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To see well you need to keep your eyes wide open. To see even better, you need to close them.

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Keep Your Eyes On the Pitch

Keep your eyes on the pitch.
Don't choke up!
Or switch hit.

If you do this right,
You'll score guaranteed home runs.
And every base you touch,
By strategic devotion...
With a discipline that's meant!
You can expect,
Yourself to be prepared...
For more to come.
Since the ingredients to do this...
Have begun to sink in.

You are better than sitting,
Twiddling with your thumbs on your backside.
You are better when in the mix.
Holding that bat,
With a pride you can not resist.

Stir up that motivation!
Don't allow it to blur.

When you are focused,
There is no challenge that comes to match.
When you are focused and that is made known...
Your detractors will take two steps back.

Just keep your eye on that pitch!
Don't swing at anything and then throw fits.

Don't dare choke up or switch hit.
Practice and rehearse,
As if your life depends on it!
Stay energized!

And if you do this right,
You'll score guaranteed home runs.
And every base you touch,
By strategic devotion...
With a discipline that's meant!
You can expect,
Yourself to be prepared...
For more to come.

If your desires are to aspire to get beyond,
Striking out!
To be left undone.

There is more to life,
Than knowing when and how to play the game.
There is more to life that can be welcomed.
If you are flexible enough,
To know when to duck.
And not be strickened or become awestruck!

Don't look to either side.
Up or down.
It's not worth it.
Focus and look forward.
Just keep your eyes on that pitch.
And if it is not thrown the way you want it...
Don't blow a gasket to have a tantrum and quit!

Keep your eyes glued on that pitch.
And if you hear a 'boo' at all...
Don't you worry about it!

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One Hand, One Heart.

Verse 1:
Come with me,
To a place where
All is free
No one to tell you what to do,
How to tell me your feelings
Just, pure honesty...
Verse 2:
I know that,
If we were
Given space
Baby wed find our place
Together
But people get in the way
cause they dont understand.
Chorus:
All alone.....
I want to be
All alone.....
Sharing my heart, my home
In your arms
All alone.....
No people and no telephone,
Just you and i.....
One hand, one heart.
Verse 3:
How can you
Sit around taking
In the view
While people tell you
What to do
You know it aint right.....
Use your mind
Leave the whole world behind.....
Theyre only temporary friends
Your happiness depends on you.
Chorus
Bridge:
Everyone has their own opinions
Well everyone knows what to do.
Just look around and keep your eyes wide open this time
If theyre in love would they listen to you?
Lets share our heart, a home in your arms
All alone.....
No people and no telephone,
Just you and i.....
One hand, one heart.

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Your Eyes Were Open

Oh doctor help me please
I'm dying, crippled with disease
My body's aching limb to limb
My bones are glowing through my skin
When i look up into black skies
Mushrooms grow before my eyes
Doctor save me if you can
I'm a desperate man (repeat)
As he lay thinking he was dead
A burning pain short through his head
He looked into those tired old eyes
Heard forty years of anguished cries
And this doctor said
Your eyes were open
But you shut them with your mouth
You always heard
But you weren't doing the screaming
You'd only just woken
But already, you'd forgotten,
What you were dreaming
Such a sad case
The failure of a human race

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Revelation

Written by bob welch.
He had all the rivers, under his power
He had all the mountains, under his command
You know that he had all the cities, in his own two hands
Yes and he had control of the four winds
And of the hunger of starving man
And now were passing on the reins
Cause in my heart I can feel the change
You know the lord of light is laughing
Cause things dont stay the same, revelation
Revelation
He controlled the brimstone, and eternal fire
Surrounds himself with downers, in the king of cold
You know that he had all the princes kissing his diamond ring
And I heard that he walled up, the door to summer
And cut the heart out of mister spring
And now were passing on the reins
And in your heart you can feel a change
You know the lord of light is laughing
Cause things dont stay the same, revelation
Revelation
Dream on, keep your eyes wide open...
On a sunday morning, with a voice thats cold
The future gives a warning of the fire that burns below
He puts his hands together, cause his faith is strong
And thats what youve been needing
Oh but it dont seem to last too long
Cause now were passing on the reins
And in your heart you can feel a change
You know the lord of light is laughing
Cause things dont stay the same, revelation
Revelation

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Keep your eyes wide open before marriage, half shut afterwards.

