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As the snow melts the filth shows through.

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As Soon As The Frozen Snow Melts To Go

Frozen is the snow.
Melting it will go,
Away...
When Spring begins again.
And flowers bright will bloom.
And I...
Want to be that one,
To share...
This Spring that comes with you.

Walking like we'll do...
With a budding we'll get to know,
As soon as the frozen snow...
Melts to go.

And flowers bright will bloom to gow...
With a budding we'll get to know,
As soon as the frozen snow...
Melts to go.

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The filth of the culture.

Beggars are a few who beg for food.
Beggars are a few who beg for money.
Beggars are plenty who beg for acceptance.
It reflects the filth of the culture.
10.10.2009

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The Many Live Through The Sacrifices Of The Few

The many live through the sacrifices of the few-
The old continue because the young have died for them-
The soldiers of who gave their lives in Israel's wars,
The soldiers of Freedom who risk their lives still,
Enable their people to live.

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Early in the morning when the sun glances through the window

Early when the sun glances through the window
there are birds singing of joy,
while they wait that I feed them some seed,
it's as if the flowers are jumping higher,
when I catch the open sky's cobalt-blue,
the glory of the sun falling on my skin,
it's as if I can trust like a child,
everywhere I see small wonders without number,
when the prettiest flowers bloom in my garden.

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The starlight shone through the window frame

The starlight shone through the window frame
while it broke here and there
through some clouds
and I heard you breathing against me

and every now and then your hand stroked
over my head as if you wanted to make sure
that I am all right or really there

and I heard you mumble in your sleep
and there was a golden full moon
when the clouds later opened
and much too early the alarm went off.

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When Snow Melts

When the hot winds blow and trees beep,
The snow clad peaks melt as if they weep,
The icy water trickles, falls gushing down,
From the rocks crimson, grey and brown,
It merges, mixes, flows through the streams,
Passes through the plains fulfilling dreams,
Water then converges itself into an ocean,
Whereupon remain trade-ships in motion
Armadas move, linger to settle the clashes
Launching missiles with smoke and flashes.

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When The Day Is Through

When The Day Is Through
And all is quiet and peaceful
I will think of your tender kiss
Hold on until we meet again
For my love it's you I so miss
When The Day Is Through
I will feel the tears that flow
Wishing you was near me
Feeling all the love you give
I want you so and endlessly
When The Day Is Through
My heart calls out your name
As I hold my pillow very tight
Only to pretend your here
If only in reality that was right
When The Day Is Through

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The Looking Glass Through

What do you do when the peace is in pieces?
As ignorance rises while the wisdom decreases

There’s nowhere to hide beneath the chaotic stars
From the order of societies living at odds

And ends stop short and congratulate failure
Sacrificial criminals burning ladders to scale the

Mountains of currency destroying truckloads of gold
Supporting the notion there’s a top to the globe

Turns dizzy round and round ‘til we all fall ground
Smash the looking glass through reflections and jump down

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1. The earth talks through you

the land talks through
you, every line on you
resonates with its vibrations

you are the poetry of the
land, mouth through which
the land conveys its senses

the sun talks through
your eyes, they channel
its spirit through to me
a radiant warmth the
ounce of love that rises
in a primordial pool to
surge through my heart

the moon touches me
the way your lingering
mood and nonchalance
speak volume of the other
side of your cheerful self

a luminousness that
skirts and corners night
to let shadow rest in shadow
and words echo in words
a tide bound in only by the
starry promises of night

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After The Filth Has Been Filtered

After the filth has been filtered,
And drained from minds forced to open...
There will be more honest discussions,
Attempted and made...
Between those in shadows,
And those accustomed to giving shade.
After the filth has been filtered.

With more uninhibited wishes,
From those who escaped away from those days...
When people were afraid to remove those masks,
Some homemade...
That did not convey true portrayals.
But were worn instead,
To deny and hide themselves with choices to be led.

And after the filth has been filtered,
More of life for them begins.
More of life is felt and shared.
With the necessity of charades and masquerades,
For them to end.

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And... The River Runs Through It

Those sweet memories still linger in my mind
The chain of mountains, The birds singing their song,
The outspread meadows...
And the river that runs through it!

I still see us walking along the river bank holding each other's hand.
And as we lie down on the grass, Interlocked in arms, looking at the sky,
The rock sings for us, a melodious song,
As the river runs through it!

I still go there
Sometimes in dreams and sometimes in real.
The birds are still singing and the rock still sings.
Everything is unchanged except the fact that
You are nowhere to be seen.
You have crossed over to the other side of the river,
The outstretched field of heaven!
And as I sit on the grass, sorrow grips my mind
And... The river runs through it!

