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There was no difference between my characters and the life my readers were going to have to face.

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Tap Water, Jean-Paul Sartre and the Rabbit

French actresses in films always drink glasses of tap water
in the middle of the night; their long hair hangs over sinks in despair.
They run about Paris (clipclopclipclap) and talk very fast about
their lovers, sitting in cars that look like squashed slippers.
Their cheated husbands smoke smelly cigarettes, drink horried green drinks and bang on endlessly about Jean-Paul Sartre.
I am very ashamed that I don`t have so many problems -
not even being worried about atheistic existentialism.
I (myself) am worried though about my pet rabbit (called Rabbit
by his friends, if he had any) who seems at the moment not
to enjoy his lettuce. As you probably understand, there is a
difference between a rabbit and a famous French philosopher and novelist.
Might be the tap water.

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The scars inside will not heal

There is noubt different than being raped
and being pushed down mentaly.
except that the wounds also bleed inside.
The mental scars will not heal.
They do not fade.

There was no difference between being raped
and being run over by a lorry
except that afterwards the sicko asked if you enjoyed it.
As if it were a game.
And still the scars have not healed.

There is no difference of being raped
and going head first through a top floor window.
except that afterwards you are not afraid of hights.
but of half the human population.
And still the scars linger on with the pain.
They do not fade.

Fear of rape is a storm brewing.
Never towalk out alone
when I see a man coming towards me.
All the fears reopen.
And all there is to do is run for dear life.
This scar will not go it will not heal.

Never to open the door to a knock
without the fear has he found me.
What if its him.
All of the fears hold me back.
The scars do not fade they will not heal

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I Hath Two Lives; The Life Thou See and The Life Of Me

I hath two lives; the life thou see and the life of me
Wert my beauty reigns like a gentle fall night
Hidden beneath mine soul, lost but free
From the judgment of man and perceptions sight
There mine love marvels at its own strength
As thou see me meek and deathly silent
My love immeasurable surpasses earthly length
As thou see me give up, but in secret resilient
Mine deep secret is mine nature; the beauty she hide
Sensed by the intuition of art's vivacious mind
To my poems, my poetic soul, mine love confide
My sympathy, my empathy, my disposition kind
But to the world, thou deserve my anger, mine hate
For thou sin, has sinned, and cast me to thy fate

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Patrick White

And The Rose

And the rose of someone else’s dawn,
a warning to drowned sailors,
mingling in the shadows and the leaves
just beyond the bay of the window where I stand
with my last afterlife
like a star in a shoe.
And there are voyages I’ll never make
and ones I have
for the sake of the going,
for the islands and the witches, the sirens
and the green flames of the fairies
that crept out from under
the stone of my heart
like a crown of petals, eyelashes,
cool palings of fire.,
and danced for the honey and the gold
from the paper hive
softened from stone
they had made of my life in ashes.
And there’s not much difference
between a sky and a sea,
no two wardrobes ever the same,
an expanse of space and skin,
wide palms of water,
and the confluence of lifelines
the deltas and the rivers,
the arteries and veins
the lightning and the branches,
weeping on a windowpane,
the fossils of leftover tears
that winced like an eye
in the hair of the jellyfish
that washed up out of their agony
like rain. And there are fools I’ve been
that don’t remember me
and lighthouses on the moon
that didn’t heed their own advice.
But there was always something
truer in the absurdity,
a mystery or a jewel, the memory
of a face I’d never seen,
some annihilation
with a threshold of stars
I’d never crossed, a whisper
of light, a fragrance, a voice
singing to itself in a lonely place
that put my caution to shame.
And it’s been my life to go,
to cross, to enter, to know
the lostness as my own,
and the darkness and the solitude
where I begin and end
like water taken from the river
and the river returned
as the moorings of the emptiness
I took for a boat
like a face
between the pages of my hands,
and all in the name of some nightbird
some shadow of a wing
that covered my heart
with such a quick eclipse
that no one even noticed I was gone.
Poetry, love, life; the shore is one thing
but the sea another,
and it’s not that I was brave
or thought I could walk on water
or had a secret starmap,
wiser than the rest;
I looked into the abyss with a shudder,
as if I had to kiss
a cobra on the head
or enter a spider’s womb
without being caught,
for the terrible acceptance
of what I sought
beyond the starless gates
and moth warnings
of the usual taboos. Every terror
scales a treasure, and the dragon
masks its secret,
not meant for the circumspect,
in risk. The sane prefer heaven
but heaven isn’t for the sane
who don’t know how to die enough
to answer the sphinxes and grails.
And it’s made me
a heretic of the heart,
a rogue star, a poet,
to live this way,
drinking the black wine
that was offered me
from the skulls
that lined the mouth
of the mysterious death
in the doorway
of every true entrance.
And it’s not the lies
that kill you,
nor the truths,
or looking through
a hole in the fence
at things you were never meant to see,
the medusa making love
to an apple-tree,
or Isis naked behind her veils
that no one’s ever lifted;
it’s returning
the way you came
from the wells
of the transformations,
the mountains of the muses,
the islands and the trees
of seduction and death,
unchanged, your tears still tears
not jewels of the blood,
and your voice,
not the fire of poison-tipped spears.

