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I like Frenchmen very much, because even when they insult you they do it so nicely.

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Even When They Have Been Teased

There are people everywhere,
Caring less they are sinking fast...
Into thick quicksand.
There are those who stand by,
Offering a helping hand...
But they are being demeaned.
It seems those who have come,
To rescue some,
Are being taunted by the ones
Who still want to flaunt their delusions.
And hold onto things that keep them sinking!

And prayers to free and release them...
Those in this fix,
Have been dismissed.
Since the others with faith,
And making gestures to save them...
Were the same 'outcasts' not invited,
To the last social ball!
That kind of sickness should appall them all!
But it doesn't.

The ones who sink...
Prefer those of status and name recognition,
To reach out with lifelines to assist in their survival!
And as they sink fast,
Those observing this...
Are deeply saddened by the ignorance displayed!
But this scene does not keep them dismayed.
They will always choose to dance in Sun!
Even when they have been teased,
To blindly leap into disaster!

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Even When I'm Sad

Even when I'm sad,
I smile.
My two front teeth are more
shall we say developed
than my others,
but i don't mind too much.
My smile is unique, and defined,
I shouldn't mind.
Right now I do,
because even when I'm sad,
I smile.

When I'm mad,
I smile.
My personality is so flawed
I can only be enraged until
sarcasm comes in spite of
how bad the situation may be.
It's not the worst thing about me.
But right now it is,
it's too deceiving to smile
when I'm mad.

When I'm bored,
I smile.
Maybe it's because
I like to be alone sometimes,
to enjoy the presence of oneself,
I like to think alone,
and my own thoughts make me laugh,
But isn't it silly to smile
when I'm doing nothing?

When I'm on the stupid pot,
I smile.
Why, why, why?

If someone slapped me,
would I smile?
If someone left me to the vulchures,
would I smile?
If my best friend died,
would I smile?
If I ran over a dog,
would I smile?

I wish I had control over my own face's muscles.
Because even when I smile, I'm still sad.

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Men never like to ask for directions
even when they are lost.
They'd rather try to find their own way
no matter how much it may cost.

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Gina Lollobrigida

Popularity has a bright side, it unlocks many doors. But the truth is that I don't like it very much because it changes the private life into a very small thing.

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When I see you

When I see you, I love you
I saw you with your friends
But you never saw me.

When I see you, the world ain't there
I only see you and me
That smile of yours makes me melt.

When I see you, I feel special
Because you looked my way
And I felt noticed.

When I see you, it's just you and me
You make my world light up
I would do anything for you.

When I see you, I have a smile like no other
I get butterflies in my stomach
And the world knows I'm happy

And it's all because of

When I see you

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Even if they are only bringing pain (Novelinee)

(after William Shakespeare)

With the sweet loveliness of a new spring
those eyes as bright as the breaking of morn,
those lips that intimate kisses do bring,
that our true love at a time did forsworn
are some things that mislead in the bright day,
bring them again, even if it’s in vain;
if I may, I am asking you to stay,
let your kisses fall like a storm of rain,
even if they are only bringing pain.

[Reference: “Take, O take those lips away” by William Shakespeare.]

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A smile to remember

the mousy teacher is full of love
with every smile to the children
she throws a challenge; be
the best speller, best artist
best writer, best athlete or simply
the neatest in the class; and it is picked up
with a spirit to please her for
they know it all adds up to a lot of good

her smile drives them to do
the best for themselves
not everybody turns out to be mister
number one but everybody is all too glad
to prove themselves for the mousy teacher
who always throws them a challenge with a smile
a warm smile that sets their heart
ablaze to be her very best
for even when they fail, mousy would smile
and pat them on the back with her comforting
lifting words 'at least you have tried'..

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When they ask me my beloved

When they ask me my beloved,
How can I still love you so strong?
I tell them how can I forget
The only one who gave me the tender love and the strength To fly higher then the skies above
Where my soul always finds his love.
Even if he is gone, i confess
Still my soul flies there to take a rest
From the abject truths of the life
And how people do you want me to forget
Dont you know that once you feel the real love There is nowhere to run away to escape

When they ask me how can I love
The one who destroyed the meaning of love
What can I do when the love itself is selfish and blind
How can I forget the only one
Who raised my soul up
And with him I touched the higher skies
I flied with him to land of the love
There upon behind the blue skies once
And there our souls made love
When you fall there's no place to run to escape love
So I choose the love dough it hurts some times But he is the reason I still survive
Only one who can take me even in my dreams
To the paradise that I cant breath without
Everytime that he comes to my mind
I fly to him there the hidden place on the sky
Where we all lovers meet our love ones there
Even when they are gone!

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When I Hold You In My Arms

When I hold you in my arms
it's a breath of fresh air,
when I hold you in my arms
I forget what's out there,
All those people with their faces
walkin' up the street,
They don't have to say a thing
just look around and you see.
New buildings going up,
old buildings coming down,
New signs going up,
old signs coming down,
You gotta hold onto something in this life.
Well the older generation
they got something to say,
But they better say it fast
or get outta the way.
All those gangsters with their crimes
they make it look so good,
We've been blowing up the planet
just like the old neighbourhood.
New buildings going up,
old buildings coming down,
New signs going up,
old signs coming down,
You gotta hold onto something in this life.
If I only had a heart
it would beat all night for you,
If I only had a heart
I would cry the whole day through,
When I hold you in my arms
it's like a breath of fresh air,
when I hold you in my arms
I forget what's out there.
Old heart's going up,
old heart's coming down,
My feelings going up,
my feelings coming down,
You gotta hold onto someone in this life.
When I hold you in my arms
it's a breath of fresh air.
When I hold you in my arms
I forget what's out there.

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Patrick White

Time To Myself

Time to myself.
The first half hour feels
as if I'm sitting at a bus-stop
waiting for something that's never going to come.
Thoughts like stray threads of hair on my shoulder.
Old love affairs that have gone grey in my absence.
After the last flashflood I scuttled the ark of my heart
on the moon, like a dog far enough into the country
it couldn't find its way home again.
Love's always a mystically unique reality
but the cosmic urgencies of the pain
I endured demonically in the name
of things that were too feeble to believe in,
eventually came to hum like white noise
in the background of a boring curse
where all you could do was dogpaddle
in the flotsam and jetsam of incredible trivia
that floats up to the surface of a shipwreck on the bottom
waiting for the next lifeboat.

No one locks their doors in the country
unless they're living a field away
from a hobby-farm, hillbilly crackhouse
that's been handed down like the story
of a body in a lost housewell somewhere on the property,
so if someone were to step in out of the night,
I wouldn't stand my ground like a ten point, white-tailed buck
on a hill that's been posted against hunting
with grenades, and feel too sure of myself,
but just the same, I'd watch from a distance for awhile.
Like a wolf made shy by intelligence,
I wouldn't come down from the timberline
until I was convinced by the probable concourse of events
there was no bounty on my head
and no judas-goat was pleading in a leg-hold trap.

Sounds brutal when I say it, but not to those
who've been shot at by shepherd moons
trying to cull the pack like asteroids into extinction
whenever it tried to snatch the golden calf by the throat
and bleed it like a rose of transubstantiation in the snow.
The most insane things I've ever done
in a world that specializes in absurdity
I've done for the beauty of the madness
that overtook me like the acids of a Venus fly-trap.

Sometimes love can be a lighthouse on the moon
with no one to give a warning to, it may be a mermaid
but it's been singing the same old song on the rocks too long
and I'm poet enough to go down with the ship
but not as a creature of habit. The scratched guitar
with a warped neck in the corner
that made a benign hobby out of a way of life
that was once the death call of the music
that only endangered species could hear and dance to.

Love needs a wide screen to feature
the wingspans of its emotions so any sky
you might find yourself flying in fits you like skin.
But me? I can see a masterpiece in the paint rag of a parrot.
And there are worlds within worlds within worlds
so unanimously unconcerned with us
they have to read ancient history just to prove
that we exist as an unexplained anomaly
of the cosmic background hiss of radiant annihilation
deconstructing into the echoes of its original inspiration
like birds crying in the throat of a valley
that holds its notes too long
to keep time with the pace and passage of life.

Love's a melodic state of mind with a percussive heartbeat
and no one's ever really missing from the band
on the road like religious icons of democracy,
even when they get homesick for their girlfriends
and the drummer is moved in his heart of hearts
more by paranoia and lust than he is love and music
to end his calling in a bus station with a broken phone,
trying to make sure his girlfriend's there
when he gets home at two in the morning.

Not especially bitter, and only occasionally longing,
but I remember the happy day my Greek chef friend announced
he no longer worshipped at the feet of the great goddess sex,
and died of cancer five months later, and how
even Mahatma Gandhi couldn't pacify the hydra
of his sexual desires by lighting little fires
all around him when he slept on a pyre of women.
Worse than celibacy is abstracting the flesh into a hungry ghost.
To damn the body with the faint praise
of a sin of omission that denigrates its earthly excellence
as an instrument of God in the hands of rank amateurs
trying to weave flying carpets on the loom of a guitar
to add their wavelength of lament to the disappointed stars.

Where the bullet comes to rest
in a cosmic game of Russian roulette
is forensically irrelevant. Who
got it through the heart and who
got it through their head can go on arguing forever
who suffered the deepest death
when the daffodils began behaving like periscopes
intent on torpedoing the love boat
zigzaging through the sealanes of a wolfpack.

Open-armed as the bay of a seaworthy sailor,
I embrace love these days lightly with a kiss
like a ticket in a lottery I'm not expecting to win
but revel in like a Zen poet dancing with the moon
as if he were water, and it was taking its sail down
over the treetops, to stay awhile on his enchanted island
where delusion is not an obstruction to bliss,
and enlightenment isn't anymore of a seer
than the scars of the star that stripmined your eyes are.

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Patrick White

Even When Life Sometimes Seems Like A Black Hole

for Rebekah Genevieve-Dolorese Garland

Even when life sometimes seems like a black hole,
a dark furnace full of the ashes of burnt roses,
it shapes the galaxies into sunflowers and starfish
and it's whirling with stars like a Sufi in rapture.
All my life I've tried so hard not to be afraid of my joy
and at home with my grief like a comfortable chair
that was beginning to take on the same airs as my body.
A holy war of one, carrying the true cross of the sixties
I thought was worth fighting for even long after
I realized I was doomed to dancing to the music
for the rest of the duration. And it's been as true
as Jim Morrison living the afterlife of Arthur Rimbaud
in deserts so desolate even the stars were shy of the darkness.

And I have wept bitterly as the moon went down
like a toxic goat skull into the only wishing well
for light years around, and it seemed, and it's
still dangerous to remember because time doesn't blunt all knives,
I was witnessing an ideological madness, that had
mineralized all the best ideals into fossils, froth
like rabies at its own hydrophobic reflection.
Biting at its own wounds in vengeance upon itself
for the way the water tasted polluted and there was acid rain
in the wavelengths of its tears more venomous than a recluse spider.

I saw how people brought armfuls of poppies and wheat
to lay down on the stairs of the temple in tribute and love
like a sacrifice from the heart they gentled down
upon the grave of a loved one that had died too young
and hoped would return the blood they were missing
as a sign that the roses were mending their severed petals
like eyelids being stitched back by the very thorn
that had made them bleed in the first place.
In a schizzy world, whatever you sacrifice like a lapwing
sooner or later, because everything tends toward its opposite
like twins that weren't anymore separated at birth
than the first and last crescents of the moon,
engenders in the nest of cosmic eggs it's dying to protect
farce and desecration that tar and feather it like an eclipse.