American proverbsReport problemRelated quotes
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Benjamin Franklin

Keep your eyes wide open before marriage, half shut afterwards.

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Yep Easters In The Air

Children are out hunting
For hidden eggs everywhere
It's that time of year again
Yep Easters In The Air

All kinds of candies
Stuffed in baskets here and there
The kids will surely be wound
Yep Easters In The Air

Painted eggs hidden in the grass
Some tucked away with care
Chilren will race to find them
Yep Easters In The Air

The Easter bunny will leave pleanty
For all the kids to share
Though some may tend to get greedy
Yep Easters In The Air

So keep your eyes wide open
And don't get greedy for your share
There will be pleanty for everyone
Yep Easters In The Air

'HAPPY EASTER EVERYONE'

wrote 3/16/2008 by Norman Hale Jr.

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Keep Your....

Keep your eyes and your ears open to the world around you,
For it is worth practicing what is right always;
And to achieve what you want in this life.

Choose not to hear it always but,
Try to see it as well;
And as you grow older,
You will surely reflect on your past life.

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That's Just Me

You think that I will change
But you know that will never be
I'm just that way and that's just me
Well it's just the way I am
And I am doing all I can
Why can't you see I just can't change
Well I could care less what you see
I'm just nevertheless here for me

You're always getting what you want But you still keep looking
I guess you're just never getting what you need
With your eyes wide open
You still keep looking for your dream
That's just me

It doesn't matter what you say
'Cause my confidence will lead the way
Words will never do

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Thats Just Me

You think that I will change
But you know that will never be
Im just that way and thats just me
Well its just the way I am
And I am doing all I can
Why cant you see I just cant change
I could care less what you see
Im just never the less here for me
Youre always getting what you want
But you still keep looking
I guess youre just never getting what you need
With your eyes wide open
You still keep looking for your dreams
Thats just me
It doesnt matter what you say
My confidence will lead the way
Words will never do, sad but true
And if I didnt act this way
Well it just wouldnt be the same
That wouldnt do, cause Im not you
And I could care less what you see
Im just never the less here for me
Youre always getting what you want
But you still keep looking
I guess you just never getting what you need
With your eyes wide open
You still keep looking for your dreams
Thats just me
Thats just the way I am, I am no larry or a sam
Why cant you see, Im just that way!
Well there it is, its right here, so crystal clear
Well there it is, its right here, so crystal clear in front of my face!
I could care less what you see in me....

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Thats Just Me

You think that I will change
But you know that will never be
Im just that way and thats just me
Well its just the way I am
And I am doing all I can
Why cant you see I just cant change
I could care less what you see
Im just never the less here for me
Youre always getting what you want
But you still keep looking
I guess youre just never getting what you need
With your eyes wide open
You still keep looking for your dreams
Thats just me
It doesnt matter what you say
My confidence will lead the way
Words will never do, sad but true
And if I didnt act this way
Well it just wouldnt be the same
That wouldnt do, cause Im not you
And I could care less what you see
Im just never the less here for me
Youre always getting what you want
But you still keep looking
I guess you just never getting what you need
With your eyes wide open
You still keep looking for your dreams
Thats just me
Thats just the way I am, I am no larry or a sam
Why cant you see, Im just that way!
Well there it is, its right here, so crystal clear
Well there it is, its right here, so crystal clear in front of my face!
I could care less what you see in me....

