NOW IS THE TIME FOR ALL GOOD AMERICAN"S TO COME TO THE AID OF THE COUNTRY!!!

 We need to roll over the obstructionists in both parties. The people spoke in Nov'08 by a large margin. I don't understand what has taken the President and the Demorcratic leadership so long to move foward. They compromised away the effectiveness of the Health care bill as well as jobs, and infrastructue and enviormental legislation.Remember Bush and his thugs didn't require a 60% vote to enact thier reign of treason. ENOUGH ! Put all progressive legislation in a Health ,Education and Welfare package with the public option and the supporters will see themselves re-elected by a grateful populace who have had enough! Let's IMPEACH THE MEMBERS OF THE SUPREME COURT WHO VOTED TO HAND OUR ELECTIONS OVER TO THE HIGHEST CORPORATE BIDDER!

What is it to be moved?

How often do we consider what it is to be moved? How often do we let an instinct for self-defense suppress the urge to move another? Give yourself the gift of risk, fear, taste, feeling. Commit an act of daring that makes you feel alive. Declare your love in bold colors & coin wild friendships. Make your presence felt....... Only some children can see the angels. Make sure you’re one of them!

This poem, published for the first time on the web, is purportedly by the 14th century Welsh poetDafydd ap Gwilym, “generally regarded as the greatest Welsh poet of all time”. The poem is about a date he makes with a girl, and how on his way to see her an otherworldly mist descends and he gets waylaid. 20th century stylistic evidence attributes this poem to an imitator of Dafydd ap Gwilym, styled around his accepted authentic poem Y Niwl.

Translation from Mediæval Welsh:

A date with an adorable girl
I'd made and dared not break,
so to go I was betrothed,
away hence, on my fraught journey.
As I set out, quite prematurely,
a mist sprouted from the night.
Sky mantles shadowed
the way, as if I were in some lair.
Obscuring the firmament's tenuous traces,
a climbing mist shuts out the heavens.
Soon I tread wrong in my ramble,
not a sight of a spot of the country again,
no cliffside birches, no distant clime,
no hillbreast, mountain, nor sea.
Damn thee, great yellow mists,
flow thou not, not this hour!
A cloak of the air deep grey,
a winnowing sheet untidy beloved.
A blanket of the rain falls yonder,
black tapestry from afar enclosing the world.
Like an infernal hellfire vapour,
smog of the earth born so deep:
smog of Annwn's sprites,
a habit draped over the dark one.
An uprisen arachnid
whose torrent fills every place.
Thou art rich, father of the rain,
provider and mother to the hills.
An inclement harvest harsh,
a beach of seals twixt me and the sun.
The night is a day of smoke racks,
a nocturnal day, what sin so graceless?
Thick aery snowsnarts wrap the hill,
the region is hoarfrosted, engendering theives.
The snowy thresh of January,
bonfired into the air ever anon,
the frost smithy creeps on the ground,
along hillocks of brushwood and heather.
The flimsy enchanter flees,
long burdened by the Tylwyth Teg.
Clinging to the rock, air eddying round,
a cloud of crooked planets.
Spray of ocean waves,
the sea out of Annwn, so grand.
On its front the hill is the ugliest colour,
beneath the fat dark welkin.
My twisty traipse turns to clumsy labour,
like a hell, into a still bogmire,
where in every hollow there lurks
a hundred wrymouthed wisps.
Into a hellish swamp I get,
overspread with boughs obscuring escape.
I resolved to go, but won't be so bold again,
on a misty walk, and will grumble no more.

(Translation by Sean B. Palmer, March 2008.)

Original: