He who has not been given brains from above will not buy them at the apothecary.
to God who is not speaking
to God who has not spoken
i give the benefit of doubt that he is there glancing
to God who is merely glancing
i give the benefit of the doubt that he is all loving
to God who is all loving and not interfering
i give the benefit of the doubt that he is simply waiting
for the right hour for the right timing for the ripe season
to God who is there waiting and all knowing
i give the benefit of the doubt that all these sufferings of mankind
shall soon end with all his beneficence and magnificence
to God for God and by God, i drink to that
Cheers! God is coming! Cheers! I have always drank to that.
All night and all day, my heart aches in worship.
To God, Through God, and By God
May he speak, and touch, and save us.
By The Light I Have Been Given To Go By
By the light I have been given to go by,
I can see how homeless the journey truly is.
How provisional the shrines along the way like milestones
we stop to paint like the inside of our skulls
or the caves we first dwelled in with our dead
buried under fire and the numinosity of our picture music
impregnating the womb walls of a space made sacred by fear.
The darkness bears my secrets, and in the torchlight,
in carbon and red ochre, a diary of shamans
gored by defecating rhinos speared to death.
I have imagined my way into an understanding
that is a rite of passage into a space that is
a vast abyss of intelligence, a nothingness
that speaks through an intuitive grammar of things
as if a galaxy, a star, stone, tree, raindropp were each a thought,
a sign, a word, the syntax of a growing paradigm
of creative awareness that we're completely alone
and lost at sea like fish on the moon crawling out of its tides
as if nothing bound us, not even detachment,
nor a god that exists as a confession of the way we do,
nor any medium we work in as reflection of our presence
labouring away at an unattainable world that won't exist
until we do, and it's 7 to 5 against anyone making it that far.
But what a joy to emerge out of our own nothingness
like a secret we're letting ourselves in on,
making it up as we go along like a deportable myth of origin
we can adapt to our infinite beginnings
because for starters, it has none of its own.
We were born to express ourselves like apple trees.
We were born to see and be happy marvelling at the event.
To enjoy longing for things we were never missing
and be guided by wise men we never listen to
back to a silence that has nothing to say for itself
that we didn't already know in the first place.
Everywhere is the threshold of the return journey.
Life is either an exile, or it stays at home like a follower.
Bless the enlightened apostates of the dangerous religion
that desecrates the mind by worshipping it.
Why make a chain out of your umbilical cord
and get your head wrapped around it like a noose
because you forgot meaning was an art
and not a way to take yourself way too seriously to heart?
Why go to war with your own mind
just to administer to the needs of the suffering
when you can paint a god in blood and ashes
and decultify yourself with the creative freedom
of your imagination deconstructing the fable of your belief
that it's the being, not the becoming, that endures.
And you can do this without even knowing how to draw.
A starmap doesn't shine. A blue print doesn't open a door.
If you ask a crutch to do your walking for you,
it's going to throw you away like a miracle
at the top of the stairs of Notre Dame de Coeur.
Better to be the sacred whore of a thousand profligate gods
than the unrepentant nun of one who shuts the world out,
like art for art's sake, to revel in her own extinction
in a mystical connubium with an unregenerate imagination.
You can burn your gates and cages in a wild field if you like
for not being able to keep the flowers in, or keep the wind
from rioting with the leaves way past curfew,
but there was never any risk of being granted what you ask
because life is the unpredictable moon rise
that deepens the calendars with a renewed humility
towards the extraordinary mutability of time.
What have you ever been that baffled your imagination?
It isn't reason that inspires us to become a stranger tomorrow
to the self we knew today. Genuine faith isn't
an artificial life support system to keep something alive
that should have been allowed to die quietly away yesterday.
Millions upon millions of facts like a graveyard of skeleton keys
to a door we can't find open within ourselves
as if we'd just stepped through it to be here where we live
deciphering the shapes of the clouds as if we lived in code.
Hide your secret deep enough if you want it to be known.
Walk alone as far as you can until you can't
if you want the world to walk the rest of the way with you.
The white demon that knows heaven and hell experientially
mentors the senses in the spiritual subtleties of the black angel
that comes like the new moon of a third eye
to help the exegetes of light see further into the dark
by blowing their candles out like flowers.
All seekers are roads looking for a map to follow.
Preludes after the fact, that set out to look for their own endings.
Be a star. And keep your afterlife behind you
like the shadow of the last form you cast upon the earth.
Be an eye that doesn't leave any room between the moon
and it's reflection so that the substance of life is seeing
not that you're a distinct and separate entity
that cosmically identifies with your exclusion
but that you're wholly within easy reach of everything
that depends upon you for its existence. Just as every leaf
you let fall in the autumn like an adage of wisdom
about how you can know the world by its fruits
first came to the tree like a smile to your face
when you realized your imagination was
the inconceivable dynamic of a creative state of grace.
- quotes about fables
- quotes about Moon
- quotes about tomb
- quotes about galaxy
- quotes about art
- quotes about walking
- quotes about travel
- quotes about myth
- quotes about wisdom
How Easy Has This Been Made To Do?
How easy has it been made,
For anyone to lift...
An accusatory finger to point to someone else,
As a reason for their problems?
How easy has it been made,
To destroy other lives including their own...
By the creating of lies and hiding behind them.
How easy has it been made,
To ruin the quality and standard of life...
Of those who want to live their lives right,
In environments where people have been taught...
Mediocrity is acceptable.
And a public performance of ignorance,
Is just the thing to do since it's attractive too.
How easy has it been made,
To degrade a neighborhood to do it with a doing done?
As others from the outside watch this,
With an open invitation for more to come.
As if everyone has free admission to see fools in a zoo.
How easy has this been made to do?
And who benefits from this?
Not even the ones who make a dollar in profit.
Or the ones who created it,
With beliefs they can drive away...
To an exit that no longer exist.
Or a door to lock to keep them safe.
Those who have that kind of mind will never from it escape.
The Glory Of God's Creation!
Who has not felt calmed by the passing
of a solitary cloud across the heavens?
Who has not felt inspired
by the starry night above?
Who has not felt a debt of gratitude
for all that we have been given
on this solitary planet called Earth?
What beauty surrounds us in the Summer season,
when we take stock of the glory of Creation
and revel in its myriad fashions and forms.
Together, with the miracle of sight,
we behold spectacle after spectacle -
from a full-grown man to a fragile blade of grass.
Our senses are alive to the Universe,
as we behold the majesty of the sizzling sun above.
Is it any wonder that Man is humbled by it all?
It is for this reason that we know
there really is a God
who loves us dearly...
The Psalms celebrate Creation...
and so should we... together...
For we are humanity,
fearfully and wonderfully made.
Created for a purpose
and an eternal destiny.
Created to praise the Creator,
the King of Love...
Day follows day,
night follows night,
weeks turn into years.
Let us give thanks today...
for now, this is all we have...
Leaving The Ones Who Do Not Benefit
Doesn't it seem,
Demons come out of hiding.
The moment you decide...
You will live your life,
To do good and what's right!
They begin to hover around like vulchers.
Making attempts to prevent,
And this becomes an attraction of sorts,
To thrawart something fresh.
And what becomes presented...
Loses its breath,
To ultimately let die the 'vision'!
Not from the trying.
But a wicked incision of the naysayers.
Who either disapprove of the doer...
Or the amount of attention given.
And 'who' receives the credit.
And those who know what they've done,
Are the first to shout out with cries...
To gossip in ears with lies.
'Why isn't anyone reaching out to get things done?
Every and anyone who 'could' do something...
Refuses to offer a giving hand! '
Of course this is believed.
And more join forces to roll their eyes.
Instead of rolling up their despising sleeves.
Leaving the ones who do not benefit at all...
The ones left who best deceive!
The ones who question,
Why there isn't...
More unity in their communities.
More often than not...
These are the culprits!
Heard rehashing old debates,
With venom not hardly dormant...
The Young Dead Soldiers Do Not Speak
The young dead soldiers do not speak.
Nevertheless, they are heard in the still houses:
who has not heard them?
They have a silence that speaks for them at night
and when the clock counts.
