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Imaginary evils are incurable.

quote by Marie von Ebner-Eschenbach
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“Mathew” 6: 9-13

“our father in heaven”
(ode to the man who has children,
sitting around in an imaginary
place envied by other members
of the brainwashed)

“hallowed be your name”
(the sheep that baaaaa in unison
believe that there is a sound made
by all the simultaneous crying in
desperation which has then been
construed as a “name” then given
to the imaginary listener in said
imaginary place)

“your kingdom come”
(evidently, this wondrous trailer
park in the sky is something that is
supposed to be open to anyone sad
enough to submit their will to the pool
of simultaneous sheep baaaaa ing away
at the wall in hopes that the imaginary
listener in this imaginary place will
say something back)

“your will be done”
(those committed to baaaaa ing & to the
spread of this act of yelling to the sky in
hopes that said imaginary listener in said
imaginary trailer park will say something
back, wrote a lot of their babbling fiction
down & apparently there is where the aspiring
brainwashed can find the how to manual
for walking on four legs, growing a thick
coat of bustling hair & chewing grass)

“on earth as it is in heaven”
(and once you drink the kool aid, there is
no going back according to the sheep
gazing at the stars, baaaaa ing in unison
hoping for the trailer park in the sky
where they can continue to baaaaa
together, grow their coats together &
chew grass together obliviously)

“give us this day our daily bread”
(baaaaa ing loud enough at the sky is
supposed to bring 3 square meals back to
the sheep who have done so, because
after having created an imaginary listener

[...] Read more

poem by Andrew Delapruch
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My imaginary friend

My imaginary friend
Has got brown eyes
And brown hair
My imaginary friend
Is as cuddly
As polo bear
My imaginary friend
Is playful and kind
My imaginary friend
Has got a big mind
My imaginary friend
Is complete with care
My imaginary friend
Knows how to share
My imaginary friend
Is my sweetheart
My imaginary friend
Likes so much art
My imaginary friend
Is really fun
The truth is
I don’t have imaginary friend
All of this is my mum

M.Reka 2006

poem by Marinela Reka
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Imaginary Diva

Late last night I had a dream
And it was then I seen her
She didnt need no diamond rings
Fancy cars, versace things to please her
Shes my perfect girl
And I call her my imaginary diva
Every girl she passes by
Just cant deny that they would love to be her
All the guys comparing sizes
Tucking shirts in, fixing ties to please her
Shes my perfect girl
Exclusive to my world
No you cant get her
Shes my imaginary diva
Shine on imaginary diva
Shine on into this world
Join us in our imagination
Help yourself believe in all you have heard
All you have to do is close your eyes
Forget real life and fantasies
Erase bad thoughts start to replace
Create your own amazing place
Shes a real time girl
In my imaginary world
Take a good look at her
Shes my imaginary diva
Shine on imaginary diva
Shine on into this world
Join us in our imagination
Help yourself believe in all you have heard
So listen up this so called classy ladys
Sipping fizz in vip bars
She could teach a thing or to
To you, your outfit, attitude and visa
Shes my imaginary diva
Shine on imaginary diva
Shine on into this world
Join us in our imagination
Help yourself believe in all you have heard

song performed by Westlife
Added by Lucian Velea
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Imaginary

The imaginary power takes over the world, and the people in it.
Making minute things important, and important things unnecessary.
And so the world turns.

The imaginary status places and artificial happiness over the world, and the people in it.
Creating avoidable conflicts to arise at new magnitudes.
And so the world turns.

The imaginary wealth controls the world, and the people in it.
Presenting new desirable ideas to replace the already insufficient ones.
And so the world turns.

The imaginary need drives selfishness in the world, and the people in it.
Allowing happiness, fear, and lust to lead their lives.
And so the world turns.

This world is unfortunately not imaginary,
Going day to day with imaginary things at the center of the lives of all.
Soon the world will no longer turn.

poem by Kaitlin Schmidt
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The Scripture of the Golden Eternity

1
Did I create that sky? Yes, for, if it was anything other than a conception in my mind I wouldnt have said 'Sky'-That is why I am the golden eternity. There are not two of us here, reader and writer, but one, one golden eternity, One-Which-It-Is, That-Which- Everything-Is.

