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E.T.A. Hoffmann

Is it not in the most absolute simplicity that real genius plies its pinions the most wonderfully?

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Truth Resides Not In The World: Stream Of Consciousness

insight beyond opinion facts knowledge true or false is revealed
time corrective sometimes or by direct or indirect revelation from God... where is truth? Truth resides not in the world but with God. Only God knows reveals truth stripping away the mask the stage props falsehoods

of the world only when and as God sees fit. None have absolute insight...
into truth beyond the plans falsehoods manipulations of the present world system of greed and state government global manipulation of facts truth except when God reveals truth to any God may choose as God chooses


Copyright © Terence George Craddock
Original draft stream of consciousness version of ‘Truth Resides Not In The World But With God’. March 13.3.2011 at 1: 12pm.

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Home Is Not Where The Heart Lies

Home is not where the heart lies.
Home is where there are too many sins to name.
Home is where I cry too many times.
Home has no meaning.
Home is where all of my woes lie.
Home has no love for me.
Home makes me sad.
Home I cannot stand.
Home is where I get picked on most.
Home is where I hate most.
Home I wish would disappear.
Home is only adding to more of my troubles.
Home is where all my family hates me.
Home is where my sister won’t leave me alone.
Home is where my step father won’t stop picking on me.
Home is where my mum won’t stop babying me.
Home is no longer home.
Home has too many things to think about.
Home has too many too many troubles.
Home is where I do secrets no-one knows about.
Home is where everyone lies.
Home is not where the heart lies.

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Truth Resides Not In The World But With God

Insight beyond opinion
facts knowledge true
or false is revealed time
corrective realities
or direct or indirect
revelation from God?

Where is truth?
Truth resides
not in the world
but with God.

Only God knows
ultimate truth
reveals truth
stripping away
plywood mask
multiple layers

thin layers
compressed
glued together
at right angles
are laid layers
stage props

falsehoods
stripped away
world shadows
only time when
as divine God
sees deems fit.

None have absolute
insight into truth
beyond plans
falsehoods
manipulations
of plywood present

world system
of greed of state
government
global manipulation
of facts truth
except when God

reveals such truth
to any omnipotent
omnipresent
omnibenevolent
omniscient God
may choose.


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Do Not Mind The Volume, I Do Not Mind It At All Too...

do not criticize me for the quantity
i do not mind, it is the most normal thing that happens
in the ordinariness of my
life,

true, we are weighed, we are not counted,
because the numbers do not matter at all
i know that perfectly
but do not worry, do not make it a problem at all
because it is the most normal even that happens
in the most ordinary day of my life,

i, too long, for the One,
the God of Quality, the One that perhaps the whole of this
galaxy shall seek and
worship and hence cannot ever forget

but honestly, what is the use of the One
when you do not allow me to speak my Mind anymore?
what is the use of those streams of
consciousness
if in the last years of my life
i shall offer you only a single line

must it sound to be the best
epitaph of the
Tutankhamen Tomb?

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Not Even the Obvious Shelters Can Protect Those Afraid

It is not easy,
Being the one deceived.
Or having that done,
By more than one.
But once that is known...
The flight from it,
Can bring one a happiness.
When it is realized,
How many have accepted it.
Without comprehending...
The participants and the depth of it!

It is not easy,
Discovering the truth.
When so many deny that it exists.
Afterall...
Aren't beliefs based on non-fiction?
How can so many,
Live addicted to fiction?
But it has been done!
And to awaken from delusions,
Can stun anyone!

And this stunning when it comes...
Many will attempt to shun!
However...
This is 'reality'.
There regardless...
Who decides from it to run!

And those who were taunted,
By those who flaunted lives of lies...
Are not the ones trying to disguise,
The gloom that appears in their eyes!
A consciousness that has arrived,
Is there openly to see.
And not stunted behind masquerades...
By those in fear,
Seeking somewhere to hide!
Or somewhere to cloak,
Unspoken feelings felt inside.

These are the days,
Bare neccesities are craved.
And yet egos in self praise...
Are the ones finding the most discomfort.

But truth never hides,
Or provides charades!
Not even the obvious shelters,
Can protect those afraid!

'This is the dawning of the Age of Reality.
The Age of Re-al-ity.
Ree-al-ity!
Harmony and understanding...
And so forth and so on it goes!
And where it stops?
Nobody knows! '

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Patrick White

Not Even The Light

Not even the light of the stars
shining like the keys to the ancient love-letters
bound among the secret jewels
of the queen of heaven
penetrates me as deeply as you do.