They say: We were young. We have died.
They say: We have done what we could
but until it is finished it is not done.
They say: We have given our lives but until it is finished
no one can know what our lives gave.
They say: Our deaths are not ours: they are yours,
they will mean what you make them.
They say: Whether our lives and our deaths were for
peace and a new hope or for nothing we cannot say,
it is you who must say this.
We leave you our deaths. Give them their meaning.
We were young, they say. We have died; remember us.
The Horror Of Horrors Has Not Happened To Me
THE HORROR OF HORRORS HAS NOT HAPPENED TO ME
The horror of horrors has not happened to me-
No Palestinian terrorist entered my house and stabbed my wife and myself to death
And slit the throat of our three year old child
And put a knife in the heart of our three- month old baby-
No tsunami came and swept our house and world away -
No Nazi pulled my beard kicked me and laughed
Before shooting my head off -
No I have not known the violent death which today and yesterday
And so many days before
Has taken innocent people from this world-
I don’t know what it is
It has never happened to me
I fear and fear more
That there is no end to this kind of evil
And even if I make it to a quiet deathbed exit
There is no future guarantee against more and more horror and evil -
We live in a world
Too sad and frightening for us
And however fortified by lessons from the past
There is no defence against the next evil surprise -
Oh God I pray to You with all my heart
But I still fear also.
Very Few That I Have Met
Who do you think you are dealing with?
Some fly by night inexperienced nitwit?
Someone who has not discovered,
Purpose and the meaning of life?
Someone who excites by any attention given?
And anything shown is perfectly alright?
Nothing that I have learned,
Led me to believe...
I was the center of the universe.
My upbringing 'instantly'...
Chased those thoughts away from me!
I like to share my time,
With those pretention free.
Those who have qualities of empathy...
And a thoughtfulness learned,
After a discovered identity!
Some folks don't know who they are!
And masquerade as someone else.
And after going through a few disguises...
I will only spend my time,
With those who give a damn...
About life and what it offers!
There is nothing like knowing,
The I...in I Am.
So you need not try to offer anything less.
Since more of what I am looking for...
Is not worn or shown just to impress!
I am into much more.
And very few that I have met,
Can or have yet...
Let a 'realness' that is inside,
Come outside to be addressed!
To be caught up in distress!
And 'busy bodying' themselves...
In someone else's left mess!
The Treaty of Penn
Art thou chief of the white men that crowd on the strand?
No broad gleaming sword flashes bright in thy hand—
No plume, proudly waving, sits light on thy brow—
Nor with hate and contempt does thine eye darkly glow.
I have seen the white chieftains, but proudly they stood;
Though they call'd us their brethren, they thirst for our blood:
With the peace-belt of wampum they stretch'd forth one hand,
With the other they wielded the death-doing brand.
On their lip was the calumet—war on their brow;
But thine scowls not with hatred—a chieftain art thou?—
My brethren are those whom thou see'st on the strand,
My friends, whom I govern with fatherly hand;
We worship the spirit who rules from above,
Our watchword is peace, and our motto is love.
We fight not, we war not, for life or for land,
And the weapons of death never darken our hand.
The land that in purchase ye cheerfully give,
Will we, for our friends and our brethren, receive;
But we will not deprive you, by force or by fraud,
Of the land that yourselves and your fathers have trod.
Then deep be the tomahawk buried from sight;
The peace-tree shall bloom where it slumbers in night.
We will bury from sight and from mem'ry the dead;
We will plant o'er the spot where their blood has been shed;
O'er their grave shall the green maize its tassels expand:—
But whether the white men by force wrest our land,
Or whether they win it in war or in peace,
Our hunting grounds narrow, our tribes still decrease.
O'er the land that I purchase ye freely may rove;
We will dwell in the spirit of brotherly love—
By mutual kindness we both shall be blest,
Your wrongs, as the white man's, be promptly redrest.
We will teach you with justice, our knowledge impart,
And teach you each useful and civilized art.
We extend you, in truth and in friendship, our hand,
We will turn to the plough-share the death-dealing brand.
