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Hasier Agirre

All the mines that explode in peacetime rhyme with the war.

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When All The Angels That Lives In Heaven

When all the angels
That lives in heaven
Descend from heaven
To earth
To do their will
Towards men and women
That lives on earth

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Who Knows All The Sadnesses That Death Brings

Who knows all the sadnesses that death brings
The hidden wounds that never heal?
The darknesses that remain black forever?
Who knows the hidden pains that death brings
And the darknesses and the sadnesses
And the cryings forever
Of what is lost and will always be lost in all of us?

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Emily Dickinson

Of all the souls that stand create

Of all the souls that stand create
I have elected one.
When sense from spirit files away,
And subterfuge is done;

When that which is and that which was
Apart, intrinsic, stand,
And this brief tragedy of flesh
Is shifted like a sand;

When figures show their royal front
And mists are carved sway,--
Behold the atom I Feferred
To all the lists of clay!

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All the things that brought us home/Sve ono sto nas je dovelo kuci

All the things that brought us home
We took them for awhile
Gently to the heart
Gently to the breast
To feed the hungry sky

All days that brought us here
Passages of time
We took them for not more
Than a living moment

And now we glisten in the heart of Crone
Beauty beat and pulse alone

Sve ono što nas je dovelo kuci
Na nako vrijeme uzesmo
Blago pri scru
Blago na grudi
Gladno nebo da hranimo

Sve dane što nas doniješe ovdje
Prolaze vremenog
Ne uzesmo više
No živi tren

I sad smo u srcu Hrona sjaj
Ljepote bilo samotan otkucaj

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It's The Truth Within All Of Us That Grows

'Poppa...
What's reality? '

Come here, sweet baby!

'Oooowww!
That hurt.
Why did you pinch me, poppa?
Why? '

Did you feel it, honey?

'Yes!
And it hurt too.'

That's reality.
Something you know exists!
Something you can feel.
And if it affects you...
In a way that gets your attention,
With the agreement of others...
Without debate,
You are close to it!

'But still, poppa!
WHAT is reality? '

See this look poppa has?

'Yeah!
It's scaring me.'

You feel anything?

'You don't want me to ask you again, right? '

And I didn't touch you, did I?
That's part of reality as well.
You will learn the difference...
Trust me.
You will learn!
It's the truth within all of us that grows.

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Never in all the years that I am living

Never in all the years that I am living
could I learn to know someone so intimate,
have I been so caught in your love,
did I want to win your heart so desperately;
it's as if I know you from the start of human existence,
as if God has drawn a way for us through eternity,
from the moment when I noticed you for the first time
it's as if you are making me much greater than mere humanity,
as if you are bringing joy for heartaches,
when I awake every morning with greater power
and I know that God Himself is present in your presence
then there is only sunshine in the waiting day
and I wonder why I had to find you after a lifetime
when something so unfathomable strong binds us to each other?

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On Being Told That There Is No Rhyme For The Word “Limerick”

After I heard Harry’s limerick,
I found that my mind set to simmer. “Rick, ”
I said to myself,
“One might write it itself, ”
But I answered, “You’re chances are slimmer, Rick! ”

So I can’t find a good rhyme for Limerick.
Told myself, “ You are just a beginner, Rick
And though there’s no reason
You can’t write something decent,
I fancy your chances get grimmer, Rick! ”

He said that it might rhyme with turmeric
But I thought, “You’re not that fast a learner, Rick:
Ditch your thoughts wasting time
Finding suitable rhyme;
Let your plans, man, stand on the back burner, Rick.”

But the cogwheels had started to turn a bit
As I guessed I had started to learn a bit
And I might find a line
That rhymes Limerick fine
And might win me a prize, so I earn a bit.

But I thought, “Though there was just a glimmer, Rick.
You will think till you’re needing a zimmer, Rick,
Since the muse isn’t kind,
I am sure you’ll will find
Not a word that will rhyme fine with Limerick.”

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Keep This In Your Mind And Soul All The Time

You can not sit on your wishes and dreams,
Expecting to be given a change of scene.
Get up and make it real what it is you wish.
Get up and make it real what it is you dream.
No boat is going to float over your threshold.