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The days went through far too many faces

the days went through far too many faces
and all the cards dealt in a game of prey
slipped through the hands
like leaves through the boughs
to reach the bottom pit
and a pendulum sound

the houses went through far too many doors
and closed their windowed eyes ushered stricken blue
a twin handful of earth ancestor I found
to reach the bottom pit
and a pendulum sound

the murders took place in the streets of devil
that spoke in a language foreign known to none
detected on a track of an evolution crown
to reach the bottom pit
and the pendulum sound

an we drank our wines not knowing their names
floated in the casks down the poisoned rivers
built ourselves in walls air lost in the ground
to reach the bottom pit
and the pendulum sound

Inspired by Edgar Allan Poe

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Until The Time Is Through

Until the time is through
Now and forever
Until the time is through
I cant believe it
I dont know where to start no baby
So many questions
Deep inside my heart
Bridge:
Give me a moment before you go
Theres something you ought to know
Chorus:
Baby now and forever
Until the time is through
Ill be standing here
Waiting and never give up my faith in you
Trying to make it clear
Without your love Id be half a man
Maybe one day youll understand
Now and forever
Until the time is through
Ill be waiting...
How can I tell you so that you can see
Love has a meaning
When you are here with me
(when you are here with me, baby)
(bridge)
(chorus)
There is no one to comfort me
Here in my cold reality
Im searching for words
What can I say to make you see?
Baby now, until time is through, Ill be here girl (2x)
(chorus)
I will be here for you until the time is through

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The Force that Through the Green Fuse Drives the Flower

The force that through the green fuse drives the flower
Drives my green age; that blasts the roots of trees
Is my destroyer.
And I am dumb to tell the crooked rose
My youth is bent by the same wintry fever.

The force that drives the water through the rocks
Drives my red blood; that dries the mouthing streams
Turns mine to wax.
And I am dumb to mouth unto my veins
How at the mountain spring the same mouth sucks.

The hand that whirls the water in the pool
Stirs the quicksand; that ropes the blowing wind
Hauls my shroud sail.
And I am dumb to tell the hanging man
How of my clay is made the hangman's lime.

The lips of time leech to the fountain head;
Love drips and gathers, but the fallen blood
Shall calm her sores.
And I am dumb to tell a weather's wind
How time has ticked a heaven round the stars.

And I am dumb to tell the lover's tomb
How at my sheet goes the same crooked worm.

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The Inheritance

Since you did depart
Out of my reach, my darling,
Into the hidden,
I see each shadow start
With recognition, and I
Am wonder-ridden.

I am dazed with the farewell,
But I scarcely feel your loss.
You left me a gift
Of tongues, so the shadows tell
Me things, and silences toss
Me their drift.

You sent me a cloven fire
Out of death, and it burns in the draught
Of the breathing hosts,
Kindles the darkening pyre
For the sorrowful, till strange brands waft
Like candid ghosts.

Form after form, in the streets
Waves like a ghost along,
Kindled to me;
The star above the house-top greets
Me every eve with a long
Song fierily.

All day long, the town
Glimmers with subtle ghosts
Going up and down
In a common, prison-like dress;
But their daunted looking flickers
To me, and I answer, Yes!

So I am not lonely nor sad
Although bereaved of you,
My little love.
I move among a kinsfolk clad
With words, but the dream shows through
As they move.

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No Matter What The Weather Shows

I've got you.
You've got me.
And we've got...
Dreams.

I've got you.
You've got me.
And we've got...
Our dreams.

Together we can conquer,
With our dreams.
Together we can make it,
With our dreams.
Together life is better,
With our dreams.

And I've got you.
You know you've got me.
And together...
We've got those dreams.

Oh yes I've got you.
And you've got me.
And we both together will fulfill dreams.

Together we can conquer,
With our dreams.
Together we can make it,
With our dreams.
Together life is better,
With our dreams.
No matter what the weather,
We've got dreams.

Storm winds come blowing...
But no matter what the weather shows,
Together we'll combat it with our dreams.

Storm winds come blowing...
But no matter what the weather shows,
Together we'll combat it with our dreams.

Together we'll combat the storms,
With our dreams.

I've got you.
You've got me.
And we've got...
Dreams.

No matter what the weather shows,
Together we will always know...
Together we'll combat it with our dreams.
Together we'll combat it with our dreams.

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As The Troops Went Through

I heard this day, as I may no more,
The world's heart throb at my workshop door.
The sun was keen, and the day was still;
The township drowsed in, a haze of heat.
A stir far off on the sleepy hill,
The measured beat of their buoyant feet,
And the lilt and thrum
Of a little drum,
The song they sang in a cadence low,
The piping note of a piccolo.

