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In Judaism, there are 613 biblical commandments, and the Talmud says that the chief commandment of all is study.

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Why There Are No Seeds Growing In The Garden Anymore?

because the trees
have grown so tall
and the fruits are many...

because the flowers
are blooming
and there are no more
spaces for the
seedlings....

because the beach
is so calm and the blueness
has become so inviting...

the seeds can wait
always
for the next planting season...

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There are times when I recall the sweet scents

There are times when I recall the sweet scents
Of our friendship in its prime youth
What vile winds, what whispering sands,
What foul thoughts poisoned the truth
Constancy thrives only in heavenly realms of above
Life is painful and thorny, and it wares us into vain
And to strive to be worth of the one we love
Does work like havoc madness in the brain

But never either of us found the other again
To free the hollow heart from gnawing pain
Stubbornly we stood aloof and far, the scars remaining
The soul wounded and ailing
With no end to suffering and painting
In the reign of wrath, doubts and never reaching
There will never be souls bridging
Like lofty cliffs which had been set asunder
The cold dreary sea now flows between
And neither heat, nor frost, nor thunder
Shall move this ocean away from within
Oh Dear me, Oh Dare me to wean
The marks of her who once had been

copy rights 2010

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There Are Only Eyes Appearing Above The Surface

There are only eyes appearing above the surface
in the brown water of the river's pool
before they again disappear without a trace.
There are only eyes appearing above the surface
when it notices a prey, are covered by the water-curtain
where the crocodile hides in the depths of the river,
there are only eyes appearing above the surface
in the brown water of the river's pool.

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There Are So Many Ways Of Loving

you know that.
you lovely woman, you know what love is.
you know much better than me
for i am a bitter man
the one who loved so well and yet lost
that love and never found it again.

there are so many ways of loving
you know that
and i will not tell you anymore
i have loved you once
and i think that was all enough.

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There Are Walls There Are Ceilings

there are wall here and there are ears who listen so well
and eyes who see too clearly
you,
there are ceilings too
there are limits to what you can do
there are floors
between
you
now the cup has overflowed the dams break out
a flood
will cover you, the floor meets the ceiling and you are sandwiched
like a witch,

see..how you crumple?

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There are dew drops in your eyes

There are dew drops in your eyes, their green,
that laughs with me that look past all of my masks
that does strange things to me
when your eyes do not waver before mine,
then your tears fall like rain between leaves,
when both joy and pain flow from them,
and I smell gardenias in your hair,
while you let me realize some secrets of love,
when you do tell you about your feelings.

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There Are A Few Poets

THERE ARE A FEW POETS

There are a few poets
Beyond the poetry you and I know
And are capable of

There are a few poets
Who seem to write a poetry
Which is Poetry itself,
A Poetry which is everything Poetry should be-

Those poets are somewhere else
On a level far beyond any we can hope to reach-
They are Poetry –

And we we are the little listeners and readers
Who can in awe and praise worship
What we ourselves will forever be incapable of.

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There are times when hope

There are times when hope,
when the belief in what can be
is the only thing staying with me
and however life slopes

up and down mountains and dales
there are far too much unsaid
and the painful goodbyes
at times leave tears,

are full of fears
and of misunderstandings
that people suffer silently
and when I am judged by other people

may my actions, my words,
my motives and intentions
lead others to true conviction,
to happiness and how things should be.

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There Are People

There are people who are good
there are people who are bad
there are people who are rich
there are people who are poor
there are people who are happy
there are people who are sad
there are those who encourage
and those who discourage.
I’m a little bit of them,
though some may dispute that claim.
The fact that all of us
are just about the same.
Some might be a little more
of one thing than another
from the list above.
Somewhere along the line,
we all fall in a category
like it or not,
it is because we are
just human after all.

30 January 2008

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There Are Those Who Wait Years To Write A Poem

THERE ARE THOSE WHO WAIT YEARS TO WRITE A POEM

There are those who wait years to write a poem
The fruit slowly ripens inside and then as with Rilke
It suddenly falls -

There are those who write a few lines
And come back time after time
And find the poem after many efforts-

There are those who cannot wait to write a poem
And once conscious of it must write it down as fast as possible
Before it is lost-

And there are those who only in the present writing
Find the poem -

The page suffers many methods and modes

But what truly makes a poem worthy
Is another question.

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It Is Wonderful That There Are So Many Small Children In Israel

IT IS WONDERFUL THAT THERE ARE SO MANY SMALL CHILDREN IN ISRAEL

It is wonderful that there are so many small children in Israel
I see them everywhere and am happy when I see them.
Do they make up or compensate in some way for the million and one half Jewish children murdered a generation or two ago?
Nothing makes up for even one life lost
That we know.

But still seeing these children one invariably thinks of those other Jewish children-
I don't understand it at all-

It is wonderful that there are so many small children in Israel
Children are a great blessing and the hope of their parents and grandparents lives-

God Bless and protect these children
And let them never know the hatred the suffering the cruelty
Children no less innocent than them knew
A generation or two ago.