But every once in awhile that comes as often as now,
you meet someone inconceivably shining
in her solitude like light through a mysterious jewel
into one of the sacred weeping pools of the mindstream
and the moon silvers your heart like a sword
you were about to fall upon to save your face the trouble
and you take the hilt and the blade in both your hands
like an autumn equinox that's just bumped into spring
wandering off the beaten path to tend her lunar garden
and you lay it on the waters because choice isn't an option
like the flightfeather of the other wing of the bird
that can't take the measure of the immeasurable wingspan
of these event horizons, transits, zeniths and thresholds
I'm crossing with you like Leo and Virgo
across a heartscape of enlightened taboos
that have been singing to me all these years from a dark wood
like a lucid wavelength hidden in the ore of a particle
that only seemed so when you looked at it from afar,

that drew the sword out of the stone, the star
out of the darkness, the waterlily out of the marsh,
the heart of someone like you out of the nightsky
like a meteor with a panspermic rosary of life at its core
falling on the Fertile Crescent of a habitable planet,
or a whole new universe, with a punk version
of the Garden of Eden where the birds are all listening
to the Ramones, and Eve is raving with Adam in a mosh pit
teeming with infinite permutations and combinations
of love and life, of colour, poetry, light, energy, joy and devotion,
as if we'd both disembarked from these empty lifeboats of the heart
on the shores of this thriving island of stars
where the Milky Way meets the ocean
and all the constellations that travelled this Road of Ghosts
like the long, dark, strange radiant trip it's been
wash the deathmasks off their faces like old myths of origin
from the starcharts of our comets and scars
that have me smiling at you in wonder like this
as if my third eye had just shed its last telescope like a cataract
and I were the mesmerized gaping witness
to the first moonrise of an avatar of dark bliss
studded with the eyes of Isis raising new pyramids
in a desert of stars, as light as feathers, as light
as the crucibles, chrysales and cocoons of the nebulae giving birth
to these poems that break into butterflies of light,
fireflies and dragons that roar like supernovas
across the firmament, waking the valley up
to the morning of a whole new creation
as I firewalk along these oceanic shores with you
like two constellations when their myriad plinths and petals open
and one flower blooms like a bird with two wings
and sings because this universe isn't the shape of an hourglass
with dry oases and creekbeds dreaming
of solar flares behind the mystic veils
of flashfloods of the heart long over overdue,
but in every illuminated detail of the form you've taken
to enter my life, my love, my art, is a perfect likeness of you
that I am created again and again in the image of,
standing in the doorway of this stargate to love
without your metaphors on, so that after all these light years
of looking for you like a star through the eye of a needle
that felt it had seen enough to know when to turn around and go
a firefly like you out of the midnight blue
suddenly comes into view and ignites the air around me like the aura
of a inflammable passion without a fire extinquisher
to put it out because, at long last, as it is above so it is below.

And whether you drink it long and slow, or deep and fast,
or sip like a humming bird from your own skull
there's an oasis at the bottom of the hourglass
that's greening the sands like the grail of a woman
passing it to you like the love potion
of a water sylph of practising astronomical witchcraft,
standing by her well like Circe on her island on the moon
turning a man like a vapour of longing in a desiccated wasteland
into the full-blooded ocean of the black rose she holds
like the sidereal high tide of my life and my love in her hand
as the birds are singing in the roots of dark matter
like the loveletters of a punk band to the psychedelic sixties
and all the trippy, heavy metal flying fish
are swimming like cults of urgent stars
through the thorns and the crowns of the blossoming locust trees.

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Very Much Aware

When I became ill,
And was prepared to die...
I closed my eyes.
Took a breath and sighed.
And when I decided,
My life was done...
I felt 'something'!
And I heard 'someone'!
And 'She' teased and said,
'You may be ready for death...
But 'We've' got more for you instead!
You better get your ass up!
And out of that bed! '

Just like that...
I felt 'Her' smile in my head!
What in the world...?

I could not believe this at all!
I opened my eyes...
And saw lights dance upon the walls!
I began to feel such a change in me.
With a will to live...
And with incredible energy!
I got out of bed and began to exercise.
The doctors and nurses were all quite surprised!
Even I could not explain to them...
What had happened overnight!
I did not know how or where to begin!
Or what I could or could not say to them!

I 'know' there is a God.
And 'spirits' around unseen!
I am a witness to this.
This I did not dream!
And every second of each day...
I give thanks and stay in prayer!
I am here by the grace of God!
And what others believe...
I really do not care!

'Something' is so powerful!
And that 'something' is there!
That 'Something' is collectively called God...
And IT is very much aware!

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Patrick White

Even When The Road Is Missing

Even when the road is missing
like the absence of God, or a woman I love,
I praise that emptiness for the freedom it accords me
to create a way of my own like a river of stars
and for the universe it's left me
like a travelling companion I couldn't improve upon.

The gate shut, the door closed, the window locked,
I slip a key to a poem under the welcome mat
and say my house is your house anytime you call
and then go get drunk with the moon down by the lake.

And after awhile we're laughing at ourselves,
rolling in the leaves like the groundswell
of two happy vagrants with homeless hearts
making off with our lives for free as if
we'd just pulled off some cosmic B and E.
without leaving any sign of culpability behind,
except for the joy of our felicitous crime.

And when my moonboat's in port for repairs
like bedsheets in a backyard fleet of laundry on the line,
I don't mind being land locked for awhile.
I just take a walk along the shore of the lake
and gather moonlit feathers
from the scales of the waves
that have evolved from raptors into swans,
and binding them together
like Daedalus did for Icarus,
take a joy ride into the sun at midnight
not really caring too much about whether
I'm at zenith or nadir as long
as I'm transiting something akin to a threshold.

The sun can hold Venus on a short leash,
and me on the chain of my spine
like a barnyard dog barking at wolves
trying to tempt it deeper into the night
but the last crescent of the moon
will cut right through them both
like the umbilical cords of a new life
where we can both roam free
like rogue planets from star to star.