Keep this in your mind and soul all the time,
No boat is going to float over your threshold.
To allow you to wine and dine.

If you've got the melody and the rhythm with rhyme,
You've got to move this from your mind to your feet.
No one but you can make real whatever it is,
You want to chew with your teeth.
If you have a need to eat...
You are the one that has to cook.
You alone have to supply and stir up the heat!

Keep this in your mind and soul all the time,
No boat is going to float over your threshold.
To allow you to wine and dine.

You can not sit on your wishes and dreams,
Expecting to be given a change of scene.
Get up and make it real what it is you wish.
Get up and make it real what it is you dream.
No boat is going to float over your threshold,
Anytime soon.
If you're not prepared to row or energize that boat...
You might as well float off and go back to sleep.

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Patrick White

All The Good Reasons That Get In The Way Of Writing

All the good reasons that get in the way of writing,
baby needs new shoes, and you're conscientious and diligent,
will kill you faster than the bad ones
that brought you to the edge of your mindstream in the first place
to dip your skull like the cup of the moon
in the wellsprings of your own imagination
instead of always sipping spit from other men's mouths.

I'm not saying don't do what you must do
to be a decent human being, or as close as you can get,
but when you're creatively underwhelmed
by the rising Rockies of Circumstance
losing their footing like an avalanche of cornerstones
coming down on you like a barrage of asteroids,
you better find a mountain gear deep within yourself
to power you out of the way of your own collapsing mindscape.

Don't come to a reasonable truce with the ashen exigencies
of the underwhelming reality love married you to,
or pontificate like a hollow urn on the tragic absence
of even so much as an echo of yourself to make a comeback
or tell me you squandered it all like apple bloom
when everything I've read of what you haven't written
smells like smoke from a distant pyre on the wind.

Remember the fire. Even if you have to burn underground
through the occult roots of the cedars, or bury yourself
powdered in red ochre under the hearthstones
of your prophetic forebears erasing your picture-music
from the cave walls like graffiti under a bridge
between this world as it never is when you look too closely,
and the one that's working on you like spiritual water on limestone.
Remember the fire. Remember the discipline
of disobedience that tempted you to steal it in the first place
like a Spartan boy with a hot fox, as it
eats you from the outside in without you saying a word
lest you get caught ratting your deepest secret out in agony.
Or regenerative Prometheus chained to a rock like a salamander
born in the fire of his own afterbirth. Know this.
Lightning doesn't strike the roosters of fire
that crow like weathervanes pinned
like a medal from an old campaign to the axis of the wind
as if the dawn were some kind of triumph over the night.

Cradle that fire in your hands like a bird that's fallen to earth,
or a lamp of holy oil in a niche of unanswered longings,
a candle in a hurricane of boarded up windows,
the light of your own mind, casting shadows of time
like a sundial with a wilder imagination
than its usefulness might at first glance suggest.

Nor will it do to catch a falling star and put it in your pocket,
or pour gold down your throat like the Parthians did Crassus
and expect to shine like a lighthouse in a diamond mine
with the voice of an oracular canary in a cage.
You've got to live inexhaustibly
what you're going to write about first
if you want to burn down the Library of Alexandria
in a gamma ray burst of creative annihilation
because you can only master as much life
as you've surrendered to like a heretic at the stake
or a pine cone germinating the seeds of enlightenment
like a zen hermit in a forest fire. Don't take
all the beautiful green swords flaming like wild irises
whose beauty you fall upon like an honourable death
and abuse them like the palings of a gate or a fence around paradise.

