No author was credited.
Appendum

ha.

my first online test.

ok results,

not stellar,

but i'm happy.

give mi ah jamaican grin, man!

:D

one down, two more to go...

Wonderland

What once used to be a spring
Flowing, flowing,
Sparkling in the sunshine.
From the spring of our childhood
Grew lush gardens brimming
With exotic fruit only a child's eye
Could appreciate, taste so real
It lingered in the mouth
And did not fade.

So we sat by the bank
And wept rolling tears into the stream
And the tears tainted our perfect
Garden, as soil turned to sand
Slipped through fingers
Like lost time.

And You Thought You Were Tops

If I was a good student,
I'd attend every lecture, every class,
Every discussion
Armed with textbook answers,
Pen and paper ready to take down notes
By hand.
I'd take down every sentence, every word,
Every syllable
Uttered by the lecturer
Or the TA -
I'd even take down the things he forgot to discuss,
Or mentioned only briefly,
Or mumbled through.
(Yes, I'd develop the ability to
Decipher the thickest of phrases,
Whether conjoined or distinctly
Distorted.)

If I was a good student,
I'd head straight home after school to
Hit the books.
I'd answer every tutorial question,
Include references to references,
And even put in footnotes to show
Careful consideration,
Retrospective
Thoughtfulness.
I'd devise the most
Impeccable filing system for my
(Handwritten) notes.
I'd work on scrupulously detailed laboratory
Reports
And write that ten-page paper
With all the enthusiasm of a ten-year old.

I would write:
Insightful
Deeply thoughtful
Engaging
Complex
Critical
Rigorous
Vigorous
Academic essays in solid prose.

I wouldn't waste
Time
Dreaming, drifting,
Wondering about
Things to come or things that
Might have been.
I'd put away childish fantasy
And pluck my mind back
From the sky,
Thank you very much.

If I was a good student,
I'd write like one
And

Good students don't write poetry.

A free bird leaps on the back of the wind
and floats downstream till the current ends
and dips his wing in the orange suns rays and dares to claim the sky.

But a bird that stalks down his narrow cage
can seldom see through his bars of rage
his wings are clipped and his feet are tied so he opens his throat to sing.

The caged bird sings with a fearful trill
of things unknown but longed for still
and his tune is heard on the distant hill
for the caged bird sings of freedom.

The free bird thinks of another breeze
and the trade winds soft through the sighing trees
and the fat worms waiting on a dawn-bright lawn and he names the sky his own.

But a caged bird stands on the grave of dreams
his shadow shouts on a nightmare scream
his wings are clipped and his feet are tied so he opens his throat to sing.

The caged bird sings with a fearful trill
of things unknown but longed for still
and his tune is heard on the distant hill
for the caged bird sings of freedom.

Maya Angelou - I know why the caged bird sings

Relax. This won't last long.

Or if it does, or if the linesmake you sleepy or bored,

give in to sleep, turn on

the T.V., deal the cards.

This poem is built to withstandsuch things. Its feelings

cannot be hurt. They exist somewhere in the poet,

and I am far away.

Pick it up anytime. Start it

in the middle if you wish.

It is as approachable as melodrama,

and can offer you violence

if it is violence you like. Look,

there's a man on a sidewalk;

the way his leg is quivering

he'll never be the same again.

This is your poem

and I know you're busy at the office

or the kids are into your last nerve.

Maybe it's sex you've always wanted.

Well, they lie together

like the party's unbuttoned coats,

slumped on the bed

waiting for drunken arms to move them.

I don't think you want me to go on;

everyone has his expectations, but this

is a poem for the entire family.

Right now, Budweiser

is dripping from a waterfall,

deodorants are hissing into armpits

of people you resemble,

and the two lovers are dressing now,saying farewell.

I don't know what music this poem

can come up with, but clearly

it's needed. For it's apparent they will never see each other again

and we need music for this

because there was never music when he or she

left you standing on the corner.

You see, I want this poem to be nicer than life. I want you to look at it

when anxiety zigzags your stomach

and the last tranquilizer is gone

and you need someone to tell you

I'll be here when you want me

like the sound inside a shell.

The poem is saying that to you now.

But don't give anything for this poem.

It doesn't expect much. It will never say more

than listening can explain.

Just keep it in your attache case or in your house. And if you're not asleep

by now, or bored beyond sense,

the poem wants you to laugh. Laugh at

yourself, laugh at this poem, at all poetry.

Come on:

Good. Now here's what poetry can do.

Imagine yourself a caterpillar.

There's an awful shrug and, suddenly,

You're beautiful for as long as you live.

Stephen Dunn - Poem For People That Are Understandably Too Busy To Read Poetry

Such a revelation.
Happiness is something you create. It lasts for some time, but is quick to abandon.
Joy finds its quiet place in your heart, together with Peace.
As surely as the Lord lives,
I will rejoice in Him.

Why are you so downcast, O my soul?
Why so disturbed within me?
Put your hope in God,
for I will yet praise him,
my Savior and my God.

I will bless the LORD at all times: his praise shall continually be in my mouth.

Psalms 34:1