2
The awakened Buddha to show the way, the chosen Messiah to die in the degradation of sentience, is the golden eternity. One that is what is, the golden eternity, or, God, or, Tathagata-the name. The Named One. The human God. Sentient Godhood. Animate Divine. The Deified One. The Verified One. The Free One. The Liberator. The Still One. The settled One. The Established One. Golden Eternity. All is Well. The Empty One. The Ready One. The Quitter. The Sitter. The Justified One. The Happy One.

3
That sky, if it was anything other than an illusion of my mortal mind I wouldnt have said 'that sky.' Thus I made that sky, I am the golden eternity. I am Mortal Golden Eternity.

4
I was awakened to show the way, chosen to die in the degradation of life, because I am Mortal Golden Eternity.

5
I am the golden eternity in mortal animate form.

6
Strictly speaking, there is no me, because all is emptiness. I am empty, I am non-existent. All is bliss.

7
This truth law has no more reality than the world.

8
You are the golden eternity because there is no me and no you, only one golden eternity.

9
The Realizer. Entertain no imaginations whatever, for the thing is a no-thing. Knowing this then is Human Godhood.

10
This world is the movie of what everything is, it is one movie, made of the same stuff throughout, belonging to nobody, which is what everything is.

11
If we were not all the golden eternity we wouldnt be here. Because we are here we cant help being pure. To tell man to be pure on account of the punishing angel that punishes the bad and the rewarding angel that rewards the good would be like telling the water 'Be Wet'-Never the less, all things depend on supreme reality, which is already established as the record of Karma earned-fate.

12
God is not outside us but is just us, the living and the dead, the never-lived and never-died. That we should learn it only now, is supreme reality, it was written a long time ago in the archives of universal mind, it is already done, there's no more to do.

13
This is the knowledge that sees the golden eternity in all things, which is us, you, me, and which is no longer us, you, me.

14
What name shall we give it which hath no name, the common eternal matter of the mind? If we were to call it essence, some might think it meant perfume, or gold, or honey. It is not even mind. It is not even discussible, groupable into words; it is not even endless, in fact it is not even mysterious or inscrutably inexplicable; it is what is; it is that; it is this. We could easily call the golden eternity 'This.' But 'what's in a name?' asked Shakespeare. The golden eternity by another name would be as sweet. A Tathagata, a God, a Buddha by another name, an Allah, a Sri Krishna, a Coyote, a Brahma, a Mazda, a Messiah, an Amida, an Aremedeia, a Maitreya, a Palalakonuh, 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 would be as sweet. The golden eternity is X, the golden eternity is A, the golden eternity is /\, the golden eternity is O, the golden eternity is [ ], the golden eternity is t-h-e-g-o-l-d-e-n-e-t-e-r- n-i-t-y. In the beginning was the word; before the beginning, in the beginningless infinite neverendingness, was the essence. Both the word 'god' and the essence of the word, are emptiness. The form of emptiness which is emptiness having taken the form of form, is what you see and hear and feel right now, and what you taste and smell and think as you read this. Wait awhile, close your eyes, let your breathing stop three seconds or so, listen to the inside silence in the womb of the world, let your hands and nerve-ends drop, re-recognize the bliss you forgot, the emptiness and essence and ecstasy of ever having been and ever to be the golden eternity. This is the lesson you forgot.

15
The lesson was taught long ago in the other world systems that have naturally changed into the empty and awake, and are here now smiling in our smile and scowling in our scowl. It is only like the golden eternity pretending to be smiling and scowling to itself; like a ripple on the smooth ocean of knowing. The fate of humanity is to vanish into the golden eternity, return pouring into its hands which are not hands. The navel shall receive, invert, and take back what'd issued forth; the ring of flesh shall close; the personalities of long dead heroes are blank dirt.

16
The point is we're waiting, not how comfortable we are while waiting. Paleolithic man waited by caves for the realization of why he was there, and hunted; modern men wait in beautified homes and try to forget death and birth. We're waiting for the realization that this is the golden eternity.

17
It came on time.

[...] Read more

poem by Jack Kerouac
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I Heard The Roar On Maha-shivaratri

I heard the bum bum Bhole on Maha Shiva Ratri
Herd of kanwarias sing and dance their hymns play,
And wild and sweet the roar repeat
Of happiness in the nation, destruction of evils in men.