Empty-handed and full-hearted I come by day
to a low place looking for fire
from the daylilies with a bucket and an urn,
because I'm so tired of what I've had to do
to stay alive for the past fifty years as a serf of poetry
to keep it a calling, instead of a career,
and suffer the consequences of not attending to it
as a business that makes a profit off the stars,
but by night I'm a starling of creosote in a chimney
singing my heart out as if I wanted to eat it
because it has all the virtues of a noble enemy
and there's no poetry or protein in the junkfood of fame,
though I think that might be a trifle ingenuous.

Impoverished Druid, you lean on a crutch for a tree,
as a flying buttress to your sacred folly,
and running out of time to avoid
a head-on collision with eternity
all your devotions the ghosts of yesterday,
you kick the stool from out under your feet
and garotte yourself from the bough of an oak,
like the berry of a single moon of mistletoe
and the last crescent of a golden sickle just out of reach
of the harvest season of the King of the Waxing Year.

Poor heart, what a battered shoe
of a vital organ you've become, a bone box
for the sacred skeletons of hummingbirds and elephants,
a Burgess Shale for the creative fossils and footprints
we both had to evolve through to come to this
inconceivable moment without a time scale
to measure how far it is from then to now
like the last leap of faith of the waterclock of life
into the abyss without a bucket for a safety net
or any deep assurance of even having a bottom anymore
to fall out of the ongoing over the edge of a precipice
as if even the rivers of Eden sometimes
had to seek release from it all and fall
even without a parachute to candle
like an exclamation mark all the way down,
a descent into hell creatively much to be preferred
than stagnating in paradise with nothing but apples to eat.

But still you know you won't do it, given
the number of times now I've come running
with a chair and a rope to let you down
out of the window of a burning building
not knowing whether we were committing suicide
or I was running to your rescue as I always have.

Your daring has always said feathers and falling
has always taken wing like Pegasus before,
and what a wild strange radiant white water ride it's been
across the high unbounded starfields of the shining
with Vega and Deneb goading us on
ever further like spurs of Spanish silver
just you and me, my blood brother, together
in the vastness of a mutual solitude.

My God, when I think of the flights we've taken.
When I think of the things we've seen,
and the orchards of sorrow that found more bliss
in the fruit than they did in the blossom.
And what did we ever write about all those stars
that didn't declare how impossibly illiterate we are
compared to the lyrics of light and time and wonder
they've been singing all these lightyears
since I first opened my eyes to why I'm conceivably here,
though here can be anywhere by now like a bird
that loses its bearing under the stars everytime
it tries to get a fix on where it's going like a photon
jumping orbitals like tree rings in a flash of insight.
When you're light, when you're foolhardily alive
you don't need to pay heed to where you're going
because there isn't a single stage, place, or phase
that isn't the destination of what you're shining up at.

And I never thought the day would ever come
when sadness would sweeten into wisdom enough
to take pity on the mirrors like the eyes under our lifemasks
when we went down to the river to drink
our own reflections like faces from the lifeboat of our hands,
like a rain of mercy far out at sea far from the sight of land,
when we first began to understand how clarity like unity
can be broken down into little pieces of sand
that reflect the whole universe as readily
in their mystic particularity
as the stars and the sun and the moon do
when they lay their swords and feathers
and flying carpets like wavelengths of light
down in tribute to our third eye weeping its way to the sea.

And you were surprised, admit it, weren't you,
to find so many white horses like you running ashore,
mustangs from the waves, to check out the new guy's wings.
And me standing there like an avalanche of winged heels
wondering why I didn't make as big a splash
and if all we walked away with was a detailed starmap
who could say the journey really wasn't worth it?
Let the shore-huggers do what they want with it
to find their way around in the dark like fireflies.
Leave it to them. We were ever explorers
from the beginningless beginning to the endless end,
and we'll rise up again on a gust of stars
caught up like a dust-devil at the crossroads of earth
and ascend on a thermal of the sun, the stairwell
of a star-studded chromosome that could
take a coil of flypaper and turn it into a poem.

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Because I Love Him So Very Much

Rapid movement, rapid ascent-
In proximity, toward our adorement
And its reality, from aspiration-
THIS is due Heavenly Father's Dedication
To His Most Beloved, His Most Highly-Prized
And Faithful, amongst all on Earth; He realized
That, long, long ago of course-now the world sees
The proverbial 'forest for the trees':
NOW, He needed to use His Very Own Hand,
To ensure all is, as He would Command!
Many-both far afield and nigh-
See this all unfold-I am left to ask: 'Why
Father-why me-I am nt deserving of such? '
His succinct reply: 'Because you love Me so very much! '

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Slim Riches

It’s well known that fortune’s never an even thing
When some vertebrates are paperbacks
Thinner than Stephen King
And other spineless, yellow bellies
In need of their square pants
Soak up everything, including a fair chance

Rare stances taken by the very elite
To really give something back, instead of deplete
The earnings and the savings of the ones they call cheap
By waging war until the poor meet their defeat
That deserves a repeat
A toast to the end of poverty
To all those who can’t get a check without an arrest
In forgotten shacks being played like the lottery
And the victims of mockery
Who are broken more than pottery

To the saps that must move in and out of careers
With more soul than James Brown in South Korea
Though they’re used to hearing fairy tales
While being dealt phony
Hands full of quicksand dropped into their bony
Palms that disappear much quicker than alimony
They keep trying to make more cheese than macaroni

-These problems, I didn’t make them and I can’t undo ‘em
Slim riches have got me one step from waking in ditches
My pockets are always empty because money is running through ‘em
Wishes are too expensive to buy with these slim riches

Squeezing every penny like the wheeze of an accordion
When they get the pink slip it’s nowhere near a Freudian
Passing down clothes, lighting candles, four to a bed
Bread for three courses, groceries cutting back
Bus trips to double shifts, bill collector seeing red
Only aid is Band-aid, malnourished & cutting fat

All these measures taken but they’re used up like tissues
Tossed away with boots, newspapers, and other old issues
Or led by a gold carrot carried by a parrot parodying a man
Told they gotta play ball if they want the fame
And spend money they don’t have to eat that first 100 grand
But they don’t have a car to drive to get to the game

