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I'm not interesting enough on my own that you'd want to see a film about me.

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To Be Not Good Enough Is Its Own Special Pain

To be not good enough is its own special pain-
To try and try again
To force oneself -
To will and will and try and try,
And still
Not have been given the gift
One would have-
To be not good enough is its own special pain-
As I in these plain prosaic words
Try to write another poem.

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(Encouragement Poem) A Change In The Tides

A ease of your suffering.
A tissue to try to dry your tears.
Some courage to overcome your fears.
Love is always near.
Even when it feels so far away.
The day will not be so easily forgotten.
No matter what the phase of the moon.
A fall and rise, as tides surmise.
With a loss comes a gain.
Freedom from pain.
With invisible ink another name has been written.
Time to make decision.
With a heart plucking all the feathers of an ugly duck.
Trying so hard to see the beauty not yet their.
What is underneath that you yet don't see?
A question of ones inner self indeed.

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To A Cat

STATELY, kindly, lordly friend,
Condescend
Here to sit by me, and turn
Glorious eyes that smile and burn,
Golden eyes, love's lustrous meed,
On the golden page I read.

All your wondrous wealth of hair,
Dark and fair,
Silken-shaggy, soft and bright
As the clouds and beams of night,
Pays my reverent hand's caress
Back with friendlier gentleness.

Dogs may fawn on all and some
As they come;
You, a friend of loftier mind,
Answer friends alone in kind.
Just your foot upon my hand
Softly bids it understand.

Morning round this silent sweet
Garden-seat
Sheds its wealth of gathering light,
Thrills the gradual clouds with might,
Changes woodland, orchard, heath,
Lawn, and garden there beneath.

Fair and dim they gleamed below:
Now they glow
Deep as even your sunbright eyes,
Fair as even the wakening skies.
Can it not or can it be
Now that you give thanks to see ?

May not you rejoice as I,
Seeing the sky
Change to heaven revealed, and bid
Earth reveal the heaven it hid
All night long from stars and moon,
Now the sun sets all in tune?

What within you wakes with day
Who can say?
All too little may we tell,
Friends who like each other well,
What might haply, if we might,
Bid us read our lives aright.

Wild on woodland ways your sires
Flashed like fires;
Fair as flame and fierce and fleet
As with wings on wingless feet
Shone and sprang your mother, free,
Bright and brave as wind or sea.

Free and proud and glad as they,
Here to-day
Rests or roams their radiant child,
Vanquished not, but reconciled,
Free from curb of aught above
Save the lovely curb of love.

Love through dreams of souls divine
Fain would shine
Round a dawn whose light and song
Then should right our mutual wrong---
Speak, and seal the love-lit law
Sweet Assisi's seer foresaw.

Dreams were theirs; yet haply may
Dawn a day
When such friends and fellows born,
Seeing our earth as fair at morn,
May for wiser love's sake see
More of heaven's deep heart than we.

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My World Is Not Interesting After All

what you do not know yet
of course
is interesting and so
since you have not known
much of me
you find me
a subject
of interest

you keep on tracking me
like a path
that may lead you to
a certain
discovery, and you followed
me
religiously, and i
did not ask you to stop
or refuse
your insistence,

i have nothing to hide
somehow
you have only to know
every part
of me and then
you have reached
my world

surveyed every word
object, thought,
aspirations,
dreams

yes even my dreams
and
you figure out
some possibilities
in symbols
like a dot
or a scribble in stones
or veins
on leaves
and their meanings
and hear
all their claims for
a certain nuance

and then
you finally find that
there is nothing
interesting at all
in my own open world
like a field of hay
or spread of
sunshine

something
that you can identify with
like
being lost, or sad
or panicky

(do you expect an
explosion
or a pandemonium
of falling
and failing
objects?
a volcanic eruption
or the rage of
the seven rivers?)

after all
is a mountain with
green grass
and heavens with
blue skies
interesting at all?

you do not have
to say goodbye
your silence is
enough
for me

there is no war in
my world
there is no destruction
there are no relics
worthy
of my past
there are no worms
in my humus
no fleas in my carpets
no lice inside
the locks of my hair
no stings or strings
attached to
my bones

you see
i am not interesting
at all

do not blame me
i have already told you about that
at the prologue
of my first word.

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Does Life Thrive If The Nature Is Not Good Enough?

The roaring of the ocean has its own reason
It eats up of us each and every poison
The blowing of the wind is so soothing
The rain of the cloud is so refreshing,

The wide blue sky above and high
Gives us a space to dream and fly.
The dew drops are so cool to douse the fire
The earth teaches us how to endure the torture

How sweet it is to quench the thirst with fresh water!
Trees tells us how to give food, shadow and shelter
How tasty the fire makes our food stuff!
Does life thrive if the nature is not good enough?

