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The Life That I Always Dream

It's not here on earth full of confusion
Where ugliness and sin always reign
Not on drugs where for just a moment
you forget who you really are
Not in a sin where chastity is not important
Not in the emptiness of bliss abound

I always ask myself this question
Where in this hell we can find true happiness
Where in this hell we can find lasting peace
I'm always confuse, and somehow depress
Where can I find the answer to this lonely quest

Then an answer came to me in a form of inspiration
That this time of our life is only a preparation
For that great and glorious day
That this world is only a playing field
But the celebration is up ahead
This world does not really matter
This life is only a trial, only a test

Everyone is entitled to a life of happiness
A never ending happiness
Lasting happiness with your family and friends
Where there is no confusion, hate, crime
No depression, addiction, no deadlines

Only happiness
True happiness and lasting peace
The one we've all been searching for
Which is the greatest gift of all
The life that I always dream
Which is Eternal life.

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Theodore Roethke

The Far Field

I

I dream of journeys repeatedly:
Of flying like a bat deep into a narrowing tunnel
Of driving alone, without luggage, out a long peninsula,
The road lined with snow-laden second growth,
A fine dry snow ticking the windshield,
Alternate snow and sleet, no on-coming traffic,
And no lights behind, in the blurred side-mirror,
The road changing from glazed tarface to a rubble of stone,
Ending at last in a hopeless sand-rut,
Where the car stalls,
Churning in a snowdrift
Until the headlights darken.

II

At the field's end, in the corner missed by the mower,
Where the turf drops off into a grass-hidden culvert,
Haunt of the cat-bird, nesting-place of the field-mouse,
Not too far away from the ever-changing flower-dump,
Among the tin cans, tires, rusted pipes, broken machinery, --
One learned of the eternal;
And in the shrunken face of a dead rat, eaten by rain and ground-beetles
(I found in lying among the rubble of an old coal bin)
And the tom-cat, caught near the pheasant-run,
Its entrails strewn over the half-grown flowers,
Blasted to death by the night watchman.

I suffered for young birds, for young rabbits caught in the mower,
My grief was not excessive.
For to come upon warblers in early May
Was to forget time and death:
How they filled the oriole's elm, a twittering restless cloud, all one morning,
And I watched and watched till my eyes blurred from the bird shapes, --
Cape May, Blackburnian, Cerulean, --
Moving, elusive as fish, fearless,
Hanging, bunched like young fruit, bending the end branches,
Still for a moment,
Then pitching away in half-flight,
Lighter than finches,
While the wrens bickered and sang in the half-green hedgerows,
And the flicker drummed from his dead tree in the chicken-yard.

-- Or to lie naked in sand,
In the silted shallows of a slow river,
Fingering a shell,
Thinking:
Once I was something like this, mindless,
Or perhaps with another mind, less peculiar;
Or to sink down to the hips in a mossy quagmire;
Or, with skinny knees, to sit astride a wet log,
Believing:
I'll return again,
As a snake or a raucous bird,
Or, with luck, as a lion.

I learned not to fear infinity,
The far field, the windy cliffs of forever,
The dying of time in the white light of tomorrow,
The wheel turning away from itself,
The sprawl of the wave,
The on-coming water.

III

The river turns on itself,
The tree retreats into its own shadow.
I feel a weightless change, a moving forward
As of water quickening before a narrowing channel
When banks converge, and the wide river whitens;
Or when two rivers combine, the blue glacial torrent
And the yellowish-green from the mountainy upland, --
At first a swift rippling between rocks,
Then a long running over flat stones
Before descending to the alluvial plane,
To the clay banks, and the wild grapes hanging from the elmtrees.
The slightly trembling water
Dropping a fine yellow silt where the sun stays;
And the crabs bask near the edge,
The weedy edge, alive with small snakes and bloodsuckers, --
I have come to a still, but not a deep center,
A point outside the glittering current;
My eyes stare at the bottom of a river,
At the irregular stones, iridescent sandgrains,
My mind moves in more than one place,
In a country half-land, half-water.