So they stay up late nights learning all of the rules
To better provide and put their kids through better schools
In hopes that the future will be an easier ride
So their children can live and not just merely survive

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Never Frown, Even When You're Sad Because You Never Know Who May be Falling in Love With Your Smile

Never frown, when you're sad because you never know who may be falling in love with your smile
Deep inside you know there is someone special to be with
Never change yourself just for guy/girl because there is other fish in the sea
You don't need a boyfriend/girlfriend to be happy because
You have your friends and family
You can be single and happy on your own
When you are single you learned thing you never knew before about yourself
You can be brave and try not to think about it
There are good things about being single or being in love
Don't obsession with a guy/girl who break your heart and just move on
Their other people to be with

Never frown, even when you are sad because you never know who may be falling in love with your smile
You are great person and there is someone for you and everyone else too
We all dervese someone special to be with
Never make yourself look cuter just for one guy/girl because
You know better than that and should just love yourself
You know that someone do love you for who you are
On the other hand, some of us don't need someone to be with because
They have thier friends and family
You can enjoy your life and be happier than before
Right now I am single and
I see what people gone through and I'm not ready for that
I know love is not perfect, but I have a lot of rejection and I'm enjoying all of this
I just want to get take it easy, relax and have fun

Never frown, even when you are sad because you never know who may be falling in love with your smile
You know that you can found someone or they come to you
Don't wait, just take chances and just be crazy for once
Remember there is always other fish in the sea and not just that person who break your heart
You don't need a boyfriend/girfriend to be happy because
You have your friends and family
I know I will miss out on all great things, but
I'm tired of bringing my hopes up
I'm done, being single for now and it tragedy at end
There other things can make me happier than ever
There are good things about being single or being in love
Don't obsession with someone who don't love you
Just remeber the good times you have with them

Never frown, even when you are sad because you never know who may be falling in love with your smile
You are great person and
There is someone for you and everyone else too
We all dervese someone special to be with
Never make yourself look cuter just for one guy/girl because
You know better than that and should just love yourself
You know that someone do love you for who you are
On the hand, some of us don't need someone to be with
They have thier friends and family
You can enjoy your life and be happier than before
Right now I am single and
I see what people gone through and I'm not ready for that
I know love is not perfect, but I have a lot of rejection and I'm enjoying all of this
I just want to get take it easy, relax and have fun
Never frown, even when you are sad because you never know who may be falling in love with your smile

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A Letter From A Friend


Tommorow is my day off.
It's not a busy time now at the office.
So I take one day off a week.
Our busy times are in May, August, and year end.

You know, we used to be superbusy a couple of years ago.
My boss is a workaholic.
He has no other life but his company.
My officemates frequently worked overtime.
I could get away from it because of my children.
Then, maybe, because of overwork, he almost dropped dead!
Since then, medyo nagaan ang among load.

I hope she is feeling better now.
Medicine/Science has progressed a lot these days,
and age is really no longer a big obstacle now to childbearing.
I have a cousin in Australia.
Late pod sila nakaanak.
The problem was with the husband.
Blocked ang tube for sperm cells.
He had laser surgery, after which, nagkababy sila.

So, don't give up hope (nozomi) .

I've been reading your poems.
Whether you call them your lies, empathies, whatever, they all boil down to life's truths.
Life is poetry for you, that's why,
you'll never run out of ideas to write about as long as you live.
I don't understand all of them though - maybe due to lack of empathy on my part or my brain is simply dulled!

You also write beautiful visayan poems!
They made me miss my father - he can be very poetic.
He used to criticize me and my mother that we couldn't speak good Cebuano.
My mother was Chavacana, and
I actually spoke that language first before Cebuano.

You lately write about war,
young men dying in conflicts these days.
Is peace and order getting worse there?
Are there more of summary killings these days?

You wrote about Silliman/ Dumaguete.
A beautiful place. I studied there one year and I loved it there.
You know, I had a bit of colonial mentality,
and to me at that time it felt like
I had a taste of a bit of American life -
square dancing..
.I enjoyed watching stage plays and
cultural shows there.
So I had a school culture shock when
I transferred to UP Los Banos.
There were lots of school demos
and there wasn't much art in their stage plays.
They were more concerned about getting the message across:

'Down with Marcos! ',
'Down with imperialism! '

Goodness, I didn't even truly understand 'imperialism' then.
After some time, I learned to appreciate
the liberal atmosphere there.

I liked 'The songs of the geisha'.
Made me think of the Japayukis here,
rather than the Japanese geisha.

After seeing the cherry blossoms here,
I don't think I can ever associate it
with autumn anymore,
even in the poetic sense

('Cherry blossoms fading and falling') .

It blooms in spring and
the peak of its beauty is only
a couple of days or so.
The petals don't fade
and fall.
They fall while still at the peak of their beauty.
They look beautiful even when they've fallen on the ground,
looking like snow from a distance.
They symbolize glorious death at the peak
of their beauty
That's why the sakura also
symbolizes the kamikaze pilots -
most of them were so young!

I backed track to some of your old poems
and I found that of Kazu!
Thank you, that was nice!
I'll show it to him.

Can't say much about my love being stronger than his. I
'm very far from being an ideal wife.
And no, his origins are not samurai.
He traced it some lowly Korean blacksmiths.
Centuries ago, Korea was more advanced
than Japan, and
Japan invited Korean craftsmen
to learn from them.
Funny thing is that his father is a fierce nationalist
(he was trained to be a kamikaze pilot) ,
and he looks down on Koreans!
He won't even try and eat any Korean food!

So long for now. Please give my regards to her.
Again, I'm not expecting your response.
I'll just be reading your poems.

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The Lark’s Nest

'TRUST only to thyself;' the maxim's sound;
For, tho' life's choicest blessing be a friend,
Friends do not very much abound;
Or, where they happen to be found,
And greatly thou on friendship shouldst depend,
Thou'lt find it will not bear
Much wear and tear;
Nay ! that even kindred, cousin, uncle, brother,
Has each perhaps to mind his own affair;
Attend to thine then; lean not on another.