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Not Physically Enough to Touch

Because I can not sleep,
I am breathing too deeply...
With you not feeding this empty need.

On a bed alone,
I am at home dissatisfied.
In moans I own to remember...
They would not linger as they now do.
Not with you!
Somehow I know that is true.

Because I can not sleep,
It proves...
You do not have to be near,
To keep me mentally imprisoned.
Although you are here,
Incomplete to freeze upon me wishes.

And not physically enough to touch.
To ease this yearning as such,
As I want it much to allow my sleep...
To come,
Within reach.
And invited together peacefully.

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The Poem That Is Not Good Enough

THE POEM THAT IS NOT GOOD ENOUGH

The poem that is not good enough
Awkwardly fumbles from line to line
Does not hear its own music
Has none.
Its words are larger than its feelings
Its Ideas overwhelm its words
It proclaims a Beauty it cannot reveal.

The poem that is not good enough
Pretends to be a poem
It has birds and flowers and trees and winds
which are names alone.
The Poem which is not good enough
does not touch the Heart
has little Soul
puts everyone to sleep before they finish
beginning it.

A Poem that is not good enough
Just does not Live


And who am I?
And what are you?
And why are we?

Writers and readers of Poems
Looking for our own lost Eternity.

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Can Not Get Enough of That Kinky Stuff

Whispering homophobics,
Fearing their own abnormalities...
Will be perceived.
Tell their tales to unfold,
From behind closed closet doors.
And are themselves prepared,
To strip naked in the darkness.
Baring chest, butts and nuts...
To expose passions in discreet,
With anyone picked up...
Cruising alone at night on city streets.

They want to be sure they have 'outed' someone.
While they to others continue to deceive.
They want to point out what they have 'heard'...
About one who has too much sugar in their cups.
As they 'somehow' know the dirt to dish...
With the poring of the 'tea'.

'Apparently they are not grown up.'

Apparently they are disgusted,
With acts they perform in privacy.
And these frustrations they try to cover up.
But it is apparent those who whisper,
Can not get enough of that kinky stuff.

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Not Good Enough

No one friend, is good enough, as sinful men raised from dust,
To reach God’s Eternal Throne, through his own merit, all alone.
The issues are sin and the Law, issues to God that aren’t small,
Sin we see sometimes as fun, while overlooking that other one.

All our own righteousness, aimed at pleasing God is just amiss,
Our aim just misses the mark, at hitting His light out of our dark.
All righteousness in God’s light, is simply filthiness in His sight,
Only masking who we truly are, missing His perfect mark by far.

The games that we play with sin, points to darkness deep within,
Deep inside every human heart, of which, God will have no part.
For it’s that sin separating man, from The Creator’s original plan,
And nothing that we do for Him, removes from our heart the sin.

There’s no sin God can embrace, which is why He sent us Grace,
Sent in the person of His Son, to become a bridge for everyone,
This, when to the Cross of Calvary, He was sent for you and me,
The Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ, to be for all, a Bridge of Life.

Doing what no one else could do, becoming sin for me and you,
And being delivered to a cross, not for Himself, but sinners lost,
So He could pay an eternal price, by becoming for all a sacrifice,
Providing for man the Only Door, to a life with God forevermore.

(Copyright ©06/2008)