The planet wheels into the night
bearing its burden of humans
murdering each other
to enforce one state of ignorance
upon another
as the rabid bees
strafe the demented flowers
on the far side of the world
for enriching their radioactive pollen,
convinced in their madness
more honey than blood will flow from the wound.

I walk by myself
along the brittle banks of a frozen stream
among the detonations of the cattails
waiting like Napoleonic cannoneers
to stoke the charge of the next volley.

The snow in the sunset
is stained a spectral apricot
that disappears like breath on a cold window
and the sky is vast with my insignificance.
Two or three decades of life left,
if I'm lucky,
and though I have tried to use my time
to leave a gift for someone I will never meet,
long ago I realized
there is no way of assessing
what they will find
after the coffin closes like an eyelid
on this long, dark, radiant brevity
that once shone like the moon
in the ores of my blood.

Like the wandering of this rivulet
my heart has always been
a pilgrim without a shrine
and the direction of prayer has encompassed all
like a man getting up off his knees
and walking through an open door
to drink from the cup of his lover
in the shadows of the autumn willow
that sways like kite-tails
from the flights of fire
she ignites among the stars
that gather in the dark like strangers
before their own ghosts.

What the wind
has torn away from me like apple-bloom,
like poems, like smoke and leaf, like skies,
like tears and blood and faith
it has replaced
with these deeper revelations of you
that hang like a windfall of scarlet bells
from the branch of a dead tree in winter.

The wine of your life and light
has matured in the ferocious crucibles of the sun
and you have been poured out
like the passion of a sword
to cleave the stone of my heart
with these truant rivers of wounded silver
that flow through me like blood.

A young breeze
tries to hone the edge of its blade
on the rising moon
as a black ribbon of water
runs like a snake of oil
between the enclosing jaws
and cataracts of ice,
tiny wavelets scaling its skin
scintillant with the small commotions of stars overhead.
The bush wolves
have been nosing for muskrat
and you can almost taste the steam
rising from hot meat on the air.

I squeak like a pulley through the virgin snow,
following the banks of my own meandering,
owing nothing of myself to anyone,
wholly my own solitude,
as I pass through the gates
of the enclosing darkness
trying to enter the abyss and the mystery
of what I have lived so precariously
over the last sixty-three years,
what it means, if anything,
to be a human among these paper birches
on an island in the stream,
looking up at the intimate unattainability
of the stars,
knowing you are growing old,
that death is more populous with friends
than life, that love
has sloughed you so many times
like a viper's skin,
like the phases of the moon,
like a shrine of smoke and ashes,
that the phoenix hesitates
to robe itself in the full glory
of its former plumes of fire.

My mother will die soon.
I must say it,
voice it in my blood
to be able to bear it
and my children are clouds in the world
that no longer look for their reflections
in the eyes of the lake they arose from
as if they were merely breathed out.

And how in any god's name
can a man define the absence
he has grown to be,
except he standardize his own spinal cord
as the only measure of loss
he has to go by?
And even after
all the millennia of my walking,
standing up,
I'm still only six feet closer to the stars
though my mind can embody all of space
in a solitary thought.

And the deep, inner silence
in the empty throne-room of my heart
where even the most profound events of my life
are seen to be ultimately no more
than the antics of a jester
playing with shadows,
turns out after all to be
just another mode of weeping.

It takes a lifetime
for a dropp of water
to gather the courage to fall
from the tip of a blade of stargrass,
and the tongue has tears
the eyes know nothing of.
I admire the cool crimson
on the brushes of the ground willow
as they try to catch my likeness
on the ice-primed canvas of the snow,
but suggest
to portray me as I lived
they need to be loaded with blood not paint.

Like the moon
I have worn the same blossom
as a face
for years now
and I still don't know the fruit
that ripens beneath it;
whether my life has sweetened
in orchards of light,
or black dwarf of the forbidden apple
on a dead tree,
I taste like a full eclipse.

And what could it change even if I did know?
When the diaspora of my starseed
breaks bread
at a harvest of thorns;
who is the host
and who is the guest
and who asks for a menu?

And no matter how far from home
the journey takes him,
whether down a dead-end alley
or further than the stars
was there ever a man
who didn't walk to his own funeral
like a bell
looking for any beginning
that might not be lost in the end?
Or does the snake
that takes its tail in its mouth
as a gesture of eternity
eventually end up swallowing
its own head
like this stream before me
making its way to the sea?