Esop assures us that the maxim's wise;
And by a tale illustrates his advice:
When April's bright and fickle beams
Saw every feather'd pair
In the green woodlands, or by willowy streams,
Busied in matrimonial schemes;
A Lark, amid the dewy air,
Woo'd, and soon won a favourite fair;
And, in a spot by springing rye protected,
Her labour sometimes shared;
While she, with bents, and wither'd grass collected,
Their humble domicile prepared;
Then, by her duty fix'd, the tender mate
Unwearied prest

Their future progeny beneath her breast;
And little slept, and little ate,
While her gay lover, with a careless heart,
As is the custom of his sex,
Full little recks
The coming family; but like a dart,
From his low homested, with the morning springs;
And far above the floating vapour, sings
At such an height,
That even the shepherd-lad upon the hill,
Hearing his matin note so shrill,
With shaded eyes against the lustre bright,
Scarce sees him twinkling in a flood of light.
But hunger, spite of all her perseverance,
Was one day urgent on his patient bride;
The truant made not his appearance,

That her fond care might be a while supplied,­
So, because hunger will not be denied,
She leaves her nest reluctant; and in haste
But just allows herself to taste,
A dew drop, and a few small seeds­
Ah ! how her fluttering bosom bleeds,
When the dear cradle she had fondly rear'd
All desolate appear'd !
And ranging wide about the field she saw
A setter huge, whose unrelenting jaw
Had crush'd her half-existing young;
Long o'er her ruin'd hopes the mother hung,
And vainly mourn'd,
Ere from the clouds her wanderer return'd:­
Tears justly shed by beauty, who can stand them ?
He heard her plaintive tale with unfeign'd sorrow,

But, as his motto was, 'Nil desperandum,'
Bade her hope better fortune for to-morrow;
Then from the fatal spot afar, they sought
A safer shelter, having bought
Experience, which is always rather dear;
And very near
A grassy headland, in a field of wheat,
They fix'd, with cautious care, their second seat­
But this took time; May was already past,
The white thorn had her silver blossoms cast,
And there the Nightingale, to lovely June,
Her last farewell had sung;
No longer reign'd July's intemperate noon,
And high in heaven the reaper's moon,
A little crescent hung,
Ere from their shells appear'd the plumeless young.

Oh ! then with how much tender care,
The busy pair,
Watch'd and provided for the panting brood !
For then, the vagrant of the air,
Soar'd not to meet the morning star,
But, never from the nestlings far,
Explor'd each furrow, every sod for food;
While his more anxious partner tried
From hostile eyes, the helpless group to hide;
Attempting now, with labouring bill, to guide
The enwreathing bindweed round the nest;
Now joy'd to see the cornflower's azure crest
Above it waving, and the cockle grow,
Or poppies throw
Their scarlet curtains round;
While the more humble children of the ground,

Freak'd pansies, fumitory, pimpernel,
Circled with arras light, the secret cell:­
But who against all evils can provide ?
Hid, and overshadow'd thus, and fortified,
By teasel, and the scabious' thready disk,
Corn-marygold, and thistles; too much risk
The little household still were doom'd to run,
For the same ardent sun,
Whose beams had drawn up many an idle flower,
To fence the lonely bower,
Had by his powerful heat,
Matured the wheat;
And chang'd of hue, it hung its heavy head,
While every rustling gale that blew along
From neighbouring uplands, brought the rustic song
Of harvest merriment: then full of dread,

Lest, not yet fully fledg'd, her race
The reaper's foot might crush, or reaper's dog might trace,
Or village child, too young to reap or bind,
Loitering around, her hidden treasure find;
The mother bird was bent
To move them, e'er the sickle came more near;
And therefore, when for food abroad she went,
(For now her mate again was on the ramble)
She bade her young report what they should hear:
So the next hour they cried, 'They'll all assemble,
'The farmer's neighbours, with the dawn of light,
'Therefore, dear mother, let us move to night.'
'Fear not, my loves,' said she, 'you need not tremble;
'Trust me, if only neighbours are in question,
'Eat what I bring, and spoil not your digestion
'Or sleep, for this.' Next day away she flew,

And that no neighbour came was very true;
But her returning wings the Larklings knew,
And quivering round her, told, their landlord said,
'Why, John ! the reaping must not be delay'd,
'By peep of day to-morrow we'll begin,
'Since now so many of our kin
'Have promis'd us their help to set about it.'
'Still,' quoth the bird, 'I doubt it;
'The corn will stand to-morrow.' So it prov'd;
The morning's dawn arriv'd­but never saw
Or uncle, cousin, brother, or brother-in-law;
And not a reap-hook mov'd !
Then to his son the angry farmer cried,
'Some folks are little known 'till they are tried;
'Who would have thought we had so few well-wishers !
'What ! neither neighbour Dawes, nor cousin Fishers,

'Nor uncle Betts, nor even my brother Delves,
'Will lend an hand, to help us get the corn in ?
'Well then, let you and me, to-morrow morning,
'E'en try what we can do with it ourselves.'
'Nay,' quoth the Lark, ''tis time then to be gone:
'What a man undertakes himself is done.'
Certes, she was a bird of observation;
For very true it is, that none,
Whatever be his station,
Lord of a province, tenant of a mead,
Whether he fill a cottage, or a throne,
Or guard a flock, or guide a nation,
Is very likely to succeed,
Who manages affairs by deputation.

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Patrick White

When Someone Loves You And You're No One

for Kristine Marie

When someone loves you and you're no one,
what happens then? What do you have to give
that they aren't already in full possession of?
The many I have loved have become one woman.
And this is an orchid that blooms in fire at night.
And this is the dove that returns from earth
with a wing like a broken arrow and asks to be healed.

When someone loves you and you're no one,
what happens then? This picture-music flowing
like a carillon of bliss and despair through
my body, heart, mind as if they were all
poured like dragon iron into the casting of the same bell
that yesterday raised like a sword to kill it back into life?
And this is a doorway you can stand in forever
as if you were greeting someone who never comes.
And this is that butterfly among wildflowers
that flutters about like a symbol of the mind
as if it didn't know whose loveletter it is yet.