One hand hath created the white man and red;
One spirit we worship, though different our creed;
And that God who looks down on our acts from above,
Still conceals in dark frowns the fair face of his love
From the land that is darken'd with bloodshed and rage,
Where brethren with brethren in battle engage.
We have listen'd, my father, your peaceable talk;
In the path you have chosen we cheerfully walk.
The white men have wrong'd us, have crimson'd our plains,
Where our forefathers sleep, with the blood of our veins.
Of those plains they have reft us, the fairest and best,
And have forced us to seek other homes in the west;
Through the wilds of the forest to follow the chase,
Till brambles have choked up the pathway of peace.
Yet as still we receded our heroes were slain,
Our wives and our children lie dead on the plain.
Then we dug from the earth the fell hatchet of war,
While our whoop of destruction was heard from afar.
We rush'd on our foemen, we fought and we bled,
But our arms with the blood of the white men were red;
Yet, father, the red man delights not in war,
And thy words shall the spring-time of friendship restore.
Now again we will bury the hatchet, again
We will burnish the links of our amity's chain.
We will root out the weeds from the path of our peace,
And all hatred and battle betwixt us shall cease.
How solemn is the silence of this hour!
The world is hush'd! all nature lies in sleep—
Save where rude jollity upholds her power,
Or wearied wretches waken but to weep.
Strange contrast! that there revelry should keep
Her wassail wild amid the gloom of night,
And here, her thorny couch pale sorrow steep
With bitter tears, and strain her aching sight,
To catch the first pale streak that ushers in the light.
E'en now perchance some widow'd mother hangs,
In hopeless anguish, o'er her dying child,
And marks with bursting heart its parting pangs,
Or covers its pale lips with kisses wild;
While memory tells how oft it has beguiled
Of half its loneliness her dreary heart—
And when in its bright joyousness it smiled,
Albeit within her eye the tear might start,
She knew not, could not know, that they so soon must part.
Its closing eye is faintly turn'd on her,
Its breath comes thickly, and the dews of death
Are on its forehead—one convulsive stir—
One half-form'd smile to speed the parting breath—
Then all is past—and gazing on that scathe
Of all her hopes—in tearless agony,
The mother stands, until awakening faith
Points out another world—a hope on high—
And fast her feelings gush in torrents to her eye!
But this is fancy—for no sound is near,
Of joy or sadness—all around is still!
Not e'en the night-bird's voice salutes mine ear,
Nor the faint murmur of the distant rill—
The very winds are hush'd—and on the hill
The trees are motionless—the whisp'ring sigh,
That lingers where the blast was piping shrill,
Moves not the branches as it passes by,
Nor lifts the bending leaves that on the waters lie.
The deep blue heaven with clust'ring stars is bright,
And in the midst the moon, sublimely fair,
Sheds o'er the fleecy clouds her silvery light,
That in bright wreaths are floating lightly there,
Like snow-flakes scattered o'er the silent air.
And coldly still that moon's pale lustre lies,
Alike on haunts of misery and despair;
And where the sounds of wassail joy arise,
Disturbing with rude mirth the quiet of the skies.
The earth is slumbering! but I will not sleep,
For I do love to gaze on yon bright sky,
And all those countless orbs, that seem to keep
Their nightly ward so silently on high—
My heart may swell, but 't is not with the sigh
Of painful feeling—nor does aught of woe
Awake the tear-drop in my moisten'd eye;
But unexpress'd emotion, and the glow
Of all the crowding thoughts, that round my bosom flow.
Esther, A Sonnet Sequence: LVI
Who has not wept with Manon? Of all tales
That thrill youth's fancy or to tears or mirth
None other is there where such grief prevails,
Such passionate pity for the loves of Earth.
Who has not wept with Manon in her sin,
Wept in her punishment? What angry heart
Has been unmoved in youth to see her win
With those sad archers to the inhuman cart?
Who has not followed her beyond the seas,
And sold his life for her, and bowed his pride,
And sinned all sins to buy her back to ease,
And died all deaths to venge her when she died?
And I, blest boy, who each new happy night
When all was done still lived in her delight!
Clarity Achieved Is Refreshing!
You deal with the semantics,
Of language use.