The township woke, and the doors flew wide;
The women trotted their boys beside.
Across the bridge on a single heel
The soldiers came in a golden glow,
With throb of song and the chink of steel,
The gallant crow of the piccolo.
Good and brown they were,
And their arms swung bare.
Their fine young faces revived in me
A boyhood's vision of chivalry.

The lean, hard regiment tramping down,
Bushies, miners and boys from town.
From 'mid the watchers the road along
One fell in line with the khaki men.
He took the stride, and he caught their song,
And Steve went then, and Meneer, and Ben,
Long Dave McCree,
And the Weavers three,
All whisked away by the “Come! Come! Come!”
The lusty surge of the vaunting drum.

I swore a prayer for each soldier lad.
He was the son that might have had;
The tall, bold boy who was never mine,
All brave with dust that the eyes laughed through,
His shoulders square, and his chin in line,
Was marching too with the gallant few.
Passed the muffled beat
Of their swanking feet,
The swell of drum, the exulting crow,
The wild-bird note of the piccolo.

They dipped away in the listless trees;
A mother wept on her beaded knees
For sons gone out to the long war's end;
But more than mother or man wept I
Who had no son in the world to send.
The hour lagged by, and drifting high
Came the fitful hum
Of the little drum,
And faint, but still with an ardent flow,
The pibroch, call of the piccolo.

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Patrick White

Not With The Eye, But Through It

Not with the eye, but through it
easy to see all the pristine faults and flaws
in the immaculate mirror of the lake
that asks me to surrender my sword
as proof the scars on the mirage of my identity
were not self-inflicted or mythically inflated.
Sometimes the mind is nothing but a fraud of water,
a handful of starmud from the bottom up
with an ego like the snapping turtle of the world
savaging the plumage of the moon,
a wild swan thawing like an ice-floe
riding her own reflection downstream
like the pale fragrance of an elegant loveletter.

This place is the downgraded stuff of dreams
that animates the misfortunes of decay
with calendar-eyed views of propinquitous mortality.
Stakes of ghostly bones embedded like fractured trees.
Red ochre cedars like the fragile skeletons of filigreed fish.
Dozy limbs of basswood on the damp shore
pulped by a flesh-eating disease
like the hard heart of an old man gone soft
in the limelight of a circus of fungus on tour.
Not an outrage, but a lingering kind of odium,
this whole place smells like a human on its death bed.

Stealth in the indelible silence of the dead
undergoing their dissolute transformations
into the effluvium of the living in the wake
of their passage through life. What was
solid and upright as the rung of a ladder of oak
or the lifeboats of the oar-winged maple keys
before they went down with the ship,
good captains, all, with nowhere left to fall,
let's its hair down like wavelengths and willows
and returns to going with the flow of things
like ice melting into water again, everything real,
with nothing to stub your toe upon
like the imagined intransigence of the world.

Wing of bat, eye of newt, heart of toad
and the perfect pitch of a virgin hummingbird,
mummified skin from the leaves
of the star clusters of borage sapphires,
the ashes of a poem that immolated itself
like daylilies that no one had ever cried over,
the unreasoned ennui of a seasoned wizard's
attitude toward suffering to play musical chairs
at the periodic table and rise above the salt
where you properly belong enthroned like a dragon
on the skulls of your incommensurable ancestors.

Salt the earth and it will burn green as leaves
in the fires of life nothing can put out.
The axis mundi stirs the seabeds of the ocean
and visionary wraiths hang above it like rags of mist
summoned to the cauldron of the lake
like a seance to the endless first step
of an ongoing beginning that calls them out of exile,
like the lords of life from the last exorcism
they went through like the imperfectible ideals
of the wind sweeping stars and deserts off the stairs
of an underground passage burial
that aimed its spirit at the stars in Orion
but whose bones only made it as far as a flashlight
in the nervous hands of a grave robber
startled by his own amazement
at whose likeness embers in old gold
on the death mask that greets him like a twin of time.

Waterlilies blooming nocturnally in algaic scum
as if they were spreading their feathers
for any chance encounter with the stars
they've fallen in love with in their own images.
Stumps of the beavers, and here and there,
the occasional chain saw, I hear a man shrieking
in the tent of a field hospital trying to heal the Civil War
with the tools of neo-lithic carpenters.
I hear the crow barking orders to its officers.

Significance by association with the lost and fallen
bleeding out like flags on an abandoned battle field.
You fall through the cracks if you don't jump the gaps
and the rest is just the history of electricity
prodding you to twitch like the puppet-master
of Giovanni's frog prodded into leaping like the dead
trying to keep pace with the measure of their hearts
like lily pads wired to circuitous nervous systems
grounded in the silken muck at the bottom of things
that has settled like a peaceful sediment
over the useful refuse of our unsalvaged dreams.
The encyclopedic detritus of our arboreal souls
we keep recurring out of like cosmic eggs
in a deep sleep of inconceivable wonders to come.