When someone loves you and you're no one,
what happens then? Do you give them your emptiness?
Do you wrap space around them when they're cold
like a star-studded shawl you asked the night to weave
for someone very special into astrology?
Or do you minutely examine the mystic specifics
of your life as you've known it up to now
and from somewhere in some dark room
way back of the heart, feel the urge to apologize
to the stars for how much their light's been through
for so little? The star labours, and candles are brought forth.
And this is the delirium of a window the moon drinks from.
And this is that jewel of a tear that didn't
make a big splash on the rock like other tears
and by that you know it's a diamond in disguise.

When someone loves you and you're no one,
what happens then? Does the air as now revel
like autumn in a gleeful chaos of images and insights
the wind unravels like leaves in a tantric realm of crazy wisdom?
Do you see a woman coming through a gate
as if she'd lived her whole life among roses and razor-blades?
And she's not asking for rapture, but you're beginning to feel
there's a peony of a supernova in the house of Cancer
waiting to express itself in the beauty of the way
it relinquishes itself like the moon to the waters of earth.
And this is that mysterious spell that beguiles
the expert hunter into baiting his trap with his own heart
hoping it's irresistible to the fox he wants to take it.
And this is that dawn of a new day that arises like
a strange exorcism of everything that's ever possessed you before
as you greet every ghost in passing off the lake
the same as you've always done, the waterbirds.

When someone loves you and you're no one,
what then? You stare as I do at Venus in the sunset
and write long poems that tunnel through mountains
like work trains full of precious ores that glow in the dark
more intensely as it approaches like a lantern from a long way off?
Or is it just another firefly at the end of my nose
casting galactic shadows across the time and space
it takes to behold them in the furthest reaches of my mind?

I sense a gentleness I haven't known before.
I see a beauty that's as easing to the eyes as moonrise.
And the seeds of words that haven't passed between us yet
are already beginning to open their eyelids and flower.
And there's a soft gray blue sky with a scattering of ashes
to honour the dead and give the wind its due
I can see spilling out of the urn of your heart
to make room for the phoenix I am about to give you
as if it were child's play, when I'm with you,
wholly absorbed like light into bread, to rise from the dead
and feel hunger again, to drink from the fountain mouths
of fire again, and desire and long as I once did
and imbibe the wines of life as if I'd never existed before
without cutting my tongue on the taste
or succumbing to the inconceivable as if everything
that followed thereafter were the afterlife of the inevitable.
And this is the era in which you know
you've already tied your blood like a scarlet ribbon
around a gift no one can determine the value of
if she opens it in wonder, haste and love.
And this is the moment you dread the joy of
when death tastes as sweet as birth in the mouth of life
and autumn lives out of the suitcase of all its memoirs
like the blossoms of a manuscript that has come to bear fruit.

I saw you and you were a gazelle at the easel,
painting the moon like a beauty mark on the forehead
of a sacred slave girl dancing naked in the light that released her
like a butterfly in the jaws of a dragon she could awake with a whisper.
I saw you in a gust of stars, and felt the wings and dust devils
sprouting out of my heels to let me ride the thermals of my heart again
as if the long, dark, strange, radiant journey I'd already come
were merely a hair of the way I had yet to go like the sole copy
of a love poem I had committed to the wind so hopelessly
such a long time ago when my solitude could play
the rosey-fingered sea like a musical instrument
that could make the waves sing like mermaids
without a plectrum or a pick or a ship, as long
as there was desire in your fingertips and urgency in your art.

When someone loves you and you're no one,
what then? Let them be everything to you even
if there's no you to be anything to. Pour your emptiness
into hers and fill the cup up to the edge of the moon
and let it spill over with light as if it had a leak in it
bigger than a record harvest in the horn of the moon at full.
I've cut star wheat in a virgin's hand
in a total eclipse of my senses
and touched flesh as if it were fresh bread
cooling on the windowsill of a hungry man
who can taste the light in it like letters from a child hood
far enough away from home to learn to love it again
with a second innocence more indelible than the first.

As for me and my treehouse with open windows,
I shall welcome a songbird on the cusp of Leo
to every branch and rafter of it, or if need be
at sea on the moon, in the event of a storm,
a lifeboat fashioned out of my own bones
to hang on to like the eye of peace in the skull of the dragon
who looks at you and reads you like fireflies on a starchart
delineating a new constellation out of homeless space and time
and a habitable myth of origin for two exiles in love
among the sacred groves of the rootless trees.

With you I have not come to revere the pain and longing
of hungry ghosts hanging on to every blade of grass
like a flag at half mast in a high wind.
I have come to appeal any destiny
that doesn't bear the seal and signage of your heart.
Nor will I ever surrender any sword to your waters
that wasn't first tempered in the translucent fire of diamonds
that feel like a fool of cool water running down your skin
like a spring thaw of the crystal chandeliers
that melted down their spear points into rain,
that dipped their swords in wax
and trimmed the wicks into fuses
and lit them up like Roman candles
such that my eyes and my heart
are still flowering wildly with you in these starfields.

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Richard Brautigan

Part 3 of Trout Fishing in America


The man who owned the bookstore was not magic. He was not a

three-legged crow on the dandelion side of the mountain.

He was, of course, a Jew, a retired merchant seaman

who had been torpedoed in the North Atlantic and floated

there day after day until death did not want him. He had a

young wife, a heart attack, a Volkswagen and a home in

Marin County. He liked the works of George Orwell, Richard

Aldington and Edmund Wilson.

He learned about life at sixteen, first from Dostoevsky

and then from the whores of New Orleans.

The bookstore was a parking lot for used graveyards.

Thousands of graveyards were parked in rows like cars.

Most of the kooks were out of print, and no one wanted to

read them any more and the people who had read the books

had died or forgotten about them, but through the organic

process of music the books had become virgins again. They

wore their ancient copyrights like new maidenheads.