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There was no difference between the behavior of a god and the operations of pure chance.

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F. Scott Fitzgerald

It occurred to me that there was no difference between men, in intelligence or race, so profound as the difference between the sick and the well.

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In the past there was a difference between the conditions in which Hizballah operated in Lebanon and the conditions of resistance operated in Palestine.

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They thought that I did conceive there was a difference between them and Mr. Cotton... I might say they might preach a covenant of works as did the apostles, but to preach a covenant of works and to be under a covenant of works is another business.

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There was a man who fought fire with fire

There was a man
Who fought fire with fire
When it came to the sexual art
And he was no stranger to being burnt
And the burning of others.
It was par for the course
Do unto other
And he did time and time again
Until the fire caught him unprepared
By something as simple as a rubber
And now as his body grows thin
So to do his flame flutter in a thin wind
Of a body under attack.

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There Was A Poem Long Ago

THERE WAS A POEM LONG AGO

There was a poem long ago
A poem of youth and hope
Now there are other poems
Poems of age and sorrow.
There was a poem once
Of love – and happiness in love
Now there is a poem of lovelessness
And sadness.
There was a poem once
Of the long and distant open road
Now there is a poem of the dead end.
There was a poem once
That believed in Poetry
Now there is a poem that knows
Even the most beautiful worlds of words
End in dust
There was a poem once – long ago.

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Lennox

Let us talk about you and i on this love,
For you are the shadows of the things to write about;
And, where will your mind be when the rain drops?

Open bruises and open wound,
And to kick the ball into the net;
But, what else can i say about you?

I am Lennox and i am your past,
For yesterday's lady was you;
And i am now smiling with success as my fiend today.

There is a difference between a hole and a stick,
And you've now taken your own decision on this love;
But for once, i was the ball-boy for you.

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The Raven And The Crow

what is the difference
between a raven and a crow?
for one has a more beautiful name
than the other one has to show

has jealousy seeped into the crow
to hate the raven so?
to think of such an evil plan
and sink so very low

To take away all of the things
so quick and so abrupt
and take away the raven's life
it's nothing but corrupt

the raven lies there bleeding
dying by each passing minute
the snow soaks up its dark red blood
before the cold then kills it

triumph reigns inside evil
elated as it might feel
a cold eminates from it
loneliness will be its chill

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Mocking Bird

and there it was on my roof again
mimicking the sound of the dreamer
it is singing the songs of fantasy
and sleepy
it forgets itself and becomes the dreamer

someone who was awake throughout the night
does not believe in dreams and fantasies
notices the difference between its voice and the dream song

gently he speaks of a homage
to a voice whose mouth had long been silenced
whose tongue was cut & thrown away
whose letters of his name was carved in stone

the mocking bird knows the difference
and then it turns its beak into utter silence
and then it flies away wanting to cut its wings.

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There Was a Cherry-Tree

There was a cherry-tree. Its bloomy snows
Cool even now the fevered sight that knows
No more its airy visions of pure joy --
As when you were a boy.

There was a cherry-tree. The Bluejay sat
His blue against its white -- O blue as jet
He seemed there then!-- But now -- Whoever knew
He was so pale a blue!

There was a cherry-tree -- our child-eyes saw
The miracle:-- Its pure white snows did thaw
Into a crimson fruitage, far too sweet
But for a boy to eat.

There was a cherry-tree, give thanks and joy!--
There was a bloom of snow -- There was a boy --
There was a bluejay of the realest blue --
And fruit for both of you.

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Eternity

i felt eternity for one moment
and it was like...
the first night we made love all night,
watching our children being born...
standing naked in the yard
during a thunderstorm at night...
a new set of strings on a Martin guitar.

as if God had escaped from the great churches
built & watched over by self-righteous men;
and blew like the wind across the fields
of time & space & understanding.

as if the Great Mother held me to her breast
while the waves lapped at my feet...
and i felt the rhythm of silence
in a single beat of my heart.

i felt eternity for one moment,
and there was no difference between
you & i & anyone else...
there was no anger, only hunger...
hunger for the truth,
hunger for the moment!

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What is the difference between....?