Mesmerized, I brood, as the morning had come,
To offer the holy waters on the divine Shiva Linga
Devotes had marched along the unbroken hymns
Of happiness in the nation, destruction of evils in men.

But in despair I shook my head:
‘There is no happiness in my nation, ’ I cried
‘For hate and depression is high, and laughs at the hymns
Of happiness in the nation, destruction of evils in men.

Then read the beads more lost and loud:
‘Lord Shiva is still there looking at all our deeds;
The evil will be destroyed, the goodness prevail,
Of happiness in the nation, destruction of evils in men.

Kanwarias ringing, singing all through their way,
The nation awakened from night to day
Mighty Tandava, a roar, a chant sublime,
Of happiness in the nation, destruction of evils in men.

poem by Dr. Yogesh Sharma
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Samson Agonistes (excerpts)

[Samson's Opening Speech]
A little onward lend thy guiding hand
To these dark steps, a little further on;
For yonder bank hath choice of sun or shade,
There I am wont to sit, when any chance
Relieves me from my task of servile toil,
Daily in the common prison else enjoin'd me,
Where I a prisoner chain'd, scarce freely draw
The air imprison'd also, close and damp,
Unwholesome draught: but here I feel amends,
The breath of Heav'n fresh-blowing, pure and sweet,
With day-spring born; here leave me to respire.
This day a solemn feast the people hold
To Dagon, their sea-idol, and forbid
Laborious works; unwillingly this rest
Their superstition yields me; hence with leave
Retiring from the popular noise, I seek
This unfrequented place to find some ease;
Ease to the body some, none to the mind
From restless thoughts, that like a deadly swarm
Of hornets arm'd, no sooner found alone,
But rush upon me thronging, and present
Times past, what once I was, and what am now.
O wherefore was my birth from Heaven foretold
Twice by an angel, who at last in sight
Of both my parents all in flames ascended
From off the altar, where an off'ring burn'd,
As in a fiery column charioting
His godlike presence, and from some great act
Of benefit reveal'd to Abraham's race?
Why was my breeding order'd and prescrib'd
As of a person separate to God,
Design'd for great exploits; if I must die
Betray'd, captiv'd, and both my eyes put out,
Made of my enemies the scorn and gaze;
To grind in brazen fetters under task
With this Heav'n-gifted strength? O glorious strength
Put to the labour of a beast, debas'd
Lower than bondslave! Promise was that I
Should Israel from Philistian yoke deliver;
Ask for this great deliverer now, and find him
Eyeless in Gaza at the mill with slaves,
Himself in bonds under Philistian yoke.
Yet stay, let me not rashly call in doubt
Divine prediction; what if all foretold
Had been fulfill'd but through mine own default,
Whom have I to complain of but myself?
Who this high gift of strength committed to me,
In what part lodg'd, how easily bereft me,
Under the seal of silence could not keep,

[...] Read more

poem by John Milton
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Though imaginary…

Equator is an imaginary line
Around which I build the geography.
Solar signs are imaginary divisions
Around which I build the astrology.
God is an imaginary figure
Around which I build the religion.
What, if your love of me is imaginary?
Let me write volumes about you and our love.
16.12.2008

poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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Dancehall

You could lose your mind
easier than you would like to think
your best friend could up and leave you
playing tricks and cold deceive you
standing there people stare
let down by your own mind
Day of appreciation
for ways your mind has not yet let you down
the truth is that we will all go
maybe five minutes after the show
you know you are a shooting star
a blazing flash then gone
Are we advancing
or a collapsing visionary
are we really here
are we imaginary
as my thoughts separates
into the many frayed parts
torn shattered bits
my mind falling apart
Are we advancing
or a collapsing visionary
are we really here
are we imaginary
as my thoughts separates
into the many frayed parts
torn shattered bits
my mind falling apart
What if there was such a thing
what if theres such a thing as dependence day
there's no self congratulation
just a day of appreciation
quietly humbly
for things that have not gone wrong
Imagine the frustration
of losing bearing of the simplest thing
so come with your best
and do your worst before
you cant remember what you came for
Are we advancing
or a collapsing visionary
are we really here
are we imaginary
as my thoughts separates
into the many frayed parts
torn shattered bits
my mind falling apart
Blazing out the mains
hungry flames consume all that I see
Are we advancing