I am renewed by death, thought of my death,
The dry scent of a dying garden in September,
The wind fanning the ash of a low fire.
What I love is near at hand,
Always, in earth and air.

IV

The lost self changes,
Turning toward the sea,
A sea-shape turning around, --
An old man with his feet before the fire,
In robes of green, in garments of adieu.
A man faced with his own immensity
Wakes all the waves, all their loose wandering fire.
The murmur of the absolute, the why
Of being born falls on his naked ears.
His spirit moves like monumental wind
That gentles on a sunny blue plateau.
He is the end of things, the final man.

All finite things reveal infinitude:
The mountain with its singular bright shade
Like the blue shine on freshly frozen snow,
The after-light upon ice-burdened pines;
Odor of basswood on a mountain-slope,
A scent beloved of bees;
Silence of water above a sunken tree :
The pure serene of memory in one man, --
A ripple widening from a single stone
Winding around the waters of the world.

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Waves in the jute field

On this rainy day
Sweet gusty monsoon wind makes
Waves in the jute field.

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The Elysium Field

The Elysium Field
awaits us
assails the senses
with smell
blank stares
at the end
of the line
the waiting in purgatory
for heaven or hell.

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If The Playing Field Was Leveled

If the playing field was leveled,
And those with skills were playing the game...
There would be fewer less disappointed people,
Observed wasting their time, resources and patience.
And bored out of their minds.
While the ones with no apparent talent,
Continue to strike out at everyone's expense.
But...
Are cheered on to convince they too,
Can eventually become great...
If given the opportunity to hit just ONE ball,
Without a fouling to strike out...
Each time they get to hold the bat.

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The Greener Field Beyond Our Place

always, it is
it is always the case that the other side of the fence appears greener
and when you sit on the bench inside your house beside a window
looking into the other side
you wish you have a new pair of shoes
a hat and a pack bag
you dream upon a tomorrow where you can be there
with your brown dog

in the afternoon after a day inside your backyard
under the lemon tree
you change your mind
it is dark and your only wish is to stay
and spend the night
communing with the stars in the skies
gazing at your patio

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In The Mowed Field

Succession of alphabet: tongue of amphibian
Over a lover’s nipple:
Circus tent of areola sprigged by pubis
In the moonlight coming over
The house too close to the highway:
The rattlesnake flattened across
The road,
Halfway made it underneath the Florida
Holy where the kids have made it
Safely run away:
Across the street from housewives who are now
Lovers—
Adultery in midway daydreams before
The naked bodies of goldfish
Not even worth a dollar:
The television silent besides the Christmas tree:
The lizards in the yard basking like
A statuary of primordial deities:
The cats too sleepy in the mowed field to care.

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The Grass Is Not Always Greener

The grass is not always greener on the other side
Just like everything- it will die.
It will wither and fade- nothing ever stays the same.
We must accept what we now have
And strive for something more
or make it an unfulfilled dream
That will crash against the shore.


We all have burdens that we must bare
So stick with family and friends who really care.
Keep a positive outlook on life
and everything will turn out right.

The rich and famous have their problems too
And like us, they don’t know what to do.
They get every thing that wealth can buy
Then strive like hell to survive.

Mortgages and homes that they can’t
Afford to keep.
Then sit in their brand name chairs
And begin to weep.

We exceed our incomes by the thousands
While they exceed theirs by the millions.

Who has more to lose? Which one would you choose?

So when they tell you the grass
is greener on the other side.
MAYBE JUST MAYBE-IT’S A LIE

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The night I will always remember

Wednesday night at nine thirty
Terror sailed into my city.
I will always, always remember,
The night of 26th November

Gripped with fear, panic and despair…
Grenades and bullets in the air.
I will always, always remember,
The night of 26th November

Tourists slaughtered on their vacation
Everyday folk massacred on a railway station
I will always, always remember,
The night of 26th November

Babies slaughtered in their mother’s womb
Five star hotels have become a mass tomb
I will always, always remember,
The night of 26th November

Children orphaned, a rabbi dead
Terrorists feeling no regret
I will always, always remember,
The night of 26th November