What is the difference between black and white?
What is the difference between day and night?
What is the difference between love and hate?
What is the difference between a woman and a mate?
The answers seem to be so easy
as the difference between to be free and to be busy.
But! Can you tell me the difference between a lie and a truth?
Can you tell me the difference between old age and youth?
Will you tell me the difference between a grant and a sob?
If you don’t know this difference you can flop.
I would like to know the difference between wrong and right,
I would like to know the difference between a war and a fight.
If you know the answers please, write.
It will be interesting to know your opinion,
And may be I will find it to be brilliant.

Larisa R (Odessa, Ukraine)

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D11

by the way,
there is a difference between biting nails
and cutting them...

it is not the ball game that you see
when you bite your nails
it is the little child in you at that moment
when mama scolded you because you did not
following her instructions
to take the bath beside the well
at 4 o'clock in the morning
when you climb the balimbing tree instead
to pick some fruits
and you fell down
and injured your knee &
wounded the left side of your thigh
and you in fact
lost consciousness
and regained it only
in the hospital of that
little town
where your Papa was born

cutting the nails is another

it is not the hygiene that you have in your mind
it was what you did
that Monday night when you were so angry
at yourself
and on that Tuesday morning
while you were having
breakfast alone in your
condominium
you received the news
from the province that your
Mama passed away.

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Once We Were Child

Once we were children
everything was supper
We could fly
if we hadn't trusted our mothers

Once there was no difference between boys and girls
Once it wasn't important, having wealth
How many times we fell on the ground?
We just wanted playing around
We always made a big noise
We didn't have to be poised
When we laughed in each case
But we didn't laugh in someone's face
Everything we had we did share
Which color? we didn't care

Once we were children
The sky was blue
The world wasn't so wild
That was the issue
When we loved it was real
Of dying, we didn't have any fear
Did we know what discrimination is?
Did we know how to tease?
Did we have lust? Could we tell a lie?
Now we have to tell to our childhood goodbye

Once we were children
The life was so funny
We were just called honey
And our world was summed up to our tiny
Homes.

Here is a feeling in my gut
That once we were child
How close we were to God
Spite of having no attention to God.

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There was a man

There was a man with a golden crop.
Started to see, the growth he had did stop;
Over a few months he noticed as he did look,
A cricket pitch, was now he saw it over took.

There was a lady of almost 60, and in a mood,
She looked in the mirror, found her chin growing a brood;
She tried to pull each new hair till it came out,
But a few weeks later, two no three, new ones came about.

These two met for a cuppa, and a sweet,
And spoke of their problems on their seat;
She said to him why is it to me, such a bother,
I'll soon need to shave, I'm not a guy I'm a mother.

He agreed, and started to laugh, at the situation,
That he also had a problem, a hair complication;
Then she said why do you laugh, it's no joke you know,
But; soon saw why he thought it was fun, said o blow.

He said dear girl, as we get older, I'm losing my locks,
But you sweet ladies start growing a beard so why the knocks?
From the younger generation, that we see everywhere,
After all one day it'll happen to them as well, and see if we care.

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You See...There Was Just Too Many Of Us!

I smell my grandmother's molasses cookies.
Deep dish apple and peach pies.
And grape preserves she would make.
And my own mother's beautiful hair,
Before she grayed.
And 'overnight'...
Seemed to have aged.

As I sit and reminisce.
About so many things I miss!

I see my grandfather,
Working in the backyard.
In the shed.
Where he 'diagnosed' the engine...
Of an old truck.
With every part of it laid in pieces.
Each of them,
Carefully spread to keep them near.

'Don't...
Move,
A thing!
Or pick it up...
Because you're curious!
I got my eye on ya! '

I hear my father say...
'It is time to get your haircut, boy.
And when you sit in that barber's chair...
You bet not make a fuss!
And don't say nothing to annoy! '

I remember my aunts and uncles...
Rushing to pick apples, grapes and pears.
From an old pig farm,
Where Chappelle Gardens now sits.
In a neighborhood in Hartford, Connecticut.

I remember this as if yesterday!
And the whippings we all shared.
Regardless...
Of who or who was not actually there!
No one was spared.

'I don't care who did what!
All of you are getting it! '
My grandmother would say!

I remember rolling my eyes...
With wishes I could run away!

~Grandma, I didn't do anything.
It was her! ~

*No it wasn't it was him! *

**No it wasn't it was them! **

You see...
There was just too many of us!
And my grandmother didn't really care.
She just wanted all of us to know...
The punishment she dealt,
Would be quick.
Honest.
And fair!


Note:
Dedicated to my wonderful family.
When we (many of us) all lived in either Stowe Village,
And/or Bellevue Square.
Tenement projects.
In separate buildings AND apartments.
Back in 'the day'.

Love you!

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