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Patrick White

To See The Glee In Your Eyes At Eighty

To see the glee in your eyes at eighty
as if you were about to achieve something as big
as you did at three.
And you, there, shy one, freaky adolescent
day after day in the same corner of the restaurant
like a bruised mermaid
riding the clock out like a sea turtle
until it’s time to go home again and face the music;
you who drive your pen so deeply
into the fleshy paper
of your black arts journal
as if you were carving up a body
or intensely wedging the tiny bird tracks
of your hieroglyphic footnotes
like some bitter aside
into the shin of that Ramsean gigantism
you’re standing in the shadow of
waiting for it to get dark enough
the fireflies might come out.
To see you light up like a rainbow at a black mass
when I ask if I can look
and you turn your book over like a leaf
and show me a breakthrough masterpiece
that’s good enough to start a school of crocuses
with no instruction from anyone.
To see you afraid to believe in your own excellence
the juno of your aristos
yet risking the possibility it might be a fact
you’re the mysterious matrix
of a genuinely creative act;
that you might feel
like you’ve got a lump of coal for a heart
and a La Brea tar pit for a mind
but when the mascara comes off
like a Gothic eclipse
you’re a new moon
and you’re starting to shine like a diamond.
To see the black dove in your eyes
liberated from the cages of disapproval
imposed on you by white crows in disguise
is to know
what human beings are doing on earth.
To see what softens the angry blue eyes
of the next generation
of gram masters of Gore Street
with their heads shaved like Auschwitz
or the Stalinesque inmates of the Thief’s World
with its rock pile laws
trying to stay true to the Rosetta Stone
of their prison tattoos
like the sacred syllables
of the mother tongue of darkness.
To see in the glee in their eyes
when their girlfriends take them back
that their hearts are not hard enough yet
to be immune to alienation
and for all the rocks that blister in spoons
the occasional angel still keeps its place
as Francis Thompson knew better than these
under the stones that love turns over
like eclipses of the moon
that weren’t indelible enough to last.
To see the glee in the eyes of a child
when it looks at an animal
and sees the same instinctive innocence
that’s just as wild as it is
and watch their minds go crazy
trying to give their tongues
a jump up on their amazement
at meeting a senient life form
that speaks the same language they do
and shares in the original parity
of the undifferentiated freedom
they still enraptures them in Dilmun
Shangri La
Queensland
and the Garden of Eden.
To see such ecstasy in their eyes
is to know how much wonder is lost
how much joy in just being here with everything else
is driven out of us
as we age our way into separation
deluded by the truth
that perfects our isolation
from the small and big furry things with startling eyes
and the Bolshoi Ballet of fins and veils
that makes my gold fish Toke a dancer
or an underwater comet
high above Atlantis
like a good omen on the eve
of some catastrophic decision
to rise again with more imagination to live
than the dead have reason not to.
To see the glee in the eyes of a friend in winter
like the bouquet of good brandy
beside a warm fire mythologizing
the first drafts of the stories
that are being told and retold
by the blind poets of an oral tradition
sipping red gold
from the snifters of inspiration
they swirl like the whirlpools of the muses
warming to their palms like the head of a glass rose
with its stem between their fingers.
To see in their eyes how good it is
to recognize we’re all linked like tree rings
to the same heartwood
through all four seasons of our lives
is to make a friend of your own human nature
by remembering even in the midst
of this blitz of blazing that blinds the world
on the frantic midways of its cheap thrills
like a heart under a roof heavy with snow
the best things in life
like fires and friends
and goblets of auburn Courvoisier
still glow without diminishment.
To see the glee in the eyes of the rain
that they can behold the whole of the sky again
and all its stars
in the single dropp of a tear
though the rain doesn’t know who it’s crying for
is to understand in a flash of insight
even though you fall
like the small flower at the tip of a blade of stargrass
like a grain of sand down the slopes
of the oxymoronic mountains in an hourglass
you contain it all within yourself
and you can’t pour the universe out of the universe
anymore than you can be driven out of paradise
or be obliterated out of existence
whether humanity immolates itself
or dark energy accelerates us
into an entropy of starless ice.
