Saturday, August 31, 2019



by Linda L. Chew

Life is worth living
break out the cheer
be happy so happy
that you are here

Life is worth living
Just look at the sun
it's beauty and warmth
attributed to the holy one

Life is worth living
by land or by sea
It is precious
to both you and to me

Life is worth living
share it with someone
you'll be so glad you did
it'll be so much fun




    1½ cup Desiccated Coconut (135g)
    ½ cup Condensed Milk (160ml)
    ⅛ cup About 15 Hazelnuts or Almonds


    Mix 1 cup coconut and condensed milk together until combined.

    Coat a hazelnut in this mixture and roll into a ball. Continue until you have used all the mixture.

    Roll each ball in the remaining coconut and chill in the fridge before serving.




    16 ounces linguine or spaghetti
    1 tablespoon garlic powder
    1 tablespoon onion powder
    1 teaspoon chile powder (ancho or chipotle are nice for this dish)
    1 teaspoon Kosher salt
    1/2 teaspoon black pepper
    2 pounds boneless skinless chicken breasts
    4 tablespoons butter
    16 ounces heavy cream
    1/4 cup rough chopped fresh parsley, plus more for garnish


    Cook pasta according to package instructions, reserving 1/2 cup of pasta water.

    While pasta is cooking, whisk together garlic powder, onion powder, chile powder, salt and pepper. If chicken breasts are thicker than 1/2-inch, butterfly or pound to 1/2-inch thickness. Evenly season chicken on all sides with seasoning mixture. Set aside.

    Heat a large skillet over medium heat. Add butter and allow to melt; swirl to coat pan.

    Place seasoned chicken in the skillet in a single layer. Cook for 4-5 minutes on each side until browned and slightly crisp. Transfer chicken to a plate and cover.

    Pour the reserved pasta water into the skillet, scraping up dark bits. Reduce heat to low to medium-low. Stir in the heavy cream. Stirring occasionally, gradually warm to a slow simmer. Continue to stir occasionally; allow to slowly simmer until sauce slightly thickens, about 5-7 minutes. Add more salt and ground pepper to taste.

    Coat each piece of chicken in sauce, turning to coat both sides. Allow to warm in sauce for a few minutes. Transfer coated chicken to a plate or move/stack to one side of skillet.

    Add cooked pasta and fresh parsley to skillet; toss well in sauce to coat.

    Serve warm topped garnished with fresh chopped parsley.

EVELINE - by James Joyce from '' DUBLINERS''

She sat at the window watching the evening invade the avenue. Her head was leaned against the window curtains and in her nostrils was the odor of dusty cretonne. She was tired.

Few people passed. The man out of the last house passed on his way home; she heard her footsteps clacking along the concrete pavement and afterwards crunching on the cinder path before the new red houses. One time there used to be a field there in which they used to play every evening with other people's children. Then a man from Belfast bought the field and built houses in it — not like their little brown houses but bright brick houses with shining roofs. The children of the avenue used to play together in that field — the Devines, the Waters, the Dunns, little Keogh the cripple, she and her brothers and sisters. Ernest, however, never played: he was too grown up. Her father often used to hunt them out of the field with his blackthorn stick; but usually little Keogh used to keep nix and call out when he saw his father coming. Still they seemed to have been rather happy then. Her father was not so bad then; and besides, her mother was alive. That was a long time ago; she and her brothers and sisters were all grown up; her mother was dead. Tizzie Dunn was dead, too, and the Waters had gone back to England. Everything changes. Now she was going to go away like the others, to leave her home.

Home! She looked round the room, reviewing all her familiar objects that she had dusted once a week for so many years, wondering where on earth all the dust came from. Perhaps she would never see again those familiar objects from which she had never dreamed of being divided. And yet during all those years she had never found out the name of the priest whose yellowing photograph hung on the wall above the broken harmonium beside the colored print of the promises made to Blessed Margaret Mary Alacoque. He had been a school friend of her father. Whenever he showed the photograph to a visitor her father used to pass it with a casual word:

“He is in Melbourne now.”