[...] Read more

song performed by 311
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Uncle Alvarez

Theres a portrait of uncle alvarez
Hangin in the hall
Nobody wants to look at it
But uncle alvarez sees us all
Oh, oh, oh, imaginary accomplishments
Hey, hey, hey, you visionary guy
You might even shake the hands of presidents
Better send a postcard and keep the family quiet
Hes not really a part cherokee indian
He didnt fight in the civil war
Hes just eugene isaac alvarez
We feel sorry for the wall
Oh, oh, oh, imaginary accomplishments
Hey, hey, hey, you visionary guy
You might even shake the hands of presidents
Youre gonna make em sorry when you die
And its a long way down
Youre hoping for a heart attack
Runnin around
Investing in this and that
And your beautiful wife keeps your life on a shelf for you
Safe in the bedroom
Where theres no dust or mildew
And its hard to believe you were once a beautiful dancer
Better just to shake it off
As you write your resume
Dont think of uncle alvarez
And the price he had to pay
Oh, oh, oh, imaginary accomplishments
Hey, hey, hey, you visionary guy
You might even shake the hands of presidents
Youre gonna make em sorry when you die
Oh, oh, oh, imaginary accomplishments
Hey, hey, hey, you visionary guy
You might even shake the hands of presidents
Better send some money to the alma mater

song performed by Liz Phair
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Oatmeal

I eat oatmeal for breakfast.
I make it on the hot plate and put skimmed milk on it.
I eat it alone.
I am aware it is not good to eat oatmeal alone.
Its consistency is such that is better for your mental health
if somebody eats it with you.
That is why I often think up an imaginary companion to have
breakfast with.
Possibly it is even worse to eat oatmeal with an imaginary
companion.
Nevertheless, yesterday morning, I ate my oatmeal porridge,
as he called it with John Keats.
Keats said I was absolutely right to invite him:
due to its glutinous texture, gluey lumpishness, hint of slime,
and unsual willingness to disintigrate, oatmeal should
not be eaten alone.
He said that in his opinion, however, it is perfectly OK to eat
it with an imaginary companion, and that he himself had
enjoyed memorable porridges with Edmund Spenser and John
Milton.
Even if eating oatmeal with an imaginary companion is not as
wholesome as Keats claims, still, you can learn something
from it.
Yesterday morning, for instance, Keats told me about writing the
"Ode to a Nightingale."
He had a heck of a time finishing it those were his words "Oi 'ad
a 'eck of a toime," he said, more or less, speaking through
his porridge.
He wrote it quickly, on scraps of paper, which he then stuck in his
pocket,
but when he got home he couldn't figure out the order of the stanzas,
and he and a friend spread the papers on a table, and they
made some sense of them, but he isn't sure to this day if
they got it right.
An entire stanza may have slipped into the lining of his jacket
through a hole in his pocket.
He still wonders about the occasional sense of drift between stanzas,
and the way here and there a line will go into the
configuration of a Moslem at prayer, then raise itself up
and peer about, and then lay \ itself down slightly off the mark,
causing the poem to move forward with a reckless, shining wobble.
He said someone told him that later in life Wordsworth heard about
the scraps of paper on the table, and tried shuffling some
stanzas of his own, but only made matters worse.
I would not have known any of this but for my reluctance to eat oatmeal
alone.
When breakfast was over, John recited "To Autumn."
He recited it slowly, with much feeling, and he articulated the words
lovingly, and his odd accent sounded sweet.
He didn't offer the story of writing "To Autumn," I doubt if there

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poem by Galway Kinnell
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Imaginary Dream (so Sweet Yet So Sad)

Into my life you came…unexpectedly
Deep into my heart you entered…unknowingly
In your arms I felt the warmth and comfort…tenderly
Blindly I begun to love you…gradually
You loved me back…predictably
Our life became but bliss…Spontaneously
Just like an imaginary dream so sweet yet so sad…truly

Together we enjoyed all life's joy…peacefully
Somehow we both knew we would be separated…inevitably
Until you left…finally
As time went by I waited for your return…patiently
With the promises you made I looked forward for your return…daily
But distance robbed me of you and your affection melted…suddenly
Little did I realize the wait was in vain…innocently
Our story became but an imaginary dream so sweet yet so sad…truly

At a snap of a finger I awoke to a beautiful nightmare!
Everything was but an imaginary dream, so sweet yet so sad…truly

Despite all this the love in my heart lives…unconditionally
Thus became but an imaginary dream…so sweet yet so sad eventually

poem by Claudia Nkhata
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Exclusively Aloof

You dip in your evils.
While others choose to sneak,
On those who sleep.