I stepped across a star sill
through a vertical door into life
and in the leaving of it
I shall knock from the inside
on a door that's horizontal
to continue my descent toward earth
down a ladder of thresholds;
and what began so earnestly
among family and friends and lovers
will be concluded by a stranger
who will wear my name like a gravestone.

But here among the tangle
of these fallen trees, their roots
fleshed out
and washed like a corpse
by the water and the snow,
Venus peers through the fingers
of the branches above
where two crows have paired
like quotation marks
around the hearsay of the night
though I am left speechless
by the random beauty of the scene,
as if my voice had been released like a bird
into its own most intimate, inward vision
and that vision were everywhere you like the sky
it disappears into like I do
everytime my heart is opened
like one of the lockets of time
and I stare into your eyes
and the universe stares back
as you breathe out the night with all of its stars
and then I breathe you in
just as a golden feather of the moon
lands without a ripple
or unravelling wake
on the mirror of these lonely, black waters
I have followed deep into the darkness
like the urgent secret of my own lifestream,
and I know it's you. I know it's you.

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Patrick White

Not With The Eye, But Through It

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Do Not Envy The Moon

do not envy the moon
the lady of the night
adored by the stars
on a red carpet by
spurts of meteors

we have taken a closer look
it has ugly craters too.

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These Are Not Yet the Days of Summer

Warm.
Sticky.
And thick...
With humidity!
And you?
Do you have a cool box,
To go into?
How are you enjoying your heat?
And these are not yet,
The days of Summer!

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That is not on the earth.

Out beyond the notion of North and South,
Out beyond the idea of right and wrong,
Out beyond the concept of gain and loss,
There is a field which is not on the earth.
04.02.2008

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Not Into The 'What If/Could Be' Business

Leave what 'is' to be...
As it is!

That which isn't?
Why is that discussed...
If it has not touched upon us?

You can fill 'your' head up with that 'stuff'.
But I am not into the 'what if/could be' business!

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Emily Dickinson

The Flower must not blame the Bee

206

The Flower must not blame the Bee—
That seeketh his felicity
Too often at her door—

But teach the Footman from Vevay—
Mistress is "not at home"—to say—
To people—any more!

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The now will not mar the then

The taste you are getting
Will not mar the one you have had.
The love you are experiencing
Will not kill the one you have had.
The pleasure you feel
Will not spoil the one you have had.
My teenage love is still green.
21.09.2006

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Speak Shall I Not When The Night Deepens

the night deepens
burying me ten fathoms more
without the stars
i take courage in my silence
speak i not
till the sun comes
till the flowers bloom again
i speak not
of my own sorrow
even to hear them
must i not
for it is mine alone.

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She Did Not See The Lilacs When They Bloomed One Summer

in the past sense of my words
she had not seen the lilacs when they once bloomed in her garden
i swear they are so beautiful hanging on their stalks surrounded by their heart
shaped leaves
like a bouquet offering of spring
for the first rain

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I Could Not Write The Poem I Dreamed

I COULD NOT WRITE THE POEM I DREAMED

I could not write the poem I dreamed
I wrote the poem I am -
A minor poet? No poet all?
Only what I can-

No one cares and no one reads
And no one knows my name
Yet I continue writing my words
And playing my happy small game.

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I could not among the misty clouds

I could not among the misty clouds
Your unstable and painful image catch,
'Oh, my God', I promptly said aloud,
Having not a thought these words to fetch.

As a bird -- an immense bird and sound --
Holly Name flew out of my chest.
And ahead the mist mysterious crowds,
And the empty cage behind me rests.

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Let's Not Play The Game

[1] - So if this is you
Here's what you should do
Don't even come up
Don't even say stuff
You know it ain't true
Baby what's the use
Let's not play the game

She used to be the dreams I'd dreamed of
The air that I breathe
The words I speak of
But in reality the girl was out for gold

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I Do Not Fear The Earth

I do not fear the earth
But praise its industry
I do not fear the sun
It does not fear me
I do not fear the stars
Their distance is my protector
I do not fear the moon
At my blood it pulls
I have no time to fear
What is greater then me
Praise be the earth, the sun
The stars and the moon
I shall see you soon

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The World Does Not Know The Way Out Of Its Own Death

The world does not know the way out of its own Death-
Nothing can stop it-
It may take a long time
Longer than we will be here to see
But nothing can stop it-

The world does not know the way out of its own death
Nothing does-

Its all going to be gone
Goodbye or no goodbye-

And neither you nor I
Can stop it.

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