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As I said earlier, there are no writers who could create a literary vision of the new reality.

quote by Andrzej Wajda
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He was every person's Creator

For every bird gruesomely killed; he had the power to
create infinite more fledglings,

For every river dried miserably to a trickle; he had
the power to create infinite oceans,

For every tree brutally chopped to the ground; he had
the power to create infinite forests,

For every eye inadvertently blinded; he had the power
to create infinite with sight,

For every satanic night taking a complete stranglehold
on light; he had the power to create infinite
brilliant days,

For every tongue which was disdainfully dumb; he had
the power to create infinite mouths which could speak
and shout,

For every iota of currency furtively stolen; he had
the power to create infinite banks looming high and
handsome till the heavens,

For every couple who was childless and rendered
cruelly unable to procreate; he had the power to
create infinite more households bustling with a
battalion of toddlers,

For every brain that was wholesomely exhausted; he
had the power to create infinite intelligent minds,

For every child disastrously orphaned on the streets;
he had the power to create infinite families complete
in all respects,
For every blade of grass mercilessly trampled; he had
the power to create infinite meadows of lush green
crop,

For every skeleton lying disdainfully buried under the
coffin; he had the power to create infinite bodies;
dancing about in robust health and thunderous fervor,

For every scalp that was balder than the egg; he had
the power to create infinite strands of shimmering
hair,

For every life lost unwittingly during the tumultuous
earthquake; he had the power to create infinite more
souls as Kings,

[...] Read more

poem by Nikhil Parekh
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The Holy Grail

From noiseful arms, and acts of prowess done
In tournament or tilt, Sir Percivale,
Whom Arthur and his knighthood called The Pure,
Had passed into the silent life of prayer,
Praise, fast, and alms; and leaving for the cowl
The helmet in an abbey far away
From Camelot, there, and not long after, died.

And one, a fellow-monk among the rest,
Ambrosius, loved him much beyond the rest,
And honoured him, and wrought into his heart
A way by love that wakened love within,
To answer that which came: and as they sat
Beneath a world-old yew-tree, darkening half
The cloisters, on a gustful April morn
That puffed the swaying branches into smoke
Above them, ere the summer when he died
The monk Ambrosius questioned Percivale:

`O brother, I have seen this yew-tree smoke,
Spring after spring, for half a hundred years:
For never have I known the world without,
Nor ever strayed beyond the pale: but thee,
When first thou camest--such a courtesy
Spake through the limbs and in the voice--I knew
For one of those who eat in Arthur's hall;
For good ye are and bad, and like to coins,
Some true, some light, but every one of you
Stamped with the image of the King; and now
Tell me, what drove thee from the Table Round,
My brother? was it earthly passion crost?'

`Nay,' said the knight; `for no such passion mine.
But the sweet vision of the Holy Grail
Drove me from all vainglories, rivalries,
And earthly heats that spring and sparkle out
Among us in the jousts, while women watch
Who wins, who falls; and waste the spiritual strength
Within us, better offered up to Heaven.'

To whom the monk: `The Holy Grail!--I trust
We are green in Heaven's eyes; but here too much
We moulder--as to things without I mean--
Yet one of your own knights, a guest of ours,
Told us of this in our refectory,
But spake with such a sadness and so low
We heard not half of what he said. What is it?
The phantom of a cup that comes and goes?'

`Nay, monk! what phantom?' answered Percivale.

[...] Read more

poem by Alfred Lord Tennyson
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The Dream

'TWAS summer eve; the changeful beams still play'd
On the fir-bark and through the beechen shade;
Still with soft crimson glow'd each floating cloud;
Still the stream glitter'd where the willow bow'd;
Still the pale moon sate silent and alone,
Nor yet the stars had rallied round her throne;
Those diamond courtiers, who, while yet the West
Wears the red shield above his dying breast,
Dare not assume the loss they all desire,
Nor pay their homage to the fainter fire,
But wait in trembling till the Sun's fair light
Fading, shall leave them free to welcome Night!

So when some Chief, whose name through realms afar
Was still the watchword of succesful war,
Met by the fatal hour which waits for all,
Is, on the field he rallied, forced to fall,
The conquerors pause to watch his parting breath,
Awed by the terrors of that mighty death;
Nor dare the meed of victory to claim,
Nor lift the standard to a meaner name,
Till every spark of soul hath ebb'd away,
And leaves what was a hero, common clay.

Oh! Twilight! Spirit that dost render birth
To dim enchantments; melting Heaven with Earth,
Leaving on craggy hills and rumning streams
A softness like the atmosphere of dreams;
Thy hour to all is welcome! Faint and sweet
Thy light falls round the peasant's homeward feet,
Who, slow returning from his task of toil,
Sees the low sunset gild the cultured soil,
And, tho' such radliance round him brightly glows,
Marks the small spark his cottage window throws.
Still as his heart forestals his weary pace,
Fondly he dreams of each familiar face,
Recalls the treasures of his narrow life,
His rosy children, and his sunburnt wife,

To whom his coming is the chief event
Of simple days in cheerful labour spent.
The rich man's chariot hath gone whirling past,
And those poor cottagers have only cast
One careless glance on all that show of pride,
Then to their tasks turn'd quietly aside;
But him they wait for, him they welcome home,
Fond sentinels look forth to see him come;
The fagot sent for when the fire grew dim,
The frugal meal prepared, are all for him;
For him the watching of that sturdy boy,

[...] Read more

poem by Caroline Elizabeth Sarah Norton
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Ode to the Great Unknown

'O breathe not his name!'
—Moore.