She had consented to go away, to leave her home. Was that wise? She tried to weigh each side of the question. In her home anyway she had shelter and food; she had those whom she had known all her life about her. Of course she had to work hard, both in the house and at business. What would they say of her in the Stores when they found out that she had run away with a fellow? Say she was a fool, perhaps; and her place would be filled up by advertisement. Miss Gavan would be glad. She had always had an edge on her, especially whenever there were people listening.

“Miss Hill, don’t you see these ladies are waiting?”

“Look lively, Miss Hill, please.”

She would not cry many tears at leaving the Stores.

But in her new home, in a distant unknown country, it would not be like that. Then she would be married, she, Eveline. People would treat her with respect then. She would not be treated as her mother had been. Even now, though she was over nineteen, she sometimes felt herself in danger of her father’s violence. She knew it was that that had given her the palpitations. When they were growing up he had never gone for her like he used to go for Harry and Ernest, because she was a girl; but latterly he had begun to threaten her and say what he would do to her only for her dead mother’s sake. And now she had nobody to protect her. Ernest was dead and Harry, who was in the church decorating business, was nearly always down somewhere in the country. Besides, the invariable squabble for money on Saturday nights had begun to weary her unspeakably. She always gave her entire wages, seven shillings, and Harry always sent up what he could but the trouble was to get any money from her father. He said she used to squander the money, that she had no head, that he wasn’t going to give her his hard-earned money to throw about the streets, and much more, for he was usually fairly bad of a Saturday night. In the end he would give her the money and ask her had she any intention of buying Sunday’s dinner. Then she had to rush out as quickly as she could and do her marketing, holding her black leather purse tightly in her hand as she elbowed her way through the crowds and returning home late under her load of provisions. She had hard work to keep the house together and to see that the two young children who had been left to her charge went to school regularly and got their meals regularly. It was hard work, a hard life, but now that she was about to leave it she did not find it a wholly undesirable life.

She was about to explore another life with Frank. Frank was very kind, manly, open-hearted. She was to go away with him by the night-boat to be his wife and to live with him in Buenos Ayres where he had a home waiting for her. How well she remembered the first time she had seen him; he was lodging in a house on the main road where she used to visit. It seemed a few weeks ago. He was standing at the gate, his peaked cap pushed back on his head and his hair tumbled forward over a face of bronze. Then they had come to know each other. He used to meet her outside the Stores every evening and see her home. He took her to see The Bohemian Girl and she felt elated as she sat in an unaccustomed part of the theatre with him. He was awfully fond of music and sang a little. People knew that they were courting and, when he sang about the lass that loves a sailor, she always felt pleasantly confused. He used to call her Poppens out of fun. First of all it had been an excitement for her to have a fellow and then she had begun to like him. He had tales of distant countries. He had started as a deck boy at a pound a month on a ship of the Allan Line going out to Canada. He told her the names of the ships he had been on and the names of the different services. He had sailed through the Straits of Magellan and he told her stories of the terrible Patagonians. He had fallen on his feet in Buenos Ayres, he said, and had come over to the old country just for a holiday. Of course, her father had found out the affair and had forbidden her to have anything to say to him.

“I know these sailor chaps,” he said.

One day he had quarrelled with Frank and after that she had to meet her lover secretly.

The evening deepened in the avenue. The white of two letters in her lap grew indistinct. One was to Harry; the other was to her father. Ernest had been her favourite but she liked Harry too. Her father was becoming old lately, she noticed; he would miss her. Sometimes he could be very nice. Not long before, when she had been laid up for a day, he had read her out a ghost story and made toast for her at the fire. Another day, when their mother was alive, they had all gone for a picnic to the Hill of Howth. She remembered her father putting on her mother’s bonnet to make the children laugh.

Her time was running out but she continued to sit by the window, leaning her head against the window curtain, inhaling the odour of dusty cretonne. Down far in the avenue she could hear a street organ playing. She knew the air. Strange that it should come that very night to remind her of the promise to her mother, her promise to keep the home together as long as she could. She remembered the last night of her mother’s illness; she was again in the close dark room at the other side of the hall and outside she heard a melancholy air of Italy. The organ-player had been ordered to go away and given sixpence. She remembered her father strutting back into the sickroom saying:

“Damned Italians! coming over here!”