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There are bars around me

There are bars around me
and at times I cannot
break the obstruction, the things that divide

and like an animal I am caged, like an inquisitive person
I look at people, things that pass
and at times I cannot

get my eyes
to the other side of the wire which breaks every thing into bits
and I look at people, things that pass

and with every breaking day
things comprehend less, without a new beginning
to the other side of the wire which breaks every thing into bits


and I am caged without a life with you in it
and I do not know where to find someone to unlock my life
things comprehend less, without a new beginning


into eternity I serve out a jail term.
There are bars around me
and I do not know where to find someone to unlock my life,
break the obstruction, the things that divide.

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There Are Moments

There are moments
In the reservoir of life
When the hours become twisted
And slowly drown in infinity.

There are moments
When traveling through
The unending highway of destiny,
One feels like wasted in a bin of time.

There are moments
When the mind is trapped
In the tunnel of forgetfulness
While words become muted
And the fragile body motionless.

there are moments
When you feel like in a vessel
Caught on fire and capsizing
In the middle of the sea
Sadly knowing
There is not help at all.

There are moments
When facts are unknown
Why or what has happened
In the urgency of self-preservation
And the only help is oneself alone
In the rescue of the senses-flammable
Until oppositely charged
By expulsion or exposition.

Knowing the vessel was capsizing
and that the only sailor was me,
I found the way to stay afloat
Along with an invisible friend named Hope
Who gave me strength to keep on going
Until reaching the solid ground
Thank you, my Lord!
For no abandoning me
In this tumultuous journey!

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There Are Sounds of Mirth

There are sounds of mirth in the night-air ringing,
And lamps from every casement shown;
While voices blithe within are singing,
That seem to say "Come," in every tone.
Ah! once how light, in Life's young season,
My heart had leap'd at that sweet lay;
Nor paused to ask of greybeard Reason
Should I the syren call obey.

And, see -- the lamps still livelier glitter,
The syren lips more fondly sound;
No, seek, ye nymphs, some victim fitter
To sink in your rosy bondage bound.
Shall a bard,whom not the world in arms,
Could bend to tyranny's rude countroul,
Thus quail, at sight of woman's charms,
And yield to a smile his freeborn soul?

Thus sung the sage, while, slyly stealing,
The nymphs their fetters around him cast,
And -- their laughing eyes, the while, concealing --
Led Freedom's Bard their slave at last.
For the Poet's heart, still prone to loving,
Was like that rock of the Druid race,
Which the gentlest touch at once set moving,
But all earth's power couldn't cast from its base.