To perceive the stars and the fireflies in the eyes of the rain
is to comprehend that your mystic specificity
is so unique and broad-shouldered
that down to the slightest detail
what makes you so crucially you
is that it upholds the whole of the rest of the world
in every cell and grain of gold and dirt
like a mountain of a cornerstone
that’s as boundless and high
as its bottomless valley is deep.
To look into the eyes of the stranger
the child the friend the lover the corpse
the eye of the hurricane the enemy the Medusa
the wounded white tail buck in the barbed wire fence
the black-eyed Susans the English ox-eyed daisies
or the yellow suns in the hydrogen clouds
of the New England asters
or the white eclipse of the black holes
in the eyes of the shark as it rolls to kill
or to attune the expression
to the sensibilities of the moment
as a fourteenth century German mystic once wrote
the same eye by which I see the multiverse
are all the eyes by which the multiverse sees me.
What you see
everyone sees.
When you understand
everyone understands.
Lost causes flaws and imperfections.
The lamp the road the night the light the journey.
You can ask the fireflies.
You can ask the galaxies.
But when you’ve exhausted all your cul de sacs
it’s going to be your own seeing
without starmaps
that gives you the right directions
like true north on the inside
and then reminds you in a gentle aside
that it’s impossible to be off the path
because it’s as wide as your field of vision.
When you see for yourself
who’s watching you in this dream of life
even the blind are enlightened
and as many as the ways
and as myriad as the eyes there are
to see in and through your mind
like a jewel turning in the light
it reveals like infinite insight
from the dark source of its own radiance
we rejoice in the genius
of compassion and courage
who took a Pax gene and a moonbeam
and in a moment of omnidirectional inspiration
that included all points of view at once
made it the muse of our eyes.
When you realize
that sight is a kind of love
as I once read on a poster in the sixties
everyone realizes
when you open your eyes
like an expanding universe
even our imperfections shine
in the available dimensions of the darkness before us
and born from the very beginning of everything else
to see and be happy
eye to eye with your own vision of things
as they appear and disappear
like thorns and roses from your heart
like leptons axions and quarks
like the stem cells of your own creative potential
to enter the dark spaces of your own imageless realms
and revel like a child in the art
of making worlds within worlds
like an opening night that everyone’s invited to.
Comets bombarded the earth
and the waters of life
broke from their fire wombs
and for the children of that union
there’s never been a way
to look into the eyes of their opposite
without seeing themselves.
Whether in sorrow or joy
whether in love despair ignorance or wisdom
out of our minds
or biding our time within them
like a flower that knows when to bloom
our shadows cast on a winter night
by the approaching light of Venus
or exalted by the crazy wisdom of life
in the thriving tides of the moon
eyes in the sky
like spy satellites extraterrestrials
and Hubble telescopes
eyes in the water
eyes in the blood
eyes in the wine
eyes in the wheat the apple the pomegranate
eyes in the forbidden fruits
that make all things believable
two eyes and a third
in the word for imagination
to conceive of the inconceivable.
When you see this
through your own eyes
even the mirages the delusions the lies
confess to themselves creatively.
Don’t judge the immensity of the world within
by the grain of sand it comes in
or the density of the pyramid
by what the thieves left of its grave goods.
Imagination is a dragon fly
that can take the fallen and broken
the duff and decay
the twig the leaf the petal
and glue it into a small house of transformation
so the worm comes out breathing fire
like a burnt matchstick with wings.
Point is.
Don’t waste the creative potential
of your own imperfections.
You can find holy water in a tainted well
if you know how to look for it.
The moon dips her cup
in the waters of life
because she has none
and as she raises it to her lips
what looked like a skull
turns into a long-stemmed goblet.
Doorways of light.
Doorways of night.
We open them both alike.
White sails.
Black sails.
We part the veils of space
to see who’s wearing our face
like a mask in the guise of a universe.
Bad.
Worse.
Perfections.
Imperfections.
When you understand
everyone understands.
We weep rivers of stars
into our own hands
to drink from our own reflections
just to taste the light and the life
of the mysterious insight
that burns within us
when the sun shines at midnight.

