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With the rise of America, the global balance of power shifted away from the old European powers.

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With The Help Of Time's Clarity

No matter what you do, or what you say,
You cannot undo the damage, nor delay
The inevitable-namely, that you are a liar, and shall be-
Until you stop lying to yourself, the world, and to me!
This, the fatal flaw in what I once saw as near-perfection,
You went from being true to your heart, to its neglect, when
You chose fear and deceit over love and verity-
Perhaps this will become your reality too, with time's clarity!
How could you turn and then walk away
From the greatest thing that ever happened to you! ?
That was not it though, you chose to betray
Me, when I asked you 'why? '-yet, what was I to do?
This temporary fear that overcame you, was not of my making-
Just as it is not just my heart that you are breaking!

-Maurice Harris,1 March 2012

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It would be neat if with the New Year

for Miguel

It would be neat if with the New Year
I could leave my loneliness behind with the old year.
My leathery loneliness an old pair of work boots
my dog vigorously head-shakes back and forth in its jaws,
chews on for hours every day in my front yard—
rain, sun, snow, or wind
in bare feet, pondering my poem,
I’d look out my window and see that dirty pair of boots in the yard.

But my happiness depends so much on wearing those boots.

At the end of my day
while I’m in a chair listening to a Mexican corrido
I stare at my boots appreciating:
all the wrong roads we’ve taken, all the drug and whiskey houses
we’ve visited, and as the Mexican singer wails his pain,
I smile at my boots, understanding every note in his voice,
and strangers, when they see my boots rocking back and forth on my
feet
keeping beat to the song, see how
my boots are scuffed, tooth-marked, worn-soled.

I keep wearing them because they fit so good
and I need them, especially when I love so hard,
where I go up those boulder strewn trails,
where flowers crack rocks in their defiant love for the light.

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Lodging with the Old Man of the Stream

Men's hearts love gold and jade;
Men's mouths covet wine and flesh.
Not so the old man of the stream;
He drinks from his gourd and asks nothing more.
South of the stream he cuts firewood and grass;
North of the stream he has built wall and roof.
Yearly he sows a single acre of land;
In spring he drives two yellow calves.
In these things he finds great repose;
Beyond these he has no wish or care.
By chance I meet him walking by the water-side;
He took me home and lodged me in his thatched hut.
When I parted from him, to seek market and Court,
This old man asked my rank and pay.
Doubting my tale, he laughed loud and long:
'Privy Councillors do not sleep in barns.'

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The Old Trundle-Bed

O the old trundle-bed where I slept when a boy!
What canopied king might not covet the joy?
The glory and peace of that slumber of mine,
Like a long, gracious rest in the bosom divine:
The quaint, homely couch, hidden close from the light,
But daintily drawn from its hiding at night.
O a nest of delight, from the foot to the head,
Was the queer little, clear little, old trundle-bed!

O the old trundle-bed, where I wondering saw
The stars through the window, and listened with awe
To the sigh of the winds as they tremblingly crept
Through the trees where the robin so restlessly slept:
Where I heard the low, murmurous chirp of the wren,
And the katydid listlessly chirrup again,
Till my fancies grew faint and were drowsily led
Through the maze of the dreams of the old trundle bed.

O the old trundle-bed! O the old trundle-bed!
With its plump little pillow, and old-fashioned spread;
Its snowy-white sheets, and the blankets above,
Smoothed down and tucked round with the touches of love;
The voice of my mother to lull me to sleep
With the old fairy-stories my memories keep
Still fresh as the lilies that bloom o'er the head
Once bowed o'er my own in the old trundle-bed.

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The Old Swimmin' Hole

1 Oh! the old swimmin'-hole! whare the crick so still and deep
2 Looked like a baby-river that was laying half asleep,
3 And the gurgle of the worter round the drift jest below
4 Sounded like the laugh of something we onc't ust to know
5 Before we could remember anything but the eyes
6 Of the angels lookin' out as we left Paradise;
7 But the merry days of youth is beyond our controle,
8 And it's hard to part ferever with the old swimmin'-hole.

9 Oh! the old swimmin'-hole! In the happy days of yore,
10 When I ust to lean above it on the old sickamore,
11 Oh! it showed me a face in its warm sunny tide
12 That gazed back at me so gay and glorified,
13 It made me love myself, as I leaped to caress
14 My shadder smilin' up at me with sich tenderness.
15 But them days is past and gone, and old Time's tuck his toll
16 From the old man come back to the old swimmin'-hole.