I went to the bookstore in the afternoons after I got off

work, during that terrible year of 1959.

He had a kitchen in the back of the store and he brewed

cups of thick Turkish coffee in a copper pan. I drank coffee

and read old books and waited for the year to end. He had a

small room above the kitchen.

It looked down on the bookstore and had Chinese screens

in front of it. The room contained a couch, a glass cabinet

with Chinese things in it and a table and three chairs. There

was a tiny bathroom fastened like a watch fob to the room.

I was sitting on a stool in the bookstore one afternoon

reading a book that was in the shape of a chalice. The book

had clear pages like gin, and the first page in the book read:


the Kid


November 23,



New York


The owner of the bookstore came up to me, and put his

arm on my shoulder and said, "Would you like to get laid?"

His voice was very kind.

"No, " I said.

"You're wrong, " he said, and then without saying anything

else, he went out in front of the bookstore, and stopped a pair

of total strangers, a man and a woman. He talked to them for

a few moments. I couldn't hear what he was saying. He pointed

at me in the bookstore. The woman nodded her head and

then the man nodded his head.

They came into the bookstore.

I was embarrassed. I could not leave the bookstore because

they were entering by the only door, so I decided to go

upstairs and go to the toilet. I got up abruptly and walked

to the back of the bookstore and went upstairs to the bathroom,

and they followed after me. I could hear them on the stairs.

I waited for a long time in the bathroom and they waited

an equally long time in the other room. They never spoke.

When I came out of the bathroom, the woman was lying naked

on the couch, and the man was sitting in a chair with his

hat on his lap.

"Don't worry about him, " the girl said. "These things

make no difference to him. He's rich. He has 3, 859 Rolls

Royces." The girl was very pretty and her body was like a

clear mountain river of skin and muscle flowing over rocks

of bone and hidden nerves.

"Come to me, " she said. "And come inside me for we are

Aquarius and I love you."

I looked at the man sitting in the chair. He was not smiling

and he did not look sad.

I took off my shoes and all my clothes. The man did not

say a word.

The girl's body moved ever so slightly from side to side.

There was nothing else I could do for my body was like

birds sitting on a telephone wire strung out down the world,

clouds tossing the wires carefully.

I laid the girl.

It was like the eternal 59th second when it becomes a minute

and then looks kind of sheepish.

"Good, " the girl said, and kissed me on the face.

The man sat there without speaking or moving or sending

out any emotion into the room. I guess he was rich and owned

3, 859 Rolls Royces.

Afterwards the girl got dressed and she and the man left.

They walked down the stairs and on their way out, I heard

him say his first words.

"Would you like to go to Emie's for dinner?"

"I don't know, " the girl said. "It's a little early to think

about dinner. "

Then I heard the door close and they were gone. I got

dressed and went downstairs. The flesh about my body felt

soft and relaxed like an experiment in functional background


The owner of the bookstore was sitting at his desk behind

the counter. "I'11 tell you what happened up there, " he said,

in a beautiful anti-three-legged-crow voice, in an anti-dandelion

side of the mountain voice.

"What?"I said.

"You fought in the Spanish Civil War. You were a young

Communist from Cleveland, Ohio. She was a painter. A New

York Jew who was sightseeing in the Spanish Civil War as if

it were the Mardi Gras in New Orleans being acted out by

Greek statues.

"She was drawing a picture of a dead anarchist when you

met her. She asked you to stand beside the anarchist and act

as if you had killed him. You slapped her across the face

and said something that would be embarrassing for me to


You both fell very much in love.

"Once while you were at the front she read Anatomy of

Melancholy and did 349 drawings of a lemon.

"Your love for each other was mostly spiritual.Neither

one of you performed like millionaires in bed.

"When Barcelona fell, you and she flew to England, and

then took a ship back to New York. Your love for each other

remained in Spain. It was only a war love. You loved only

yourselves, loving each other in Spain during the war. On

the Atlantic you were different toward each other and became

every day more and more like people lost from each other.

"Every wave on the Atlantic was like a dead seagull dragging

its driftwood artillery from horizon to horizon.

"When the ship bumped up against America, you departed

without saying anything and never saw each other again. The

last I heard of you, you were still living in Philadelphia. "

"That's what you think happened up there?" I said.

"Partly, " he said. "Yes, that's part of it. "

He took out his pipe and filled it with tobacco and lit it.

"Do you want me to tell you what else happened up there?"

he said.

"Go ahead."

"You crossed the border into Mexico, " he said. "You

rode your horse into a small town. The people knew who

you were and they were afraid of you. They knew you had

killed many men with that gun you wore at your side. The

town itself was so small that it didn't have a priest.

"When the rurales saw you, they left the town. Tough as

they were, they did not want to have anything to do with you.

The rurales left.

You became the most powerful man in town.

You were seduced by a thirteen-year-old girl, and you

and she lived together in an adobe hut, and practically all

you did was make love.

"She was slender and had long dark hair. You made love

standing, sitting, lying on the dirt floor with pigs and chickens

around you. The walls, the floor and even the roof of the

hut were coated with your sperm and her come.

"You slept on the floor at night and used your sperm for

a pillow and her come for a blanket.

"The people in the town were so afraid of you that they

could do nothing.

"After a while she started going around town without any

clothes on, and the people of the town said that it was not a

good thing, and when you started going around without any

clothes, and when both of you began making love on the back

of your horse in the middle of the zocalo, the people of the

town became so afraid that they abandoned the town. It's

been abandoned ever since. "People won't live there.

"Neither of you lived to be twenty-one. It was not neces-


"See, I do know what happened upstairs, " he said. He

smiled at me kindly. His eyes were like the shoelaces of a


I thought about what happened upstairs.

"You know what I say is the truth, " he said. "For you

saw it with your own eyes and traveled it with your own body.

Finish the book you were reading before you were interrupted.

I'm glad you got laid. "

Once resumed the pages of the book began to speed up

and turn faster and faster until they were spinning like wheels

in the sea.

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