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Patrick White

Won't Mean Much If Your Eyes Aren't Open In Your Blood

Won't mean much if your eyes aren't open in your blood.
If the stars can't see you because you don't know how
to read them poetry in the small cafes of your heart
accompanied by spoons and plates and broken goblets
of the cheap house wine that smash just like love affairs
dashing your skull against the rocks, hoping the mermaids come back.

If you can't hear in the parking lot of a raucous industry
the colours of your emotions, you're a deaf chameleon
and who could make you listen to what you can't listen to
even if you had enough people who loved you around you
to want you to try to listen to your own tears when you cry?
Your ear on the same wavelength as a corrugated tin roof,
maybe you can see what I'm trying to say to you
if you close your eyes, and just listen to the rain without
trying too hard to make a big effortless effort to be
auditorily enlightened by the racket of your delusions.

I can't remember when my life stopped being my own
and I went to bed one night, and I was as human as my toes are
and I awoke, I was merely the afterbirth of a visionary
I didn't recognize, as my eyes were being igneously wrung
from a cope of dark ore like stars out of the distant hills.
Not a lot of self-respect from the beginning, maybe
it wasn't that hard becoming everyone and everything else,
and I was a prime candidate for effacement
but when I looked into the mirror of my
ten inch, equatorially mounted, clock-driven, reflecting telescope
I used like a canning jar to capture and mount stars and fireflies
on a black velvet starmap, all I could see
was this abyss staring back at me that couldn't say
where I'd gone, but the last I thought I heard
was that I got a job as a janitor in an hourglass
sweeping mirages out of a desert of private school stars.

I say what I see as it occurs to me spontaneously.
And I'm compelled to say it without hesitation
so the vision isn't tainted by the colour of the jewel
it's passing through, from one eye to the next, ad infinitum.
No light pollution in the shining, though there's something
about the idea of purity that continues to appal me
because I never had so much against chaos from the beginning
and I sense a deep hatred of all that is soiled and flawed,
in which case, I'd rather be an outlaw than one of these monks
who disdain me because I can't help seeing their discipline
as uncreatively redundant. Eventually, if they're blessed,
all our faces are going to fall off by themselves
like the scabs of sunspots that healed the wounded light
like a wildflower shedding its petals like nurses' caps
and deathmasks frozen like a moment in time meant
to last forever though we go on being estranged by them forever.

Uncanny transformations of the solid into the real.
Maybe it's time to let the mindstream flow as it will
and let the burning bridges of our delusions cross us for a change
to get to the other side of a life that's only got one bank
and it's as clear as space, we're not even standing on that.
Hang on. Let go. It's just your hand opening and closing
like a door in a dream, and you'll find your falling
just as fast as you ever were and if you were to ask your eyes
they couldn't tell in this vastness whether your were falling up or down.

When you've dismantled all you've desired,
post neo-deconstructionism sets in like spiritual rigor mortis
and you can't tell if you're sleeping with the living or the dead
when you haven't got your mask on. You can wear holes
in your shoes, and windows and carpets, pacing
like a waterclock of the heart in an hourglass of waiting
like a boy at the edge of the curb with his elbows on his knees
and his face in his glum hands, waiting for a parade
with sacred clowns throwing away free candies
like stars along the route of the mystic Milky Way.
Just be sure to keep your eyes open like a spring thaw
so the light can recognize you like the flower that brought it
to full illumination this time last year like a candle
that keeps blowing its petals out so you can see
the black matter of what you are not deeper
into the eyeless dark than you've ever bloomed before.