Even if you've only got a firefly of talent
left in the caldera of an extinct volcano,
a spark in the firepit of a burnt out dragon,
a smouldering ember from last night's fire in the stove
on a cold morning when the windows are blazing with ice,
you must be crazy and wise enough oxymoronically
to be the benign tyrant of your own Golden Age
like Pericles of Athens, with a politically incorrect
lover for a muse you look upon like the Parthenon
as if she were a phase of the moon. Even if
you love the swaying silver of the wind
over the heavy-grained harvest breaking water
like a bell under a redundant blue moon,
don't shrink from threshing it if you want to
share it like bread with people as hungry as you are
to eat the heart of the king of the waxing year,
like Wodin made a sacrifice of himself to himself,
or life thrives on itself like a soccer team
that crashed landed on a mountaintop,
or the cosmic eggs of turtles feeds a manger of seagulls,
and the grass eats the grazer, and the grazer eats the grass.
Or if you're too sensitive to compassionately take life
in order to give it, sharpen the edge of your golden sickle
on the whetstone of the moon, and express your mercy
as Muhammad suggested, with a quick kill
you can hold love responsible for like a spiritual alibi
if you've got genius enough to heal it like a inspired liar.

You have to be part salmon. A battering ram
swimming upstream against the flow of circumstance
like the gate of a water castle you're besieging
to lay your blunted sword down in tribute
among the sacred pools of life that gave it to you
at the beginning of your song, like fire from their eyes
to wage a holy war of one on their behalf
you're doomed to lose like a conflict that progresses
from one defeat to the next against ever stronger adversaries,
angels in the way, shaitans obstructing the path for your own good,
who realize, too late, with every encounter,
you're growing stronger than the best reasons
could have anticipated strategically.

Be a good apple tree, lyrically seasoned and epically strong
as Lao Tzu and the Druid aptly described you
like the sacred syllable in the heartwood of the letter Q,
and express yourself completely without intending
the betterment of anything, though all do,
from wasps and birds to bears and humans
with the beauty of your blossoms, the wisdom of your leaves,
and the generosity of the sacrifice that laid you out
like a windfall of dice enshrining the eyes that can see
like seeds in the sibylline books of the apple
the risk they'll need to take tomorrow like a fire swallower
of the sun and the moon to keep their planets shining
from the inside out in the Goldilocks zone
of a light that's been sweetened immanentally
by a dangerously habitable life holding up
a lantern in the dark that disappointment, defeat and struggle
could no more put out than a volunteer fire brigade of waterclocks
for the best of reasons could put out the stars in an arsonist's heart.

Set the world afire like a flame that writes on the wind,
poppies flaring uncontrollably across your field of vision.
Burn like a two-eyed passion for everything
you can see and be on the earth that consumes you
in the equinoctial fires of your vernal immolations,
not a magnifying glass that intensifies the sun into
the capricious focus of an idle boy on a cruel afternoon
shepherding ants like prophetic semi-colons into a furnace.

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Calling All The Hearts

God is calling all
The hearts
That are sick, hurt, and in pain
Today

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All The Forgotten Good Byes

All
The
Forgotten good byes
That I had said
So many times
For the
Victims
Of
September 11

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I have seen almost all the possible Troubles in my life

I have seen almost all the possible Troubles in my life,
The last one that I have to face is the Death.

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All The Hugs

All the hugs
That I
Wanted to
Give you,
I give to my
Side pillow,
Knowing that
I can never
Have you...

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By Turning Off All The Lights

By turning off all the lights
You will save enough energy
And Mother Nature
Will give you
Thanks for that also

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All The Masters Of Music

All the masters of music
Had composed
Beautiful music for us
So that we could enjoyed it for
The rest of our lives

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All The Fires Of The Night

All the fires of the night
Warms my body of that cold
All the fires of the night
Keeps my soul alive
Each night
That I am sleeping

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Among All The Lovely Animals

AMONG ALL THE LOVELY ANIMALS

Among all the lovely animals
That inhabit this sweet earth
One alone writes a poem
For all who thrive unheard.

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All The Days Are Not Equal

Just get mwe out of your mind if only if,
I am not the one you are looking for;
And do bear in mind that,
All the days are not equal!
But i have done enough for you already.

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After All The Years

Flippant
and so nonchalant
her husband just didn't care
that on their 'anniversary' date
his pretty wife would be elsewhere
love had become slightly stale
O why were they so distant
cold of heart and
Flippant
After all the Years?

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Emily Dickinson

"Was not" was all the Statement.

"Was not" was all the Statement.
The Unpretension stuns —
Perhaps — the Comprehension —
They wore no Lexicons —

But lest our Speculation
In inanition die
Because "God took him" mention —
That was Philology —

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