17 Oh! the old swimmin'-hole! In the long, lazy days
18 When the humdrum of school made so many run-a-ways,
19 How plesant was the jurney down the old dusty lane,
20 Whare the tracks of our bare feet was all printed so plane
21 You could tell by the dent of the heel and the sole
22 They was lots o' fun on hands at the old swimmin'-hole.
23 But the lost joys is past! Let your tears in sorrow roll
24 Like the rain that ust to dapple up the old swimmin'-hole.

25 Thare the bullrushes growed, and the cattails so tall,
26 And the sunshine and shadder fell over it all;
27 And it mottled the worter with amber and gold
28 Tel the glad lilies rocked in the ripples that rolled;
29 And the snake-feeder's four gauzy wings fluttered by
30 Like the ghost of a daisy dropped out of the sky,
31 Or a wownded apple-blossom in the breeze's controle
32 As it cut acrost some orchard to'rds the old swimmin'-hole.

33 Oh! the old swimmin'-hole! When I last saw the place,
34 The scenes was all changed, like the change in my face;
35 The bridge of the railroad now crosses the spot
36 Whare the old divin'-log lays sunk and fergot.
37 And I stray down the banks whare the trees ust to be --
38 But never again will theyr shade shelter me!
39 And I wish in my sorrow I could strip to the soul,
40 And dive off in my grave like the old swimmin'-hole.

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With the onset of summer

With onset of summer
Mercury level begin to rise
With the onset of summer
Watermelon is ready to eat
With the onset of summer
My dear I insearch of you
To share delight and woe
It is the timeof litmus test
My dear in love and hatred
We must united.

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Present the Girl with the Crescent Moon

Rise beyond the mist.
Seek throughout the week,
A change in cold routines,
A kiss upon the cheek.

Present the girl with the crescent moon
Perceive what you receive throughout the
Analysis of observation.

Her favours, her flavours each make me swoon
As I pray within my cocoon that I
May one day soon Feel that same rising of
Emotion that frees the butterfly from
The prison of her hibernation sweet.

Her vacation within comfort hath distorted her vision,
Yet in symmetry her beauty radiates throughout the day
Still upon my knees I pray that the winds of change
Derange not my senses upon the voyage of interpretation.

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Overture: Mountaintop & Sunrise/communion With The Sun

Ra, climbing the horizon
Rising up the mountain, lighting up the valley below
Ra, giver without measure
Beacon of compassion, shining through the spectrum of life
Day is born, night is gone
One in all, all is one
Communion with the sun
Ra, ruler of all nature
Burning on forever, melting all together in one
Ra, holy synthesizer
Inspiration showers green and growing gardens of love
Voices rise to the song
One in all, all is one
Communion with the sun, with the sun
Ra, ra, ra, ra, ra, ra, ra, ra
Ra, climbing the horizon
Waves of light come rolling across the floor of the valley
Ra, ra, ra, ra, ra
Lift your eyes to the dawn
One in all, all is one
Communion with the sun

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Overture: Mountaintop And Sunrise / Communion With The Sun

Ra, climbing the horizon
Rising up the mountain, lighting up the valley below
Ra, giver without measure
Beacon of compassion, shining through the spectrum of life
Day is born, night is gone
One in all, all is one
Communion with the sun
Ra, ruler of all nature
Burning on forever, melting all together in one
Ra, holy synthesizer
Inspiration showers green and growing gardens of love
Voices rise to the song
One in all, all is one
Communion with the sun, with the sun
Ra, Ra, Ra, Ra, Ra, Ra, Ra, Ra
Ra, climbing the horizon
Waves of light come rolling across the floor of the valley
Ra, Ra, Ra, Ra, Ra
Lift your eyes to the dawn
One in all, all is one
Communion with the sun

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With The Copenhagen Climate Summit Flop

With the Copenhagen Climate Summit flop it cannot be denied
That the last hope of survival for many oceanic islands has died
Doomed to be swallowed by the rising sea
The politics of greed through nationalism the bane of humanity,
For the inhabitants of small ocean islands the future seems bleak indeed
Forsaken by the leaders of the World's most powerful Nations in their time of need
The painful reality they have come to realize
That they have to leave their islands as the sea levels rise
The so called Copenhagen agreement just an idle boast
Those who have contributed least to carbon emissions are those who will suffer most
The millions living in Third World Countries and the inhabitants of Oceanic Islands will sadly lose out
Of a bleak future for millions of poor people there can be little doubt
And all due to the politics of human greed
Of our own demise we may be sowing the seed.