Deal with the perfection of corrected,
With ideals of that pursued.
Deal with the acceptance between,
That which is offensive...
And what is in good taste.
As I live my life not fearing to make mistakes.
Since I have not agreed to any contract,
That places my movements and choices made...
Above anyone who chooses to be analytical.
And a setting done on a determined right track.
Although those perceptions change on a daily basis.
I refuse to become subdued by limitations,
Regardless of who believes I should...
To please a confused conformity.
Lostt in ever thickening deep woods.
All trees does not one forest make!
And I do not assume what i see is a forest.
If I have yet to experience it!
I am here to journey on a path,
I have never experience before!
And I will do just that,
As long as this gift of life I have lasts.
Is there anything else you perceive,
Needs from me...
I will not be wasting time,
Trying to define my life for anyone.
Or make attempts to re-route my steps,
For anyone who has not blessed me...
With the breath God has granted me to breathe.
Have I achieved for 'you' any clarity?
Clarity achieved is refreshing!
Pan Beniowski - Final Part Of Canto Five
Surging like a vast current of salmon or sheatfish,
Coiling up and down like an iron serpent
That rears now its torso, now its head,
The armed horsemen breast the prairie grass. --
But hold! my song's device breaks down:
My Muse begs a rest, having drained her cup
Empty of sweet nectar; and so, farewell
To you, on that steppeland rise,
My pair of golden, sun-drenched statues!
My iron ranks wallowing in the grass and herbage!
One needs here the yearning of a Malczewski--
The kind found in men who are half angels.
One ought to sing here; meanwhile I weave fables.
Whenever I stir up the ashes of my homeland
And then raise my hand once more to the harp,
Specters from the grave rise before me--specters
So lovely! So transparent! Fresh! Alive! Young!
That I am incapable of shedding real tears over them:
And yet I lead them in a dance about the valleys.
They take from my heart whatever they like:
A sonnet, a tragedy, a legend or sublime ode.
It is all that I have, all that I cherish and believe in.
Believe in. . . You ask me, my dear reader,
What I believe in? If I told, it would raise a furor.
In the first place, this rhyme which scoffs and reviles
Has a political credo: these are Dantesque regions
You have entered. I believe with a pagan's heart
In Shakespeare's rhymes, in Dante and in Homer.
I believe in the commonwealth of an only son --
In our case it was that surly fellow--Mochnacki!
Though he never stopped spinning his mighty dreams,
He allowed the Dictator to stretch him upon a cross.
I believe that he came into being in human form
And went to the Great Judgment that lights up
Our land; on the way, he dropped in on the Aristocracy
And bided in that flameless Hell for three days;
Then in a little book he passed judgment on his brothers:
Those who are upright and those who feel no shame;
In him I believe, and in his two unfinished books:
I believe in all the saints of our émigré circles,
And in their spiritual communion with our nation;
In the forgiveness of sins committed by our leaders
And the resurrection of our elected Sejm under Herod
Which being a very amusing body will constitute
The best proof of the resurrection of the body--
The supreme instance of bodily resuscitation;
And finally, secure as to the future, I should add
That I believe in the life everlasting of that Sejm.
Amen... This amen chokes me, catches in my throat
Like the amen Macbeth uttered. -- Still, I believe
That like cranes chained to the wing the nations are making
Progress . . . that knights rise out of the bones. . .
That the tyrant cannot sleep when he bloodies the bed
Or robs the eagles of the youngest brood. . .
That fire and serpents and fear are his bedfellows. . .
All this I believe--yes--and in God as well!
O God! Who has not felt You in the blue fields
Of Ukraine where the level plains arouse
Such sadness in the soul that ranges over them! --
When, accompanied by a windy hymn,
The dust which Tartar hordes drenched in blood
Takes wing, shrouds the golden sun in ashes,
Blurs, reddens it, then suspends it in the sky
Like a black buckler with blood-shot eyes --
Who has not seen You, Almighty God,
On that great steppe, under a lifeless sun,
When the mounds on which all crosses stand
Bring blood to mind--or crooked flames;
When far off thunders a sea of bent-grass,
Burial mounds cry out with a terrible voice,
The locust unfurls its black rainbows, and the garland
Of graves melts away into the distance;
Who has not felt You in the terrors of nature:
In the great steppe or on Golgotha's hill
Or among columns surmounted not by a roof
But by a moon and an untold number of stars;
And who in the zest and ardor of youthful feeling
Has not felt that You exist, or, plucking daisies,
Has not found You in those daisies and forget-me-nots?