As she mused the pitiful vision of her mother’s life laid its spell on the very quick of her being, that life of commonplace sacrifices closing in final craziness. She trembled as she heard again her mother’s voice saying constantly with foolish insistence:

“Derevaun Seraun! Derevaun Seraun!”

She stood up in a sudden impulse of terror. Escape! She must escape! Frank would save her. He would give her life, perhaps love, too. But she wanted to live. Why should she be unhappy? She had a right to happiness. Frank would take her in his arms, fold her in his arms. He would save her.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - 

She stood among the swaying crowd in the station at the North Wall. He held her hand and she knew that he was speaking to her, saying something about the passage over and over again. The station was full of soldiers with brown baggages. Through the wide doors of the sheds she caught a glimpse of the black mass of the boat, lying in beside the quay wall, with illumined portholes. She answered nothing. She felt her cheek pale and cold and, out of a maze of distress, she prayed to God to direct her, to show her what was her duty. The boat blew a long mournful whistle into the mist. If she went, tomorrow she would be on the sea with Frank, steaming towards Buenos Ayres. Their passage had been booked. Could she still draw back after all he had done for her? Her distress awoke a nausea in her body and she kept moving her lips in silent fervent prayer.

A bell clanged upon her heart. She felt him seize her hand:


All the seas of the world tumbled about her heart. He was drawing her into them: he would drown her. She gripped with both hands at the iron railing.


No! No! No! It was impossible. Her hands clutched the iron in frenzy. Amid the seas she sent a cry of anguish!

“Eveline! Evvy!”

He rushed beyond the barrier and called to her to follow. He was shouted at to go on but he still called to her. She set her white face to him, passive, like a helpless animal. Her eyes gave him no sign of love or farewell or recognition.

Friday, August 30, 2019

A PLACE FOR ME - by Anonymous

by Anonymous
There is a special place in life,
that needs my humble skill,
A certain job I'm meant to do,
which no one else can fulfill
The time will be demanding,
and the pay is not too good
And yet I wouldn't change it
for a moment - even if I could
There is a special place in life,
a goal I must attain,
A dream that I must follow,
because I won't be back again.
There is a mark that I must leave,
however small it seems to be,
A legacy of love for those
who follow after me
There is a special place in life,
that only I may share,
A little path that bears my name,
awaiting me somewhere.
There is a hand that I must hold,
a word that I must say,
A smile that I must give
for there are tears to blow away
There is a special place in life
that I was meant to fill
A sunny spot where flowers grow,
upon a windy hill
There's always a tomorrow
and the best is yet to be,
And somewhere in this world,
I know there is a place for me

Thursday, August 29, 2019

THE URN OF THE HEART. - by Mattie Griffith


by   Mattie   Griffith       

Deep in my heart there is a sacred urn
I ever guard with holiest care, and keep
From the cold world’s intrusion. It is filled
With dear and lovely treasures, that I prize
Above the gems that sparkle in the vales
Of Orient climes or glitter in the crowns
Of sceptered kings.

                  The priceless wealth of life
Within that urn is gathered. All the bright
And lovely jewels that the years have dropped
Around me from their pinions, in their swift
And noiseless flight to old Eternity,
Are treasured there. A thousand buds and flowers
That the cool dews of life’s young morning bathed,
That its soft gales fanned with their gentle wings,
And that its genial sunbeams warmed to life
And fairy beauty ’mid the melodies
Of founts and singing birds, lie hoarded there,
Dead, dead, forever dead, but oh, as bright
And beautiful to me as when they beamed
With Nature’s radiant jewelry of dew.
And they have more than mortal sweetness now,
For the dear breath of loved ones, loved and lost,
Is mingling with their holy perfume.

A very miser, day and night I hide
The hoarded riches of my dear heart-urn.
Oft at the midnight’s calm and silent hour,
When not a tone of living nature seems
To rise from all the lone and sleeping earth,
I lift the lid softly and noiselessly,
Lest some dark, wandering spirit of the air
Perchance should catch with his quick ear the sound.
And steal my treasures. With a glistening eye
And leaping pulse, I tell them o’er and o’er,
Musing on each, and hallow it with smiles
And tears and sighs and fervent blessings.