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Patrick White

The Swan Flies Over The Lace Corals Of The Trees

The swan flies over the lace corals of the trees.
Albireo in Cygnus homing west.
The boa of the moon unfeathered
by the brittle eclipse of broken shale
that shatters its vase upon the waters
like a high note cracks an hour glass
or a snapping turtle rises
from the bottom of a lake
to pull the full moon down by the leg.
My path is strewn
by lunar peony petals,
by the twilight of a blue rose,
by the silk parachutes of the milkweed pods
by the ghosts of the medicine men
among the wild poppies
shaking their dry rattles at the moon
long after the fire's gone out
at a ghost dance for rain.
And I'm sad like smoke
for reasons I can't discern.
A peaceful sorrow among
the bells in my blood as if
we all mourned for the same thing.
Tears falling from the departing wing
of a waterbird rising out of the shadows
like a startling revelation of things to come.
Late autumn and the work
of fulfilment and loss is done.
The winged samara of the maples
lie all over the ground
in a no fly zone of cancelled flight plans.
And there's a silence
that isn't the afterlife of sound
deeper than the night
that's closing in upon me
and there's the skull of a snake
like a crown without jewels
on the top of a ladder of ribs
laid out on a rock like wampum
it wants to trade for my eyes.
And looking up at the stars
who can say the word eternity
even to themselves
without making the world
and everything in it feel like a smaller place?
And who can say the word love
even as a master of metaphors
and not feel they're apprenticed
to a work in progress
like Great Barrier Reefs
and Gothic cathedrals on the moon
painted like caves in the New Stone Age?
The last of the asters
exchange similitudes with the stars
as tokens of what they have in common
like diamond and carbon
without really knowing what they are.
Whether one is the estranged avatar
of the other in exile
or merely intimate familiars
with good spiritual manners
on a first name basis
with what they feel they see
of their afterlives in each other's eyes.
As it is with everything here
speaking in an unknown language
as old as the hills,
older than the moon
like a Rosetta stone
buried in a desert of stars.
The living word, the cursive script
of the original wavelengths
of a snake with wings,
circumpolar Draco,
now a pictograph of bones.
I've been reading the constellations
all my life, the mother-tongue
of an alphabet that said everything
into existence like braille I can see
through my fingertips
and read under my feet
like the footprints of a long journey
I've undertaken to everywhere,
dead twigs in the Book of Changes
trying to decipher themselves like yarrow sticks
and withered leaves, gnostic gospels
burnt in the Bedouin fires of fall,
all Mayan glyphs of a clockwork catastrophe,
Cretan linear B that talks to itself
like the dream of a sleepwalking Greek
gibbering among the dead?
Polyglot grammars in the tree of life
trying to make an aviary of words
without tongue-tying the roosting birds
to any one branch of the mystery,
any one note of their infinite vocabulary.
Aren't we all trying to express
the inexpressible through words,
through the sacred syllables
of trees, stars, stones, the black swans
of our occult history, pine-cones,
caterpillars in cocoons
foggy as smudged moons.
Or dragonflies who make
a chrysalis of our throats,
this little house of dead things
we keep trying to give a voice to
like an echo of ourselves,
these hovels and palaces of starmud
we glue together like perfectly bound books
patched from the rags of our tents
torn like wild irises
in this time-swept desert of stars
abandoning our ancestral campfires
for a distant mirage in a wanderlust of smoke
to undergo our transformations,
snakes that have grown wings and sing
three octaves higher than they used to crawl
like an ambush on its belly
through the silence of the river reeds,
a shuttle through a loom,
the loose thread
of an earthbound flying carpet
unravelling like the moon,
shedding its skin like a myth of origin
generation after generation.
Here the spirits of the dead
are not summoned to answer
their names in the mouth of a medium
as if a tree in winter
were to call its birds back
to the abandoned nests,
the empty hearts it holds up
like begging bowls to the sky.
This is not the bone-box
of anything's final resting place.
This is not the paleolithic tomb
of a retreating glacier carving