Yet still he seeks You in prayer and good deeds:
No doubt he will find You -- no doubt he will --
I wish small-hearted men a humble faith
And a peaceful death. -- Jehovah's flashing face
Is of vast measure! When I count up the layers
Of exposed earth and see the bone piles
Lying there like the standards of lost armies
At the foot of mountain ridges -- skeletal remains
That also bear witness to God's being --
I see that He is not only the God of worms
And things that creep and crawl upon the dust:
He loves the booming flight of gigantic birds;
Puts no curb on stampeding horses. . .
He is the flaming plume of proud helms. . . Often
A great deed will sway Him where a tear-drop
Shed on the church doorstep will not: before Him
I fall down prostrate -- for He is God!
Where then is humility's forerunner?--the man
Who contended with me like a god? I seek him still;
I'll cleave his head with a lightning bolt, just as yesterday
I dealt him a blow on the breast. Have you seen him?
His lips are seasoned with wormwood. . . The people
Who believed in him make a show of joy
Yet droop their heads, for they know it was my nod
That brought the Prophet-Bard back to life.
Bit by bit, I tore my heart to shreds,
Forged the pieces into firebolts and hurled them
At his face; each piece boomed like a crag
As if high in the sky I had shattered a god into bits
And now the pieces were raining down. . . I smashed him --
But what have I gained in the eyes of the people today?
The battle and victory took place high in the heavens --
People see nothing in me, but courage.
Indeed. . . My nation! If you had but seen
How lonely and sorrow-laden I was
Knowing that if my firebolt failed to pierce him,
The Lithuanians would seize me in their collective claws;
But then, recalling my nest in the eastern marches,
I beckoned to Kremenets Mountain that it rise up
And put that rabble to flight -- that it stand with me --
Or take up an inferior position beneath me.
For my sad heart breaks into pieces at the thought
That there are no noble-hearted souls taking my part;
That to no purpose do I cast impassioned words
Filled with tears, blood and brilliant flashes
On hearts that remain repellent to me -- I
Who also have a land that is rich in flowering meads,
A native land flowing with blood and milk:
And it ought likewise to love me.
If you -- you! -- are without hearts, then my heart
Shall feel for you; shall forgive without measure.
River Ikwa! Inundate this carpet of green meadows!
You too have renown, for it is as if your lapping waves
Were weighing matters of colossal moment with the Niemen --
It was you who forced old Niemen to confess
My greatness: that we are flowing forward to glory. . .
But he said: Let him go where we go.
But oh my Prophet-Bard! Where are you going?
What harbor beacon lights your way, and where?
Either you founder in the depths of Slavonic atavism
Or with your lightning mind you sweep up
The refuse and drive it at the Pontiff's triple crown.
I know your harbors and coastlands! I shall not go
With you, or go your false way -- I shall take
Another road! -- and the nation will go with me!
If it should chose to love, I shall give it a swan's voice,
That it might sing out its love. If it should chose to curse,
It will curse through me; should it chose to burn --
I shall furnish the heat: I shall lead it wherever God
Would take it -- to infinity -- in every direction.
My name will serve as a vessel for its blood and tears.
My standard shall never play it false: by day
It will shine like the sun, by night, like a fiery cloud.
Ah! So you show up at last, my knight?
Now I shall have at you with my sword!
First I shall show you the sun reflected in my shield,
Then before the sun I shall unbosom you of fear. . .
I shall reveal the falsehood in your latest orison,
And, with that falsehood shown, deal your death blow;
I gaze on your face -- green in the night like the moon --
So have you renounced the power of the sun?
I told you that you were like a Lithuanian deity rising
Out of a holy place embosomed by dark pines;
Clutched in your hand like a celestial moon was a cross;
On your lips, flashing like a lightning bolt, was the word.