Brave hearts butchered, lives in disarray
One night that lasted three whole days
I will always, always remember,
The night of 26th November

My city is battered
My faith in every politician, shattered
I will always, always remember,
The night of 26th November

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Mahabharata, Book XI - Kuru Women Visit The Battle-Field

Spake the ancient Dhrita-rashtra, father of a hundred sons,
Sonless now and sorrow-stricken, dark his ebbing life-tide runs:

'Gods fulfil my life's last wishes! Henchmen, yoke my royal car,
Dhrita-rashtra meets his princes in the silent field of war,

Speed unto the Queen Gandhari, to the dames of Kuru's house,
To each dear departed warrior wends his fair and faithful spouse! '

Queen Gandhari sorrow-laden with the ancient Pritha came,
And each weeping widowed princess and each wailing childless dame,

And they saw the hoary monarch, father of a perished race,
Fresh and loud awoke their sorrow, welling tears suffused their face,

Good Vidura ever gentle whispered comfort unto all,
Placed the dames within their chariots, left Hastina's palace hall!

Loud the wail of woe and sorrow rose from every Kuru house,
Children wept beside their mothers for each widowed royal spouse,

Veiléd dwellers of the palace, scarce the gods their face had seen,
Heedless now through mart and city sped each widowed childless queen,

From their royal brow and bosom gem and jewel cast aside,
Loose their robes and loose their tresses, quenched their haughty queenly pride!

So when falls the antlered monarch, struck by woe and sudden fear
Issuing from their snowy mountains listless stray the dappled deer,

So when smit by sudden panic, milk-white mares that scour the plain,
Wildly toss their flowing tresses, shake their soft and glossy mane!

Clinging to her weeping sister wept each dame in cureless pain,
For the lord the son or father in the deathful battle slain,

Wept and smote her throbbing bosom and in bitter anguish walled,
Till her senses reeled in sorrow, till her woman's reason failed!

Veiléd queens and bashful maidens, erst they shunned the public eye,
Blush nor shame suffused their faces as they passed the city by,

Gentle-bosomed, kindly hearted, erst they wiped each other's tear,
Now by common sorrow laden knew no sister's words of cheer!

With this troop of wailing women, deep in woe, disconsolate,
Slow the monarch of the Kurus passed Hastina's outer gate,

Men from stall and loom and anvil, men of every guild and trade,
Left the city with the monarch, through the open country strayed,

And a universal sorrow filled the air and answering sky,
As when ends the mortal's Yuga and the end of world is nigh!

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Grass From The Battle-Field

Small sheaf
Of withered grass, that hast not yet revealed
Thy story, lo! I see thee once more green
And growing on the battle-field,
On that last day that ever thou didst grow!


I look down thro' thy blades and see between
A little lifted clover leaf
Stand like a cresset: and I know
If this were morn there should be seen
In its chalice such a gem
As decks no mortal diadem
Poised with a lapidary skill
Which merely living doth fulfil
And pass the exquisite strain of subtlest human will.
But in the sun it lifteth up
A dry unjewelled cup,
Therefore I see that day doth not begin;
And yet I know its beaming lord
Hath not yet passed the hill of noon,
Or thy lush blades
Would be more dry and thin,
And every blade a thirsty sword
Edged with the sharp desire that soon
Should draw the silver blood of all the shades.
I feel 't is summer. This whereon I stand
Is not a hill, nor, as I think, a vale;
The soil is soft upon the generous land,
Yet not as where the meeting streams take hand
Under the mossy mantle of the dale.
Such grass is for the meadow. If I try
To lift my heavy eyelids, as in dreams
A power is on them, and I know not why.
Thou art but part; the whole is unconfest:
Beholding thee I long to know the rest.
As one expands the bosom with a sigh,
I stretch my sight's horizon; but it seems,
Ere it can widen round the mystery,
To close in swift contraction, like the breast.
The air is held, as by a charm,
In an enforcèd silence, as like sound
As the dead man the living. 'T is so still,
I listen for it loud.
And when I force my eyes from thy sole place
And see a wider space,
Above, around,
In ragged glory like a torn
And golden-natured cloud,
O'er the dim field a living smoke is warm;
As in a city on a sabbath morn
The hot and summer sunshine goes abroad
Swathed in the murky air,
As if a god
Enrobed himself in common flesh and blood,
Our heavy flesh and blood,
And here and there
As unaware
Thro' the dull lagging limbs of mortal make,
That keep unequal time, the swifter essence brake.