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Patrick White

You're Not Mad Enough

You’re not mad enough to understand my poetry.
Suffering hasn’t twisted you into strange shapes
like a hangman’s apprentice
practising knots with your spine
or driven your innocence out into the desert
like a scape-goat for the sins of others
until you had mastered their evil
and become a great devil
condemned to do good
as if it were the most exquisite torment
of the damned.
You’ve never stood like an exile
at a sleepless window
and listened to the night rain
speaking in a foreign language.
Your electrons have never
been bumped out of their orbitals
like the photonic refugees
of a radioactive element
with half an afterlife
that can see in the dark
and last for millions of years.
What tongue-tied tuning fork
of a pygmy atom
like the emperor of Austria to Mozart
seeing a galaxy
or hearing a symphony
indicts a cosmic conception
beyond the diminutive perception
and bent event horizons
of a black dwarf
for too many stars
too many notes?
You can’t taste the new wine
until it’s been poured
into the same old dirty cup of a mind
you’ve been drinking from
like the bloodless goblet of the moon for years.
Long breath
short breath
don’t they both go on forever
like poems you can’t measure for a straitjacket?
You want to make haikus out of hurricanes.
You want to time the wind
when it blows your house down.
You’ve sat down among your peers
at a designer seance
and studied literature
as if you were communing with ghosts
who had the decency not to show up in the flesh.
And you may have climbed
to the top of the world mountain like a postcard
but you’ve never come down from it
like an avalanche of rocks
you rolled away from your tomb
like the vernal equinox
as if Stonehenge were built by Sisyphus.
And what’s it to me
if your attention span
is a flea on a hot-plate
and you’re in the habit
of drinking spit
from everyone else’s mouth but your own
or jealousy makes you celibate
everytime you catch me
French-kissing the muse at her wellspring?
You’re a goldfish in a shark bowl
a shore-hugger
with a spineless guitar-pick for a fin
afraid of the dangers
of being swept out into the deep night sea
by the rogue karma
of getting caught up
in your own undertow.
You’re more at home
among dead starfish and washed-up things
in the slums of shallow tidal pools
than the palatial spaces
of more gifted myths of origin.
Literati in the corpus delecti
of the great dead
forensically parsed
by the grammar of maggots
it must be scary for you
to try to imagine
anything you can’t prove
like the singularity
at the bottom of a blackhole
or the creative potential of dark matter.
You may be armies of lice
in the Golden Fleece
living like stars with tenure
in faculties of sunlight
but who among you
knows how to sow
the teeth of the dragon?
If I keep faith with my calling
by following it like a salmon
all the way to the sea like a river
and back to the mountains to die
why should I listen
to the fingerlings on a fish farm
about flowing the wrong way
without checking the depth of the water
to see if Im in too deep?
I can’t get enough of the stars
but you look at them like a blackhole
and think they’re overdoing their shining.
I’ve never regretted trusting or loving someone
in some interglacial warming period
when the trees come back.
And I’ve never killed a thing I ever loved.
I swallow the darkness of separation
knowing it’s the poisoned mushroom
of the emperor-clown’s last act.
I taste the fact on the fork and concede.
I take more than my own death
out into the desert
and I mourn without accusation
the empty cup of the moon
at the dry lips of its dying mirages.
It’s just the way the rose haemorrhages
when it gets cold.
It’s just the way a paper boat
is kept afloat by its own themes
all the way down a river
that doesn’t care where it’s going
because its only destination is anywhere.
And what decent fire lies to its flames?
And Id rather be loved than right
most of the time anyway
so I’ll take the blame upon me
and you can sleep tight as a lifeboat on the Titanic
and I’ll just drift south with the icebergs
hoping that at the first sign of your solitude
you don’t panic
at the way things are going down
and way way too overboard.
You put pen to paper
like a pharaoh builds a pyramid
only to wind up
like a mummy in a museum under glass.
But the first thing I write off is me.
I dispossess myself of thoughts and feelings
like a serpent ditches its skin
tired of being the fall-guy for sin
or the ocean gets its waves off its back
as if they didn’t belong to anyone’s mind
when the wind reads what’s written in sand
like a lifeline on the palm of my hand
that bends round the heel of my thumb
like an ongoing question of when.
You have to become no one
if you want to understand
the mindlessness of being a human
and the only way to express it
is to say it without a mouth
hear it without listening
and see it without eyes.
Anyone can write a decent poem
but how many can walk on the dark side
and let the poetry write them
without squealing for death
to make their last breath
the whole orchard
in the blossom of a haiku
that might read like a fortune-cookie
but breaks just like an egg
that got the word out
like a bird afraid of the sky
there’s no more room at the inn
for the stars to follow the magi like a hearse
wreathed in laurels and flowers
like the dead blessing
round the bend of a live curse.
You can’t live like a maggot
and write like an eagle.
And though it’s not a grace
that’s easily acquired
by verse lamplighting at night in the woods
to attract the muse like a doe
to your moth-bound lucidities
baying at the moon
you hope will mistake you for a wolf
even the darkness has enough taste
not to try to pour the ocean into a teacup
that hasn’t been washed out first
like someone with a filthy mouth.
All your dainty revisions
were the personal decisions
of someone addicted to plastic surgery
like the bride of Frankenstein to Botox
trying to deconstruct her face.
But me?
I had no choice.
How can you revise space?
Or take anything away from zero?
You try to keep order in your life and work
as if you were building Rome again
from the ashes up like Nero.
And I don’t know why it’s so
but insight after insight
flashing through me like sun swords
through the back of a lunar bull
though it’s been painful
has sustained my life somehow
like the brainchild of a compatible chaos.
And I may have been treated madly by poetry
and speak in tongues
like a lunatic in the rain in Babylon
long after its bricks were broken
and the last eclipse had spoken
its last word
about free choice
being gerry-mandered out of the absurd
but you’re as well-versed
as the soft lip
of a Georgian sheep dip
that’s just found its voice.