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Patrick White

There Are Masks

There are masks I will not wear,
backstage wardrobes I won't dress up in,
lives someone else can star in,
fires that will never feather my voice,
or sweep the shadows
from my palace of ice and eyes,
faces that will never hang like fruit
from any bough of my being,
daggers I won't bury in the wounds
they inflicted like mouths
the tongue has been cut out of,
dignities of desire
that will not circle the roadkill,
my wings linked to the foodchain.
My heart will never labour
like the ox of a bell under a yoke,
though I plough the starfields;
nor will I fill its rivers
with leeches and eclipses
and let it sip the blood of others
to nourish my own lust.
I will not smudge the clarity of my heat
with greenwood, not sacrifice
the hawk's eye for the ant's,
cloud the integrity of love with acrid reason.
I will not eat the days
like spoonfuls of my own ashes,
a martyr to my own orthodoxies,
trying to be true to a creed of fire
that moves underground like a root-fire
in a choir of cedars, the forbidden flame
smouldering, trying to bite its own tail,
trying to put itself out with its own tears
for the best of reasons,
for lost earrings in a coffin.
Anyone can see
you're a raven worthy of silver
who's roofing her wings with tin,
an urgent orchid with flare
trying to bloom in the shadow
of a nightshift toy factory.
Your wingspan
should be measured in horizons
from dawn to dusk; and you
free to ride your own thermals,
to slide yourself like a theshold or a love-letter
under the door of the wind,
to take the hood off your sky
and explore your own vastness,
all the bridges you built
to lie in the shadows
of the burning cherry trees,
true to your own emergency,
true to your own fingertips and eyes,
the impulse of the serpent at the gate
who whispers to you like skin
when the candles go out,
who comes to you like water to a witching wand
a root-god to the poppy
that shudders with black lightning
to be consumed like a torch in her own flames,
to drown in the black rose
of an exquisite oblivion,
naked in a moist parachute that blooms
like a smile you'd thought you'd lost.
The butterfly can't be
stuffed back into the cocoon,
the bird back into the egg,
the pearl back into the grain of sand
that grew a palace
out of the tiniest foundation stone.
Fire is not a flower of ashes
that sheds its petals twice
There are roads that disappear
like stray threads of hair
over our shoulders
even as we walk them,
every step farewell and arrival,
as time yeasts the envelope
with crucial stars that make things happen,
the wheatfield of an autumn letter
in the loaf of the hollow mailbox
rising like dawn out of a dark mouth
over its own harvest.
You can't live forever like a sentence
balked at the fang marks of the colon
you can't remember biting you.
Because life is not punctuated
any more than space,
things will follow
the promise of the serpent's tattoo
to die back into life,
the black lioness
of your passionate constellation,
not a nun at the stake
of a forbidden lust to live,
but a new moon at the opening gates
of the parenthetical secret
between two crescents.
Are you afraid
to let your life graze like wild horses
on the grasslands
of your own transformations,
do you desecrate a greater law
to obey a smaller;
would you tie your last lifeboat,
your last island full of moonlight
to the sunken pillars of a wharf
that aged like a palace,
an endless prelude
to a book of farewell
that collapsed under the weight
of its own hesitation
to read itself to the end?
Even now your foundation-stones
are turning into quicksand
and the abyss
of what you must jump into
to follow your wings
out of the barnyard
opens like a mouth
trying to clear a wishbone
or a song from its throat.
Are you afraid
to give up your collection of hats,
those skies and overturned nests you walk under,
a hawk behind chicken-wire
for a bough in the wild
without a return address?
I want to hear the nightbird sing
that dazzles the serpent
with the joy of her own being,
slowly ascending the tree like a stairwell
to seize her in the dark rapture
of his amorous coils
and drown her in tide after tide of transfiguring wine,
the secret oceans of bliss
that lie hidden
in every dropp of blood, every tear
that falls from the thorns
of the black star that burns like a rose
in the mouth of the dragon
that is waiting like wings
at her bruised heel
for her to wash off the old mythologies,
naked in the eye of the rain,
and mount the taboo and eclipse
of her own repealed desire
and fly from the graveyard firepits
of the grounded comets
praying for a match in hell
to light the pyres of their own cremations.
Ill omen or good,
the brush is loaded with red,
with roses, blood, fire,
and the sky is primed
like the virgin seabed of the canvas before you.
Staring will not paint the apple
you want to bite into,
install the serpent like a voice
in the tree that tempts you,
run the fingers of the nightwind
through your raven hair like a mad pianist
trying to tune your keyboard
to the crazed scales of the full moon.
If you want to dance naked
under chandeliers of black cherries,
alive enough to get away with yourself
don't turn your eyes to glass
and scan the heavens
like the small end of a telescope
to see if you can spot your own approach
like an astronomical catastrophe
that will burn the house down,
the matchbook flaring of a coffin
that docks like a death-boat
to take on a cargo of ashes;
but lay down one stroke of paint,
risk your own interstellar spaces once,
leap like a wounded dolphin
from the wave of the mirror once,
and life will strew stars in your path
that will awake the dreamer
like gardens in the furrows
of your salted fields.
You will stop living
like an arsonist in a volunteer fire-brigade
before the blaze of your own hunger
for heat and light
and run like a sudden thaw of honey
from the frozen hive
that wants to ride its own melting
like a forge pouring out the hot metals
of the enchanted swords
the dark magicians plunge into the stone
to sort the jesters from the crowns.

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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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Jade Goody and the Unsung Heroes

One day I went to the Cancer Clinic -
It made me sad, but perhaps I'm a cynic,
I didn't believe what the papers said
Milking emotions about the living dead!

Jade, Jade,
You had it made,
There are millions like you
And they don't get paid! !

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And The Boys

There are,
Girls loving girls.
And...
Boys sharing their toys as decoys.
And they...
Make it okay,
To...
Do it their way today.

Girls saying...
They don't have to have a man,
To reach for an understanding.
And...
They've made it okay today,
To...
Have it their way.

And the boys...
Do down low under the sheets.
Playing ball where they please,
In discreet.
As the girls say,
They don't have to have a man,
To reach for an understanding.

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The Angel and the Clown

I saw wild domes and bowers
And smoking incense towers
And mad exotic flowers
In Illinois.
Where ragged ditches ran
Now springs of Heaven began
Celestial drink for man
In Illinois.

There stood beside the town
Beneath its incense-crown
An angel and a clown
In Illinois.
He was as Clowns are:
She was snow and star
With eyes that looked afar
In Illinois.

I asked, "How came this place
Of antique Asian grace
Amid our callow race
In Illinois?"
Said Clown and Angel fair:
"By laughter and by prayer,
By casting off all care
In Illinois."

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The Storm And The Bush

There are only two things in the world—
The storm in the air and the stretch of green leaves;
The flesh of the forest that quivers and heaves
As the blast on its bosom is hurled.
Above is the whip of the wind
That scourges the cowering forest beneath:
The Storm spits the hiss of the hail from his teeth,
And leaves the world writhing behind!
Like a beast that is bound in a cage
When the keeper's lash lights and the keeper's goad stings,
Each tree his great limbs to his torturer flings
In a groaning and impotent rage.
As the leaves to a fiercer gust lean
The wind throws their undersides upward to sight,
And the foam of the forest-sea flashes to white
Out over full fathoms of green.

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