But hark a bugle horn!
And, ere it ceases, such a shock
As if the plain were iron, and thereon
An iron hammer, heavy as a hill,
Swung by a monstrous force, in stroke came down
And deafened Heaven. I feel a swound
Of every sense bestunned.
The rent ground seems to rock,
And all the definite vision, in such wise
As a dead giant borne on a swift river,
Seems sliding off for ever,
When my reviving eyes,
As one that holds a spirit by his eye
With set inexorable stare,
Fix thee: and so I catch, as by the hair,
The form of that great dream that else had drifted by.
I know not what that form may be;
The lock I hold is all I see,
And thou, small sheaf! art all the battle-field to me.


The wounded silence hath not time to heal
When see! upon thy sod
The round stroke of a charger's heel
With echoing thunder shod!
As the night-lightning shows
A mole upon a momentary face,
So, as that gnarled hoof strikes the indented place,
I see it, and it goes!
And I hear the squadrons trot thro' the heavy shell and shot,
And wheugh! but the grass is gory!
Forward ho! blow to blow, at the foe in they go,
And 'tis hieover heigho for glory!


The rushing storm is past,
But hark! upon its track the far drums beat,
And all the earth that at thy roots thou hast
Stirs, shakes, shocks, sounds, with quick strong tramp of feet
In time unlike the last.
Footing to tap of drum
The charging columns come;
And as they come their mighty martial sound
Blows on before them as a flaming fire
Blows in the wind; for, as old Mars in ire
Strode o'er the world encompassed in a cloud,
So the swift legion, o'er the quaking ground,
Strode in a noise of battle. Nigh and nigher
I heard it, like the long swell gathering loud
What-time a land-wind blowing from the main
Blows to the burst of fury and is o'er,
As if an ocean on one fatal shore
Fell in a moment whole, and threw its roar
Whole to the further sea: and as the strain
Of my strong sense cracked in the deafened ear,
And all the rushing tumult of the plain
Topped its great arch above me, a swift foot
Was struck between thy blades to the struck root,
And lifted: as into a sheath
A sudden sword is thrust and drawn again
Ere one can gasp a breath.
I was so near,
I saw the wrinkles of the leather grain,
The very cobbler's stitches, and the wear
By which I knew the wearer trod not straight;
An honest shoe it seemed that had been good
To mete the miles of any country lane,
Nor did one sign explain
'T was made to wade thro' blood.
My shoe, soft footstooled on this hearth, so far
From strife, hath such a patch, and as he past
His broken shoelace whipt his eager haste.


An honest shoe, good faith! that might have stood
Upon the threshold of a village inn
And welcomed all the world: or by the byre
And barn gone peaceful till the day closed in,
And, scraped at eve upon some homely gate,
Ah, Heaven! might sit beside a cottage fire
And touch the lazy log to softer flames than war.


Long, long, thou wert alone,
I thought thy days were done,
Flat as ignoble grass that lies out mown
By peaceful hands in June, I saw thee lie.
A worm crawled o'er thee, and the gossamer
That telegraphs Queen Mab to Oberon,
Lengthening his living message, passed thee by.
But rain fell: and thy strawed blades one by one
Began to stir and stir.


And as some moorland bird
Whom the still hunter's stalking steps have stirred,
When he stands mute, and nothing more is heard,
With slow succession and reluctant art
Grows upward from her bed,
Each move a muffled start,
And thro' the silent autumn covert red
Uplifts a throbbing head
That times the ambushed hunter's thudding heart;
Or as a snow-drop bending low
Beneath a flake of other snow
Thaws to its height when spring winds melt the skies,
And drip by drip doth mete a measured rise;


Or as the eyelids of a child's fair eyes
Lift from her lower lashes slow and pale
To arch the wonder of a fairy tale;
So thro' the western light
I saw thee slowly rearing to thy height.