You dip in your evils.
While others choose to sneak,
On those who sleep.

There are sneaks and evil people...
Creeping up on people.

But I find that I am,
Exclusively elusive.
And I find that I can be exclusively aloof.
Yes I find that I can be exclusively elusive,
Caring less I'm in the loop.
As you and other people,
Can choose those things you do.

You dip in your evils.
While others choose to sneak,
On those who sleep.

But I find that I am,
Exclusively elusive.
And I find that I can be exclusively aloof.
Caring less I'm in the loop.
As you and other people,
Can choose those things you do.

There are sneaks and evil people.
Creeping up on people.
And I find that I can be exclusively aloof.
Caring less I'm in the loop.
As you and other people,
Can choose those things you do.

Yes I find that I can be exclusively elusive,
And I find that I can be exclusively aloof.
Caring less I'm in the loop.
As you and other people,
Can choose those things you do.

You dip in your evils.
And I find that I am exclusively aloof.
Others creep on people.
Yet I find that I can be exclusively elusive,
Caring less I'm in the loop.
As you and other people,
Choose that what you do.

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Freelanced Delusions

Trite expressions exchanged,
Are as satisfying as scheduled rehearsals...
For an anticipated wedding,
That has no performance date to occur.

Or a sermon heard that is preached,
About the evils of sin.
And the evils of sin are taught to teach,
Over and over again.

A repetition done dawns on the listener,
With a purpose served...
That becomes less effective.
And affects discouragement.

Why can't folks just be upfront?
And be for real.
Instead of killing time...
To appeal to one's mind.

Why can't folks just be upfront?
And confront the truth.
Instead of diluting it...
To soothe with freelanced delusions.

Trite expressions exchanged,
Are as satisfying as scheduled rehearsals...
For an anticipated wedding,
That has no performance date to occur.

Or a sermon heard that is preached,
About the evils of sin.
And the evils of sin are taught to teach,
Over and over again.

Why can't folks just be upfront?
And be for real.
Instead of killing time...
To appeal to one's mind.

And why can't folks just be upfront?
With a confronting of the truth.
Instead of diluting it,
To soothe with freelanced delusions.

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Riding Hard On Their Backs

Charading people under steeples,
On their knees praying to keep...
Things!
And their bling.
Don't know that they have reaped,
Deep ditches to reach out...
To be forgiven for their hypocrisies.

And you can't tell them that they pray,
To keep their evils.
They will attack you 'cause they don't believe that.

And you can't tell them that they pray,
To keep their evils.
They will attack you 'cause they don't believe that.
Although those demons seen are riding hard on their backs.

Charading people under steeples,
On their knees praying to keep...
Things!
And their bling.
Don't know that they have reaped,
Deep ditches to reach out...
To be forgiven for their hypocrisies.

And you can't tell them that they pray,
To keep their evils.
They will attack you 'cause they don't believe that.

And you can't tell them that they pray,
To keep their evils.
They will attack you 'cause they don't believe that.
Although those demons seen are riding hard on their backs.

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Forgive And Forget

Forgive and forget as I've been told
That query keeps coming to my mind
As 'I forgive' is the easiest words for one to say
But to forget, to me it seems like a crime.
To forget the evils that someone has done
Or even the evils or lies that they had spoke
To walk away as they never had accrued
As though to have a nightmare and never to awoke.
When we were young we are taught by our elders
To forgive the trespasses against us one and all
We must forget the pain and suffering that we felt
And must lock that away behind our own brick wall.
The lies and the evils that were done to us,
Even by friends and the ones who we had loved
We must then say that I forgive you one and all
And to some, that forgiveness is not even enough.