And saying this -- am I not the son of song? A king's son! --
I fell. -- And you stepped up -- did you not? --
To place your foot upon me as though I were dead
And I rose -- having merely feigned terror and death!
You will always find me standing before your eyes --
Unshakable, proud and terrible. . . I am not you --
You are not an Eternal Flame. And even if you are
A god -- I at least am a living one!
Ready to lash a graven image with my snaking whip
So long as you drive this world down a false path. . .
I cherish our people more than dead men's bones. . .
I love -- but I am without mercy and tears
For the vanquished. -- Such is my panoply of arms!
And such is the sorcerer's magic of my thoughts!
Though you may oppose me today, the future is mine! --
Victory shall be mine -- beyond the grave. . .
The Troy of your poets shall fall at my feet,
No Hector's courage of yours will save her.
God has charged the future with my defense:--
I shall slay you -- draw your corpse behind me!
And let the ages pass judgment. -- Keep well, my Bard!
With you this song began, ancient deity!
I have laved your bays in a rain of burning words
And shown that a broken heart can be traced
Upon your bark -- your trembling leafage
Reveals a dry rot gnawing at your soul.
Keep well! Foes do not bid farewell like this,
Only two divinities -- upon opposite-facing suns.
Where there are laws, he who has not broken them need not tremble.
He who has not enough wit in the head, should force to replace it in the leg.
He has only half learned the art of reading who has not added to it the more refined art of skipping and skimming.
Teardrops Rain From Above
In the April showers
Why must they leave us?
The ones who love us
No longer do we hear
Your voices or laughter
Or see your smiling faces
No more do we feel your
Hugs and your kiss
That reassure the
Love you give
When does the heartache mend?
Campaigning For Him to Fail
They are campaigning for him to fail.
He is the only one left,
Keeping the creditors off their backs.
He is the only one,
Who has not...
Traded his wisdom for deceit.
To line his pockets to get them fat!
He is the only one,
Who has not...
With the hopes of seeing it,
He is the only one,
Who has not...
Succumbed to fantasy!
Or allowed himself,
To grieve over trivia!
For personal gain.
To see himself,
Over others succeed.
They are campaigning for him to fail.
He is the only one left,
To prevail in their behave.
But they are too blind.
They see him alone.
As someone alone trying to shine!
I Cast My Net Into The Sea
In the morning I cast my net into the sea.
I dragged up from the dark abyss things of strange aspect and strange beauty -- some shone like a smile, some glistened like tears, and some were flushed like the cheeks of a bride.
When with the day's burden I went home, my love was sitting in the garden idly tearing the leaves of a flower.
I hesitated for a moment, and then placed at her feet all that I had dragged up, and stood silent.
She glanced at them and said, 'What strange things are these? I know not of what use they are!'
I bowed my head in shame and thought, 'I have not fought for these, I did not buy them in the market; they are not fit gifts for her.'
Then the whole night through I flung them one by one into the street.
In the morning travellers came; they picked them up and carried them into far countries.
Take what Has Been Given
I am just here to deliver!
I could care less,
How the message is interpreted!
There were no instructions given
To return feedback!
Or my perceptions of the receiver!
Nor am I going to spend time in explanation!
Hopefully you will 'get it'!
It's apparent you don't!
Or you would take what has been given,
And absorb it for what it is!
You can't even 'pretend' to have common sense!
And that is not an intentional offense.
Although, I am sure
You will believe my heart was in it!
Easy Has Not Been The Word
The challenge was first,
To do it.
To move in that direction,
Pursuing what some said...
I could not do.
The next was to improve,
Upon that which I pursued.
And remaining focused and true...
To that which I chose to do.
Then the real test came,
When I began to hear my name.
And instead of support,
Out from the woodwork critics came.
The next challenge I faced,
Was to appear in public...
Without a sign of emotion to be traced.
Nor quick to defend...
Or attempt to erase those steps I placed.
And 'easy' has not been the word,
To take or describe...
Some of the things I've heard,
From those who have tried...
To discredit my efforts!