Then when thou hadst regained thy state,
And while a meadow-spider with three lines
Enschemed thy three tall pillars green,
And made the enchanted air between
Mortal with shining signs,
(For the loud carrion-flies were many and late),


Betwixt thy blades and stems
There fell a hand,
Soft, small and white, and ringed with gold and gems;
And on those stones of price
I saw a proud device,
And words I could not understand.


Idly, one by one,
The knots of anguish came undone,
The fingers stretched as from a cramp of woe,
And sweet and slow
Moved to gracious shapes of rest,
Like a curl of soft pale hair
Drying in the sun.
And then they spread,
And sought a wonted greeting in the air,
And strayed
Between thy blades, and with each blade
As with meeting fingers played
And tresses long and fair.
Then again at placid length it lay,
Stretched as to kisses of accustomed lips;
And again in sudden strain
Sprang, falling clenched with pain,
Till the knuckles white,
Thro' the evening gray,
Whitened and whitened as the snowy tips
Of far hills glimmer thro' the night.
But who shall tell that agony
That beat thee, beat thee into bloody clay
Red as the sards and rubies of the rings;
As when a bird, fast by the fowler's net,
A moment doth forget
His fetters, and with desperate wings
A-sudden springs and falls,
And (while from happy clouds the skylark calls)
Still feebler springs
And fainter falls,
And still untamed upon the gory ground
With failing strength renews his deadly wound?
At length the struggle ceased; and my fixed eye
Perceived that every finger wan
Did quiver like the quivering fan
Of a dying butterfly,
Nor long I watched until
Even the humming in the air was still.
Then I gazed and gazed,
Nor once my aching eyeballs raised
Till a poor bird that had a meadow nest
Came down, and like a shadow ran
Among the shadowy grass.
I followed with mine eyes; and with a strain
Pursued her, till six cubits' length beyond
Thy central sheaf, I found
A sight I could not pass.
The hacked and haggard head
Of a huge war-horse dead.
The evening haze hung o'er him like a breath,
And still in death
He stretched drawn lips of rage that grinned in vain;
A sparrow chirped upon
His wound, and in his dying slaver fed,
Or picked those teeth of stone
That bit with lifeless jaws the purple tongue of pain.


But I remembered that dead hand
I left to trace the childless lark,
And back o'er those six cubits of grass-land,
Blade by blade, and stalk by stalk,
As one doth walk
Who, mindful, counts by dark
Along the garden palings to the gate,
I felt along the vision to where late
There lay that dead hand white;
But now methought that there was something more
Than when I looked before,
And what was more was sweeter than the rest;
As when upon the moony half of night
Aurora lays a living light,
Softer than moonshine, yet more bright.
And as I looked I was aware
Another hand was on the hand,
A smaller hand, more fair
But not more white, as is the warm delight
That curves and curls and coyly glows
About the blushing heart of the white rose
More fair but not more white
Than those broad beauties that expand
And fall, and falling blanch the morning air.


Both hands lay motionless,
The living on the dead. But by and by
The living hand began to move and press
The cold dead flesh, and took its silent way
So often o'er the unrespective clay,
In such long-drawn caress
Of pleading passion, such an ecstacy
Of supplicating touch, that as they lay
So like, so unlike, twined with the fond art
And all the dear delay
And dreadful patience of a desperate heart,
Methought that to the tenement
From which it lately went,
The naked life had come back, and did try
By every gate to enter. While I thought,
With sudden clutch of new intent
The living grasp had caught
The dead compliance. Slowly thro'
The dusky air she raised it, and aloft,
While all her fingers soft
And every starting vein
Tightened as in a rack of pain,
Held it one straining moment fixed and mute,
And let it go.
And with a thud upon the sod,
It fell like falling fruit.