Forgive and forget those words we have heard
Even the bible does speak the same
To forgive the sins that were committed against us all
And so against no one can we ever curse or blame.
Sometimes though it seems like in this life
The wrong doers are always asking to forgive and forget
And then the moment that you smile and accept their request
They attack you, and they feel no sadness or regret.
Forgiving sometimes it is so very hard to do
And then to forget that person of their evil deeds
While trying not to remember what they have done to you
While wishing in them, you once again could believe.
Now as I think about my very own past
Of all the wrongs and evil deeds to me I must accept
I read that forgiveness is mine so said the Lord
So now I toss the evils done to me off to forgive and forget.

Randy L. McClave

poem by Randy McClave
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The Task: Book VI. -- The Winter Walk at Noon

There is in souls a sympathy with sounds;
And as the mind is pitch’d the ear is pleased
With melting airs, or martial, brisk, or grave:
Some chord in unison with what we hear
Is touch’d within us, and the heart replies.
How soft the music of those village bells,
Falling at intervals upon the ear
In cadence sweet, now dying all away,
Now pealing loud again, and louder still,
Clear and sonorous, as the gale comes on!
With easy force it opens all the cells
Where Memory slept. Wherever I have heard
A kindred melody, the scene recurs,
And with it all its pleasures and its pains.
Such comprehensive views the spirit takes,
That in a few short moments I retrace
(As in a map the voyager his course)
The windings of my way through many years.
Short as in retrospect the journey seems,
It seem’d not always short; the rugged path,
And prospect oft so dreary and forlorn,
Moved many a sigh at its disheartening length.
Yet, feeling present evils, while the past
Faintly impress the mind, or not at all,
How readily we wish time spent revoked,
That we might try the ground again, where once
(Through inexperience, as we now perceive)
We miss’d that happiness we might have found!
Some friend is gone, perhaps his son’s best friend,
A father, whose authority, in show
When most severe, and mustering all its force,
Was but the graver countenance of love:
Whose favour, like the clouds of spring, might lower,
And utter now and then an awful voice,
But had a blessing in its darkest frown,
Threatening at once and nourishing the plant.
We loved, but not enough, the gentle hand
That rear’d us. At a thoughtless age, allured
By every gilded folly, we renounced
His sheltering side, and wilfully forewent
That converse, which we now in vain regret.
How gladly would the man recall to life
The boy’s neglected sire! a mother too,
That softer friend, perhaps more gladly still,
Might he demand them at the gates of death.
Sorrow has, since they went, subdued and tamed
The playful humour; he could now endure
(Himself grown sober in the vale of tears)
And feel a parent’s presence no restraint.
But not to understand a treasure’s worth

[...] Read more

poem by William Cowper
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Real And Unreal...

in the imaginary garden
the real toads are croaking
in that imaginary room
a real person is
thinking
in that imaginary thought
some real things
are broken.

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Soliloquy #3, On Imagination

so i may not be flushed out from the system
like any fecal matter
i comply with what you ask of me
i am now a flower
and behind me are blue clouds
and on my stalks
are leaves

no thorns, no worms
for you do not like them

now it is your time to love me and keep me
forever
you must pretend that you are not a worm
that you are not a relative of the thorn

now it is your time to become a bee
now you must buzz around this garden in our minds
now you must pollinate me

it is all in the imagination
imaginary bee imaginary flower
how perfect can our imaginary world become!

kiss me in my imagination
shape your thoughts like the lips of a lover
now all too hungry for my love

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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I Feel the Joy

There is a day in the night
Within beautiful seeing
With the moon close and bright
In our heart times being
Every hour is staying
To times in night falling
As the wind outside´s playing
To the night and dark calling

I feel the joy within me
Where imaginary landscapes go
With the wings of heaven free
In the moonlight hours glow

Every depth has its touch
With its hours of purple sky
In the glow of heaven’s torch
As the nightfall again dies

(Chorus)
I feel the joy within me
Where imaginary landscapes go
With the wings of heaven free
In the moonlight hours glow

Nights and days are everything
In our finds and our waking
Every joy to the inside bring
With the colors of nature making

Every hour is staying
To times in night falling
As the wind outside´s playing
To the night and dark calling

(Chorus)
I feel the joy within me
Where imaginary landscapes go
With the wings of heaven free
In the moonlight hours glow

I feel the joy…

poem by Peter S. Quinn
Added by Poetry Lover
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