spiritual moats around sacred moraines
to elevate the middens of its remains
keeping its fingers crossed
like the ecliptic and the celestial equator
at the spring equinox it will
be reborn again like the sun
hatching out of its cosmic egg
like a phoenix at the winter solstice.
Here, if you listen, if you see,
if you're a windwatcher like me,
or the crows in the tops of the aspens,
you can read what the dead are writing
in waves shuddering on the waters of life
like the lines of a poem
that has just touched your startled heart
with a feather of breath so poignant,
everything you see before you,
from the hidden wisdom
in the bones of encrypted snakes,
to the runic striations
on the prophetic skulls of the rocks,
is the lyrical masterpiece of the dead
to the living that it's dedicated to
like a genius to an unknown muse
that whispers something in the crowns
of the leafless birch that feels as if
even as winter approaches like a new moon
everything here in this cradle
of life, light and insight
can hear the ancient lullabies and requiems
of the hidden nightbirds of the dead
blossoming in their roots long before
they're published on the wind
like tomorrow's waterbirds returning
to the dead seas and mindstreams
of the harvest moon that inspires them.
Not the coffin, not the trilithon altars
and gates of red-winged sky burials,
not the pyres of the sumac
cremating a phoenix with a flight plan,
but this crucible and cradle of earth
is where it all happens like honey
pouring out of the dark ore of death
indelibly as gold, and water, and breath.
This holiest house of transformation
where the dead hold the new moon
in the arms of the old, not
to teach them how to exit hell
like a bell of light out of the darkness
but how to enter heaven
like a thread of insight
through a needle in the dark
with your eyes wide open
like the seedbed of the dead
to a clearing by the side of a river
they know as well as the names of the stars
that bloomed here last year
like the constellations
of the New England asters
who didn't wear a black halo of comets
this far off the beaten path,
or a crown of thorns like splintered glass
chipped from the lens of a telescope
but handed out new zodiacs
like superannuated tree rings
in the heartwood of an early spring
like fish jumping
through their own ripples
to add a little bling and flash
like starstruck earrings
to hang like vital signs
from the lobes of the new moon in Pisces.
Here in this place
where the arrow hits the target
like the wavelength of a hawk
sparing the morning dove
with a sprig of peace in its beak,
isn't the end of the journey,
isn't the acquisition of anything we seek
but precisely where the bulls-eye
of the expanding universe begins
under these eyelids of water and light
living us all like shapeshifters
in a dream of transformation
where the preludes of our beginnings
are already nudging their way
like a crocus of thought,
a moonrise of emotion,
out of the earth, out of
the spring thaw in our hearts
even before the first snow flake falls
like a distant star on the eyelids
of the darkening hills
or this nugget of a snake's skull
exchanging wardrobes with the moon
swallows it whole like a cosmic egg
that has swapped the bright vacancy
of the first and last crescents of its fangs
for the dark abundance of the new
as if death and life were
the particle and wavelength phase
snowflakes and stars, waterbirds
and the serpent fire of red-shifted dragons,
were the life and death masks of the same face,
the same breath, the same bone, blood, flesh,
the scrolls and gnostic gospels of skin
we abandon like the myths of origin
of our last avatars, our last incarnations
as if the same size of life and death fits all
even as our skeletons are raised up
like hot dice in the throw of a winning hand,
snake-eyes, or seven come eleven the same
up into the stars like circumpolar constellations
as if they were nothing but thresholds
and event horizons shining radiantly
in all directions at once with no fixed place
that lets anyone stand in the doorway for long,
whether you're exiting your coffin like a seed,
or making a grand entrance among the stars
of your vast, palatial homelessness
as if you'd just returned
to this prodigal house of life
a moment ago, and hadn't gone far.
No further than the front and back doors
of your next life, your next death, pulse, breath,
radiance of bright vacancy,
eclipse of dark abundance,
like the new moon in the arms of the old.
Mortal ore with a lifespan of imperishable gold.