Then there came a cry,
Tearless, bloodless, dry
Of every sap of sorrow but its own-
It had no likeness among living cries;
And to my heart my streaming blood was blown
As if before my eyes
A dead man sprang up dead, and dead fell down.
The carrion-hunting winds that prowl the wold,
Frenzied for prey, sweep in and bear it on,
Far, far and further thro' the shrieking cold,
And still the yelling pack devour it as they run.
And silence, like a want of air,
Was round me, and my sense burned low,
And darkness darkened; and the glow
Of the living hand being gone,
The dead hand showed like a pale stone
Full fathom five
Under a quiet bay.
But still my sight did dive
To reach it where it lay,
And still the night grew dark, and by degrees
The dead thing glimmered with a drownèd light,
As faces seem and sink in depths of darkening seas.
Then, while yet
My set eyes saw it, as the sage doth set
His glass to some dim glimpse afar
That palpitates from mote to star,
It was touched and hid;
Touched and hid, as when a deep sea-weed
Hides some white sea-sorrow. All
My sight uprose, and all my soul
(As one who presses at the pane
When a city show goes by),
Crowded into the fixed eye,
And filled the starting ball.
Nor filled in vain.
I began to feel
The air had something to reveal.
Beyond the blank indifference
Was underlined another sense,
Was rained a gracious influence;
And tho' the darkness was so deep,
I knew it was not wholly dead,
Nor empty, as we feel in sleep
That some one standeth by the bed.
I beheld, as who should look
In trance upon a sealèd book.
I perceived that in a place
The night was lighter, as the face
Of an Indian Queen when love
Draws back the dark blood from her sick
Pale cheek
Behind the sable curtain that doth not move.


No outer light was shed,
But as the mystery
Before my stronger will did slowly yield,
I saw, as in that dark hour before morn
When the shocks of harvest corn
Exhale about the midnight field
The wealth of yellow suns, and breathe a gentle day.
I saw the shape of a fair bended head,
And hair pale streaming long and low
Veiling the face I might not know,
And dabbling all the ground with sweet uncertain woe.
Much I questioned in my mind
Of her form and kind,
But my stern compelling eye
Brought no other answer from the air,
Nor did my rude hand dare
Profane that agony.
I watched apart
With such a sweet awe in my heart
As looks up dumb into the sky
When that goddess, lorn and lone,
Who slew grim winter like a polar bear,
And threw his immemorial white
Upon her granite throne,
Sits all unseen as Death,
Save for the loss of many a hidden star
And for the wintry mystery of her breath,
And at a far-sight that she sees,
Bowed by her great despair,
Bendeth her awful head upon her knees,
And all her wondrous hair
Dishevels golden down the northern night.
At length my weary gaze
Rents: and, haze in haze
Pervolving as in glad release,
I saw each separate shade
Slide from his place and fade,
And all the flowering dark did winter back
Into its undistinguished black.
So the sculptor doth in fancy make
His formèd image in the formless stone,
And while his spells compel,
Can see it there full well,
The ivory kernel in the ivory shell,
But shakes himself and all the god is gone.
Alas!
And have I seen thee but an hour?
And shalt thou never tell
Thy story, oh thou broken flower,
Thou midnight asphodel
Among the battle grass?


Too soon! too soon!
But while I bid thee stay,
Night, like a cloud, dissolves into the day,
And from the city clock I hear the stroke of noon.

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Here Comes The Moon

Everybodys talking up a storm
Act like they dont notice it
But here it is and here it comes . . .
Here comes the moon, the moon, the moon, the moon, the moon.
Impulse always quickens when its full
As it turns my head around me
Yes it does and here it comes
Here comes the moon, the moon, the moon, the moon, the moon.
Gods gift I see thats moving up there into the night . . .
Though dark the mirror in the sky reflects us our light:
Looks like a little brother to the sun
Or mother to the stars at night
And here it is and here it comes
Here comes the moon, the moon, the moon, the moon, the moon.
Breath is always taken when its new
Enhance upon the clouds around it
Yes it is and here it comes
Here comes the moon, the moon, the moon.