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I live with the moon

I live with the moon and die with the sun. I am the creatures
that creep the night. I step out into the sun and die. The moon
rises and i am alive. This is the way of my life.

I live with the moon and die with the sun. I am the one thing
that you should fear. I fall and crash to the ground. This is the
way of my life.

I live with the moon and die with sun. What is this feeling inside?
It is for you, that I know. Why oh why is this the way of my life?
I live with the moon and die with the sun. I sigh as I die. I breathe
as I am alive again. This is the way of my life.

I live with the moon and die with the sun. You are my moon and I am
yours. We rise together and die together. This is the way of our life.
I live with the moon and die with the sun. You shall die with a burning
vengeance thats cold as ice. This is the way of my life.

I live with the moon and die with the sun. I am immortal but, how can I die? Forever and ever this will be the way of my life.

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Dangerous To Play With The Fire Of The Stars

It's dangerous to play with the fire of the stars

For the first time since 1778, pluto is returning
to capricorn. The US government, nominally
a democracy, has never before
had pluto oppose its three planets in cancer.

God wants the killing to stop.

*********

(The same cartels which destabilized the Chilean economy in 1973,
which tampered with Australia's elections in 1972, Iran's government,
which attempted to murder Fidel Castro countless times, which
has attempted to murder Hugo Chavez, which has caused countless
plane crashes from those of John and Robert Kennedy and John F
Kennedy Jr as well as those of Mel Carnahan in Missouri, Paul
Wellstone in Minnesota, and countless other plane crashes recorded
in the book Confessions of An Economic Hit Man, are now
attempting to drive the poor of America into despair through doubled
gas prices, doubled food prices, evictions, foreclosures, outsourcing
of jobs, etc. God dismantle now the megathief cartels. Thank You
that what we ask together You materialize, for You are the God of the poor.)
which helped Calderon, Harper, Bush, Merkel and others
sit on their stolen thrones,

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You Run With The Pack

(m&l - grosskopf)
To give what I got, to take what I need to live, it aint easy for me,
Darken my eyes, tell me lies, but all nice, tell me how I have to be,
Get me in your foolish game, destroy my defence, lock me in,
Throw me in your lions cage, cos then Im out of your way,
Cry with the wolves, run with the pack,
Turn around to save your neck,
cos someone always keeps you in confusion,
Squeezed in a box, wholl win the race,
Ask no questions in this case,
Whats left is only you and your illusions,
Charity is all your duty, they preach you: sharing your goods is your pride,
Patriotic-love, kill the enemy first, I can hear the other side,
Whats the way out of this game? youll either win or you lose,
I run in circles, whos to blame? is there a way I can choose?
Cry with the wolves, run with the pack,
Turn around to save your neck,
cos someone always keeps you in confusion,
Squeezed in a box, wholl win the race,
Ask no questions in this case,
Whats left is only you and your illusions,
Im juggling on a rope without a net and hope,
I keep my balance cos I see them smile with open jaws,
And if Im falling down, then I will soon be torn.
A squabble over prey: who gets the best part out of me,
To take the needle is a one-way trip without a coming back,
You take it and you still will see realityll make upon you.

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Few Came to Socialize with the Baker

~There's an 'old' player on the field.
One who has yet been revealed,
As appealing with significance.
But...
Significant this player is.
Significant to 'that' which lives.
Under the current circumstances.
And the benefit to 'whom'...
Those significant looming circumstances,
Come to grow and groom.~

The easiest thing to do...
For those in positions of leadership,
Appointed and likeable too.
Was...
Not to create opposition,
For those elated who appreciated...
A charading done in masquerade.

When favorite cakes are baked to taste...
Those waiting in anticipation,
Can be counted on to celebrate.
But...
When that oven is finally turned off,
And the aroma of baked cakes fade away.
People once patient,
Begin to show a disrespect.
With a desire to twist the leader's neck.
And a stirring of the masses begin to rise!
When the incompetence of the leader...
Catches all by surprise.

What now becomes prioritized,
Is what has happened to the funds?
And why no one accepts responsibility...
For paying bills that has not been done!