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Open Your Eyes

When I look into your eyes
I see a lot of hate
Pushing me away
You're haunted by a past
A past that brings you down
So you throw it all away
Again

Just try to find a place deep within your soul
And don't deny the child living deep inside
Open your eyes and find
This life's better than you know
It's in your hands now
Just open up your eyes

Deep inside of your mind
You're forced to believe
That nothing's gonna change
So I take you by the hand
And I lead you to a place
A place of happiness
Like this

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You Don't Cheat On Him Because

He washes dishes
he feeds the kids
he gives you a bath
eyes closed
he cooks, he pours you wine
he makes sure you keep all of your
appointments on time
he is the banker
he walks the dog
he eats your fish
he walked into your eyes wide open
he makes sure you are clean clean clean
that you always fit into your jeans
he takes the children to the dentist
and the doctors while shopping
He never misses a pebble you drop
you would kill for someone like him
sane enough to admit it to crazy to deny it
you co-opted him his price was the cheapest in town.

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Enriquita

what happens to dreams
when they are just buried
under your bed?

what happens to your
visions when they are
just hidden
covered by your
hazy eyes?

you do not wish
to see
my pain

you keep on
pinning the needles
like some sea urchins
in my brain

when will you ever
see with your eyes
wide open
that we love you
just the same
when you first
came to our lives?

let the storms
of your life
subside

let the bush fire
consume itself
and cause no more
harm to the
life of these
simple trees

let there be some
calmness
of the clam
let the pearl
gleam
and glimmer


let us start anew
enriquita,

one family
one love
one memory
to keep us
all loving
and alive

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Lady, What Are You Doing With Your Life?

you gave up your career
in that busy city where you are what they call
a necessity
giving you importance, that feeling of being
needed
you have meaning, they gave you meaning
now, you have lost this
meaning,
you believed him when he said
i love you
and now the demands are many
you gave him your love, your life, you gave him
posterity, his kids, you gave him a home
a garden, a room where you make love
you sweat it out, this love you have for him
you learned to cook and sew and
entertain him and his kids
on the nights after you make love with him
you look at the ceiling your eyes wide open
refusing sleep you walk up and open the
door, you walk farther to open this window
looking for some stars
to light you to guide you
you are lost
in their dark space on a crowded universe

there is no more place for you
you have no face
and now, you realize this great loss
this misfortune

you are taking lunch with us
you talk the whole day
my wife shall help you find your way again

to yourself, take back the name that they
have stolen

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The Times They Are Achangin

(dylan)
Come gather round people wherever you may roam
Admit that the waters around you have grown
Admit that soon youll be drenched to the bone
If your time to you is a savin
Well you better start swimmin or youll sink like a stone
For the times they are a changing
Come writers and critics who prophesy with your pen
Keep your eyes wide the chance wont come again
Dont speak too soon for the wheels still in spin
And theres no tellin who that its namin
For the loser now will be later to win
For the times, they are a changing
Come sailors and congressman please heed the call
Dont stand in the doorway, dont blacken the hall
For he who has lost is he who has all
Theres a storm outside and its ragin
Itll soon shake your windows, itll rattle your walls
For the times, they are a changing
Itll soon shake your windows and itll rattle your walls
For the times they are a-changin
Come mothers and fathers throughout the land
Dont criticise what you cant understand
Your sons and your daughters are beyond your command
And your old road is rapidly agin
So get outta here or if you can lend a hand
For the times they are a-changin
Verse 1
For the times they are a-changin...

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I Walk The Line

I keep a close watch on this heart of mine
I keep my eyes wide open all the time.
I keep the ends out for the tie that binds
Because youre mine, I walk the line
I find it very, very easy to be true
I find myself alone when each day is through
Yes, Ill admit Im a fool for you
Because youre mine, I walk the line
As sure as night is dark and day is light
I keep you on my mind both day and night
And happiness Ive known proves that its right
Because youre mine, I walk the line
Youve got a way to keep me on your side
You give me cause for love that I cant hide
For you I know Id even try to turn the tide
Because youre mine, I walk the line

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