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AIP [Ageing In Progress]

Every seasons change, we grow old
Each year that passes by, we wrinkle
Even a rose, it drops its dried petals
Till it’s a bulb, like an old man’s bald

Human life, in each journey, we wonder
How minds think and act as it travels far
To see the unseen beyond the universe
To record, write, picture and mesmerize

As we walk in to the room of change
These desires are constantly spinning
For we’re always in need of new things
Better or greater than we already spent

But sometimes we have favorite things
That’s hard to let it go off of our hands
Like jackets or shoes to wear on and on
Though how old and worn to be thrown

Same as we see ourselves in the mirror
To let go of our youth is just a bit harder
Unlike each seasons they’ll come and go
But years that left us were gone forever

We grow older but our minds still wonder
What we’d forgotten or couldn’t remember
Of what is today or the date that went by
Without knowing our sanity is also fading

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The Soft Parade

When I was back there in seminary school, there was a person there
Who put forth the proposition, that you can petition the lord with prayer
Petition the lord with prayer, petition the lord with prayer
You cannot petition the lord with prayer!
Can you give me sanctuary, I must find a place to hide, a place for me to hide
Can you find me soft asylum, I cant make it anymore, the man is at the door
Peppermint, miniskirts, chocolate candy, champion sax and a girl named sandy
Theres only four ways to get unraveled, one is to sleep and the other is travel, da da
One is a bandit up in the hills, one is to love your neighbor till
His wife gets home
Catacombs, nursery bones, winter women, growing stones
Carrying babies, to the river
Streets and shoes, avenues, leather riders
Selling news, the monk bought lunch
Ha ha, he bought a little, yes, he did, woo!
This is the best part of the trip, this is the trip, the best part
I really like, whatd he say? , yeah!, yeah, right!
Pretty good, huh, huh!, yeah, Im proud to be a part of this number
Successful hills are here to stay, everything must be this way
Gentle streets where people play, welcome to the soft parade
All our lives we sweat and save, building for a shallow grave
Must be something else we say, somehow to defend this place
Everything must be this way, everything must be this way, yeah
The soft parade has now begun, listen to the engines hum
People out to have some fun, a cobra on my left
Leopard on my right, yeah
The deer woman in a silk dress, girls with beads around their necks
Kiss the hunter of the green vest, who has wrestled before
With lions in the night
Out of sight!, the lights are getting brighter
The radio is moaning, calling to the dogs
There are still a few animals, left out in the yard
But its getting harder, to describe sailors, to the underfed
Tropic corridor, tropic treasure
What got us this far, to this mild equator?
We need someone or something new
Something else to get us through, yeah, cmon
Callin on the dogs, callin on the dogs
Oh, its gettin harder, callin on the dogs
Callin in the dogs, callin all the dogs, callin on the gods
You gotta meet me, too late, baby
Slay a few animals, at the crossroads, too late
All in the yard, but its gettin harder, by the crossroads
You gotta meet me, oh, were goin, were goin great
At the edge of town, tropic corridor, tropic treasure
Havin a good time, got to come along, what got us this far
To this mild equator? , outskirts of the city, you and i
We need someone new, somethin new, somethin else to get us through
Better bring your gun, better bring your gun
Tropic corridor, tropic treasure, were gonna ride and have some fun
When all else fails, we can whip the horses eyes
And make them sleep, and cry

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As far as a nuclear weapons-free zone, you know, when the lion lies down with the lamb, and you don't need a new lamb every day to satisfy the lion, then we might have this kind of transformation in the Middle East.

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Rocket scientists agree that we have about reached the limit of our ability to travel in space using chemical rockets. To achieve anything near the speed of light we will need a new energy source and a new propellant. Nuclear fission is not an option.

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Erin

“Come, sing a new song to her here while we listen!'
They cry to her sons who sing;
And one sings: ' Mavourneen, it makes the eyes glisten
To think how the sorrows cling,
Like the clouds on your mountains, wreathing
Their green to a weeping gray! '
And the bard with his passionate breathing
Has no other sweet word to say.