~Has the baker taken ill? ~

No one had ever questioned,
The credibility of those 'appointed' to lead.
Or an ability to think.on feet...
To keep a sinking process,
Now believed and seen as getting deep.

Those looks of impressions,
Seem to be consciously addressed.
Those dressed impeccably with images given...
Are lost to define leadership qualities felt to express.

However...
Everyone knew the taste of good cake.
But very few came to socialize with the baker!
Or knew a thing about what the baking of a good cake takes.

They just came prepared to eat.
Feed pretentions and agreed to meet.
Slap a few backs in 'glad-hand' chatting.
Before exiting with pocketed money arrangements.
Then to hop in luxurized cars to leave!

~There's an 'old' player on the field.
One who has yet been revealed,
As appealing with significance.
But...
Significant this player is.
Significant to 'that' which lives.
Under the current circumstances.
And the benefit to 'whom'...
Those significant looming circumstances,
Come to grow and groom...
Is lost.!

And the baker has stated to the candlestick maker...
'Let them try to do this again.
Without paying 'upfront'...
Every cent that is due us,
In unpaid dividends! '

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The Old Man with the Broken Arm

At Hsin-fëng—an old man—four-score and eight;
The hair on his head and the hair of his eyebrows—white as the new snow.
Leaning on the shoulders of his great-grandchildren, he walks in front of the Inn;
With his left arm he leans on their shoulders; his right arm is broken.
I asked the old man how many years had passed since he broke his arm;
I also asked the cause of the injury, how and why it happened.
The old man said he was born and reared in the District of Hsin-fëng;
At the time of his birth—a wise reign; no wars or discords.
“Often I listened in the Pear-Tree Garden to the sound of flute and song;
Naught I knew of banner and lance; nothing of arrow or bow.
Then came the wars of T’ien-pao and the great levy of men;
Of three men in each house—one man was taken.
And those to whom the lot fell, where were they taken to?
Five months’ journey, a thousand miles—away to Yiin-nan.
We heard it said that in Yiin-nan there flows the Lu River;
As the flowers fall from the pepper-trees, poisonous vapors rise.
When the great army waded across, the water seethed like a cauldron;
When barely ten had entered the water, two or three were dead.
To the north of my village, to the south of my village the sound of weeping and wailing,
Children parting from fathers and mothers; husbands parting from wives.
Everyone says that in expeditions against the Min tribes
Of a million men who are sent out, not one returns.

I, that am old, was then twenty-four;
My name and fore-name were written down in the rolls of the Board of War.
In the depth of the night not daring to let any one know
I secretly took a huge stone and dashed it against my arm.
For drawing the bow and waving the banner now wholly unfit;
I knew henceforward I should not be sent to fight in Yün-nan.
Bones broken and sinews wounded could not fail to hurt;
I was ready enough to bear pain, if only I got back home.
My arm—broken ever since; it was sixty years ago.
One limb, although destroyed—whole body safe!
But even now on winter nights when the wind and rain blow
From evening on till day’s dawn I cannot sleep for pain.
Not sleeping for pain
Is a small thing to bear,
Compared with the joy of being alive when all the rest are dead.
For otherwise, years ago, at the ford of Lu River
My body would have died and my soul hovered by the bones that no one gathered.
A ghost, I’d have wandered in Yiin-nan, always looking for home.
Over the graves of ten thousand soldiers, mournfully hovering.’’
So the old man spoke,
And I bid you listen to his words.
Have you not heard
That the Prime Minister of K’ai-yüan, Sung K’ai-fu,
Did not reward frontier exploits, lest a spirit of aggression should prevail?
And have you not heard
That the Prime Minster of T’ien-Pao, Yang Kuo-chung
Desiring to win imperial favour, started a frontier war?
But long before he could win the war, people had lost their temper;
Ask the man with thy broken arm in the village of Hsin-fëng!

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Patrick White

Not With The Eye, But Through It

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Living My Dreams With The Poets

I am living my dreams
With the poets of the city

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I Love To Wake Up With The Sunshine

I love to wake up with the sunshine
Shining in through my bedroon
Window everyday

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She Is Not In Love With The Devil

She is not in love with the devil
Because the devil doesn't respect her
And neither her wishes

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With The Rain

It started with the rain and,
It ended with love!
And see how beautiful your nakedness lay on my bed.

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