Wingspans of the galaxies in the eyes of the seed-atoms,
I sow my thoughts and feelings like symbols and images
as far and wide as the Milky Way, the Road of Ghosts,
like an old farmer I heard of who went mad out here
sowing the deep woods, holding on to the tail
of a black bull that tugged at his heart like a new moon
or the harvest of stars in the wild rice fields of the Pleiades
adorning the horns of Taurus in a garland of light
so the wide-eyed native women could thresh them
into the bows of their birch bark canoes.

How long ago was that? Is there still
an Algonquin village around here somewhere
that didn't surrender its gates to the urgencies of time?
Some memory smouldering like a fire pit under the leaves
that have written over the history of this place
like draught after draught of an autumnal lie ever since?
Did they ever come down to the water like me
to watch the moonlight ricochet off
the wet anthracite scales of a rat snake
sliding its S-curves back into the water
like a wavelength of darkness alone and homeless
in the occult palace of its black diamond eyes?

Did they feel the same chill of recognition
when it disappeared like a sacred insight
into an abyss of enlightened unknowing
that's as boundless as the myriad infinitudes
of forms and events that arise
out of the creative destruction of the mind
efflorescing out of its own ashes, sunflowers at dawn
when the urns convulse like wombs,
and flowers imitate the garish rainbows
of our afterbirth like the palette of a masterpiece
that's caught the ruin and renewal of life
in the enigmatic features of our photogenic minds?

Posing like mood-shifting chameleons
aurorally lifting the veils of a dark mirror
to reveal our own eyes looking back at us
when the night turns around, saturated
like ripe fruit with the mysterious sorrows
of being alive to witness our own windfall
like a rootless tree well-seasoned in letting go
of the orchards that once danced with the wind
in their wedding gowns, climbing up
this scaffolding of bones like a serpent of picture-music
helically winding up the stairwells of our vertebrae
like a thought making the rounds
of an unbroken circle of zodiacal skulls
like boundary stones in an unsustainable orbit,
all living things perfecting the simplicity of death
in the labyrinth of their own elaboration
by reducing it to an axiom of collaborative absurdity
then erecting it like a meteoric cornerstone
above the graves they dig for themselves
monolithically from the sky down,
one foot in the boat and the other clinging to shore.

I can hear the music of the spheres
in the hidden harmonies of dark matter
I've been listening to for light years
like a song with an impact crater for a sea bed
I just can't seem to get out of my head and heart.

I've apprenticed my darkness to the mastery
of a dying art that might make the dead
a little more lyrically approachable
when the picture-music shepherds them
like black sheep born under a new moon
into the available dimensions of the future.

In everything I see and say and do here
I celebrate the emergence of the carrying forth
of the light out of the dark urgent with expression.

I say tree, stone, star, love, birth, death.

Lonely nightbird, or one of the frogs at night,
I make my sound like my mark upon life,
I add my eddy of light, the ripples of my fingerprints
to the flowing. As ignorant of where I come from
as I am of where I'm going, as homeless behind me
as it is ahead, there's an expiring calendar
of tree rings in my heartwood, waning or waxing,
always seems to be growing. What has my tongue
ever been, but a leaf on the wind, or my eyes,
if not stars coming out of clouds? Delusion
or clarity, the crazy wisdom of the madly enlightened,
or sorrow looking for asylum in its own vulnerability,
the lab rat in a random experiment with genetic lotteries,
or my voice disappear like the homing bird
of a word in the distance flying toward
the violet hills that adumbrate the sunset in residence?

A physics of the heart, or the logic of metaphor,
two ends of the same sky-borne telescope.
Whether they're eyelashes or my eyes
are sprouting wings for the journey ahead,
effortless effort of the absurd,
or a labour of elusive significance,
I struggle to celebrate the vital stillness
that animates the heart of all things
into being carried away on impulse
like water and love and life and light
or thousands of fireflies swarming the valley
after a storm of insight, trying to acquit themselves
like constellations in a chaos of starmaps.

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Paul Valery

God made everything out of nothing, but the nothingness shows through.

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Boris Pasternak

‘February. Take ink and weep,’

February. Take ink and weep,
write February as you’re sobbing,
while black Spring burns deep
through the slush and throbbing.


Take a cab. For a clutch of copecks,
through bell-towers’ and wheel noise,
go where the rain-storm’s din breaks,
greater than crying or ink employs.


Where rooks in thousands falling,
like charred pears from the skies,
drop down into puddles, bringing
cold grief to the depths of eyes.


Below, the black shows through,
and the wind’s furrowed with cries:
the more freely, the more truly
then, sobbing verse is realised.

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