With soul as proud as if yon broad blue sky
With all its bright and burning stars were mine.
But with a saddened heart, I close the lid,
And once again return to busy life,
To play my part amid its mockeries.




 by Susan Noyes Anderson 

I used to have a firefly inside me,
a certain spark against the dark of night,
her wings translucent threads of hope and dreaming,
her glow as magical as soft starlight.

I knew she was a gift; I always knew.
There was no capture, no attempt to snare.
She simply was, and so we simply were.
Partners in joy, staunch allies in despair.

We carried sunshine as we walked through shadows,
found springtime in our hearts on wintry days.
She danced and floated, every gloom dispelling.
We were as one; and oh, I loved her ways.

But graceful wings of hope and dreams proved fragile.
Sharp words cut them away, blew out the spark.
She vanished in a flash of light extinguished,
left me to wander, broken, in the dark.

I used to have a firefly inside me,
a healing glow to warm my weary soul.
I bide my time, seek her in clouds and rainbows,
wish on bright stars, Come home and make me whole.



by Vivien Wade

The optimist knows the sun shines,
Above the clouds, though gray,
The pessimist sees the dark side
Of a gloomy cold winter's day.

The optimist says "keep on going.
don't give up when troubles annoy".
The pessimist thinks "what's the use,
life's dull and holds little joy".

The optimist is always thankful,
For the blessings of each day.
The pessimist keeps complaining
Of things that come his way.

The optimist and the pessimist,
Are opposites to the extreme;
While one sees opportunities,
The other only a broken dream.

Are you an optimist or a pessimist,
Do you see mud not the stars?
Like the two men in prison,
Looking out through prison bars.

Choose to become an optimist,
The negative thoughts cast out,
Replace them with positive ones,
Then life will be better, no doubt

CAN'T - by Edgar A. Guest


by Edgar A. Guest

Can't is the worst word that's written or spoken;
Doing more harm here than slander and lies;
On it is many a strong spirit broken,
And with it many a good purpose dies.

It springs from the lips of the thoughtless each morning
And robs us of courage we need through the day:
It rings in our ears like a timely-sent warning
And laughs when we falter and fall by the way.

Can't is the father of feeble endeavor,
The parent of terror and half-hearted work;
It weakens the efforts of artisans clever,
And makes of the toiler an indolent shirk.

It poisons the soul of the man with a vision,
It stifles in infancy many a plan;
It greets honest toiling with open derision
And mocks at the hopes and the dreams of a man.

Can't is a word none should speak without blushing;
To utter it should be a symbol of shame;
Ambition and courage it daily is crushing;
It blights a man's purpose and shortens his aim.

Despise it with all of your hatred of error;
Refuse it the lodgment it seeks in your brain;
Arm against it as a creature of terror,
And all that you dream of you some day shall gain.

Can't is the word that is foe to ambition,
An enemy ambushed to shatter your will;
Its prey is forever the man with a mission
And bows but to courage and patience and skill.

Hate it, with hatred that's deep and undying,
For once it is welcomed 'twill break any man;
Whatever the goal you are seeking, keep trying
And answer this demon by saying: 'I can.'

MY LOVE FOR YOU - by Malinta McGuin


by Malinta McGuin

My love for you is kept inside
I'll keep it in my heart to hide
but if you ask I will not lie
my love for you will never die

I'll remember you forever more
your eyes, your hair, your face and all
your smile is fixed in my mind
you heart I soon will find

I want to share my life with you
to be as one instead of two
to laugh, to cry, to be together
my love for you will last forever

YOU TOUCHED MY HEART - by Daryl Palmer


by Daryl Palmer

You've given me a reason
For smiling once again,
You've filled my life with peaceful dreams
and you've become my closest friend.

You've shared your heartfelt secrets
And your trust you've given me,
You showed me how to feel again
To laugh, and love, and see.

If life should end tomorrow
And from this world I should part,
I shall be forever young
For you have touched my heart