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Ezra Pound

And the days are not full enough

And the days are not full enough
And the nights are not full enough
And life slips by like a field mouse
      Not shaking the grass

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They Are Not Saddened Enough

They are not saddened enough.
They expect more of it.
And that they did not get.

They are not saddened enough.
And the demon residing within them,
Is having a fit...
Trying to understand all of it!

They are not saddened enough.
And any happiness expressed,
Offends!

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I Was Not Good Enough

I WAS NOT GOOD ENOUGH

I was not good enough
To realize the Dream
I have given my life to-

God did not give me the gift
I so longed to have-

Now I write these words,
Defeated, disappointed, small-
Yet still irrationally hoping,

I am better than I have been proven to be.

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I have not love, enough...

I have not love, enough...
To tempt birds from trees
nor even less the angels
on an ever static breeze...

I have not love, enough...
To love you, as you do, me
I have not love, enough...?
In my heart to set, you; fre...

I have not love, enough...
My dear one, for even me...
for even me... Alone, you see...

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All These Poems Are Not Good Enough

ALL THESE POEMS ARE NOT GOOD ENOUGH

All these poems are not good enough-
I am not good enough-
And my life is going to end
Without my having been good enough.

Good Enough? .

Good enough for what?
For whom?

Not Good enough
To be among those who wrote lines
Mankind loves to remember.

Not good enough-
Clearly not good enough.

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If I Am NOT Going To Accept My Own Negativity

Why have I stopped speaking to you,
And avoiding the possibility of having contact?
Even with the turning of my back,
If I should see you publicly...
To make you aware of that?

I don't have to think of a response,
To excuse this fact...
If I am not going to accept my own negativity,
What makes you think I should have patience...
To sit quietly and listen while being bored by yours?

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Not Every Poem Knows Its Own Name

NOT EVERY POEM KNOWS ITS OWN NAME

Not every poem knows its own name
Or can have itself be written easily-
Not every poem lives in the light
There are dark poems also.

We, possessed of poetry
Often do not know where we are.

We would like to believe
That the light of our soul
And the light of our words
Are one-

But we know deep down
There is one poem somewhere
And another poem somewhere else
And whoever we truly are
Cannot be wholly found in either.

No poem is us completely
And we are not complete Poetry either.

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I Am Not Good Enough

I AM NOT GOOD ENOUGH

I am not good enough.
I will never be good enough.
I will die not having been good enough,
And the world will go on
Without my name
My memory
My immortality
My place among mankind’s true creators.

I have not been good enough
I will never be good enough
I have had enough evidence
And lived long enough
To know this.

Why then can I not be wise
And accept it?
Why must I try to the end
To be what I will never be?
God Who has given me so much
Has not given me this
I should simply accept it..

But I do not and cannot…

So I write this.

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You're Not Drinking Enough

I can see that you haven't recovered from the girl who let you down
And you'd sell what is left of your soul for another go-round
You keep telling yourself she means nothing and maybe you should call her bluff
But you don't really believe it
You must not be drinkin' enough
Well, the perfume she wore you can buy down at the Five & Dime
But on some other woman it don't smell the same in your mind
You keep telling yourself you can take it-
Telling yourself that you're tough
But you still wanna hold her
You must not be drinkin' enough
You'r not drinkin' enough to wash away old memories
And there ain't enough whiskey in Texas to keep you from beggin', "Please,
please, please."
She passed on your passion and stepped on your pride
Turns out you ain't quite so tough
'Cause you still wanna hold her
You must not be drinkin' enough
Ay-yl-yl-yl
Ask yourself why
You still wanna hold her
You must not be drinkin' enough
Ay-yl-yl-yl etc

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You're Not Drinkin' Enough

I can see that you haven't recovered from
The girl who let you down
And you'd sell what is left of your soul for
Another go-round
You keep telling yourself she means nothing
And maybe you should call her bluff
But you don't really believe it
You must not be drinking enough
Well, the perfume she wore you can buy
Down at the five & dime
But on some other woman
It don't smell the same in your mind
You keep telling yourself you can take it-
Telling yourself that you're tough
But you still wanna hold here
You must n ot be drinkin' enough
You're not drinking enough
To wash away old memories
And there ain't enough whiskey in texas to
Keep you from beggin' ,"please, please, please."
She passed on your passion
And stepped on your pride
Turns out you ain't quite so tough
'cause you still wanna hold her
You must not be drinkin' enough
Ay-yi-yi-yi
Ask yourself why
You still wanna hold her
You must no be drinkin' enough
Ay-yi-yi-yi, etc.......

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