'Come sing a new song!' and their eyes, while they're speaking,
Are dreaming of far-off things;
And their hearts are away for the old words seeking,
Unheeding of him who sings.
But he smiles and sings on, for the sound so slender
Has reached the deep note he knows;
And the heart-poem stirred by the word so tender
Out from the well-spring flows.

And he says in his song: '0 dhtar dheelish! the tearful!
She's ready to laugh when she cries!'
And they sob when they hear: 'Sure she's sad when she's cheerful;
And she smiles with the tears in her eyes!'

And he asks them : What need of new poets to praise her?
Her harpers still sing in the past;
And her first sweet old melodies com fort and raise her
To joys never reached by her last.

What need of new hero, with Brian? or preacher,
With Patrick? or soldier, with Conn?
With her dark Ollamh Fohla, what need of a teacher,
Sage, ruler, and builder in one?

What need of new lovers, with Deirdre and Imer?
With wonders and visions and elves
Sure no need at all has romancer or rhymer,
When the fairies belong to ourselves.

What need of new tongues? O, the Gaelic is clearest,
Like Nature's own voice every word;
'Ahagur! Acushla! SavourneenI' the dearest
The ear of a girl ever heard.

They may talk of new causes! Dhar Dhia .' our old one
Is fresher than ever to-day;
Like Erin's green sod that is steaming to God
The blood it has drunk in the fray.

They have scattered her seed, with her blood and hate in it,
And the harvest has come to her here;
Her crown still remains for the strong heart to win it,
And the hour of acceptance is near.

Through ages of warfare and famine and prison
Her voice and her spirit were free:
But the longest night ends, and her name has uprisen:
The sunburst is red on the sea!

What need of new songs? When his country is singing.
What word has the Poet to say,
But to drink her a toast while the joy-bells are ringing
The dawn of her opening day?
'O Bride of the Sea! may the world know your
As well as it knows your tears!

As your past was for Freedom, so be your hereafter;
And through all your coming years
May no weak race be wronged, and no strong robber feared;
To oppressors grow hateful, to slaves more endeared;
Till the world comes to know that the test of a cause
Is the hatred of tyrants, and Erin's applause!'

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The Flower

When unknown Gods
Planted the seed,
To blossom
In breathtaking colour and scent.
Such beauty we would always need.
But the flower of love
Always came and went.

Don't crush it in your hand
Don't rush it,
Understand.
Every second, every hour
Cherish.
But perish
Will your flower.

Now dried.
And dead in Winter field.
For others
Spring time will be revealed.
As fate does wait
The seeds are cast.
We agonise of Summers past.
To dwell and bathe in sunlit dew.
Where once
Our fragile flower grew.

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Always The Winner

Always the winner, baby.
Youre always the center, baby.
But dont you ever get lonely at night
When the clouds have gone away?
Its always,
Youre showing her the lady,
Always the lady.
Youre full of
Yourself, you know,
Gone crazy.
There was a time when you cared for their hearts,
And the need to show them love was tearing you apart.
But you changed, you know,
Become the star of the show.
Now youve got nothing to give;
Where is the truth you once lived?
Youre just lonely.
Dont you feel lonely?
Turn out the spotlight, Im tired. turn out the spotlight.
My mind will die, lord, Im crying.
Oh, Im to turn my gaze back, lord, to you,
Youre the only one who knows me.
Just mold me back to you.

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The Doctor

the doctor cannot hide her madness
at the patient
who has always been gaining weight
despite the
written prescription for the
strict diet
of vegetables and fruits
and less carbohydrates
with a definite no on smoking
and alcohol
and fats....

the reverse happens
the oily pork beside the chocolate cakes
the coca cola and rum and
Peking duck
goading, and hoarding
and overeating

he knows what he wants
she doesn't
he has always been praying for that quick
and happy death

the grief is too much
all his life he is the scarecrow in the field
the black birds tease him
the children stone him
the locusts have no fear of him
the golden fields have no need of him
the humiliating days are not over

he knows what he wish
the doctor is foolish

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