I

Thou Great Unknown!
I do not mean Eternity, nor Death,
That vast incog!
For I suppose thou hast a living breath,
Howbeit we know not from whose lungs 'tis blown,
Thou man of fog!
Parent of many children—child of none!
Nobody's son!
Nobody's daughter—but a parent still!
Still but an ostrich parent of a batch
Of orphan eggs,—left to the world to hatch
Superlative Nil!
A vox and nothing more,—yet not Vauxhall;
A head in papers, yet without a curl!
Not the Invisible Girl!
No hand—but a handwriting on a wall—
A popular nonentity,
Still call'd the same,—without identity!
A lark, heard out of sight,—
A nothing shin'd upon,—invisibly bright,
'Dark with excess of light!'
Constable's literary John-a-nokes—
The real Scottish wizard—and not which,
Nobody—in a niche;
Every one's hoax!
Maybe Sir Walter Scott—
Perhaps not!
Why dost thou so conceal and puzzle curious folks?

II

Thou,—whom the second-sighted never saw,
The Master Fiction of fictitious history!
Chief Nong-tong-paw!
No mister in the world—and yet all mystery!
The 'tricksy spirit' of a Scotch Cock Lane—
A novel Junius puzzling the world's brain—
A man of Magic—yet no talisman!
A man of clair obscure—not he o' the moon!
A star—at noon.
A non-descriptus in a caravan,
A private—of no corps—a northern light
In a dark lantern,—Bogie in a crape—
A figure—but no shape;

[...] Read more

poem by Thomas Hood
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Four Main Types of Writers (personal opinion)

The Lonely Writer

Some writings tell me
This person is lonely
And is reaching out
For the touch of a friendly comment
These writers are sad, solitary,
Isolated, but good persons
And quite often very good writers

The needy juvenile writer

Some writings contain words
Or language meant to shock
And to offend.
These writers are lonely also
But in a different way.
These writers are simply saying
Like a little child
“hey! I exist! Someone better
Acknowledge me! ”
These writers can often write well
But usually don’t, can’t, or choose not to

The Spite Writer

This writer can be of either gender
But seems to be in a female majority
They’ve been spurned or rejected
Two-timed or lied to.
And they are going to vent their ire
In the most public way they can.
These writers can also be very good writers
But too often let their anger get in the way.

The Religious Writer

These writers show people passionate
And zealously devoted to singing the praises
Of the Lord and goodness and charity.
They’re probably austere, honest people
Who almost always write very well.
For the most part these writers seem
To want to spread the word and
At the same time tend to be rather singular
In the subject matter of their writings,
Rarely attempting other genres.

poem by David Whalen
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Edge Of Reality

(words & music by giant - baum - kaye)
I walk along a thin line darling
Dark shadows follow me
Heres where lifes dream lies disillusioned
The edge of reality
Oh I can hear strange voices echo
Laughing with mockery
The border line of doom Im facing
The edge of reality
On the edge of reality she sits there tormenting me
The girl with the nameless face
On the edge of reality where she overpowers me
With fears that I cant explain
She drove me to the point of madness
The brink of misery
If shes not real then Im condemned to
The edge of reality
On the edge of reality she sits there tormenting me
The girl with the nameless face
On the edge of reality where she overpowers me
With fears that I cant explain
She drove me to the point of madness
The brink of misery
If shes not real then Im condemned to
The edge of reality
Reality, reality, reality, reality,
Reality, reality, reality, reality

song performed by Elvis Presley
Added by Lucian Velea
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Book IV - Part 03 - The Senses And Mental Pictures

Bodies that strike the eyes, awaking sight.
From certain things flow odours evermore,
As cold from rivers, heat from sun, and spray
From waves of ocean, eater-out of walls
Around the coasts. Nor ever cease to flit
The varied voices, sounds athrough the air.
Then too there comes into the mouth at times
The wet of a salt taste, when by the sea
We roam about; and so, whene'er we watch
The wormword being mixed, its bitter stings.
To such degree from all things is each thing
Borne streamingly along, and sent about
To every region round; and Nature grants
Nor rest nor respite of the onward flow,
Since 'tis incessantly we feeling have,
And all the time are suffered to descry
And smell all things at hand, and hear them sound.
Besides, since shape examined by our hands
Within the dark is known to be the same
As that by eyes perceived within the light
And lustrous day, both touch and sight must be
By one like cause aroused. So, if we test
A square and get its stimulus on us
Within the dark, within the light what square
Can fall upon our sight, except a square
That images the things? Wherefore it seems
The source of seeing is in images,
Nor without these can anything be viewed.

Now these same films I name are borne about
And tossed and scattered into regions all.
But since we do perceive alone through eyes,
It follows hence that whitherso we turn
Our sight, all things do strike against it there
With form and hue. And just how far from us
Each thing may be away, the image yields
To us the power to see and chance to tell:
For when 'tis sent, at once it shoves ahead
And drives along the air that's in the space
Betwixt it and our eyes. And thus this air
All glides athrough our eyeballs, and, as 'twere,
Brushes athrough our pupils and thuswise
Passes across. Therefore it comes we see
How far from us each thing may be away,
And the more air there be that's driven before,
And too the longer be the brushing breeze
Against our eyes, the farther off removed
Each thing is seen to be: forsooth, this work
With mightily swift order all goes on,
So that upon one instant we may see

[...] Read more

poem by Lucretius
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Most Writers

Most writers 'twould seem have moments of self doubt
But they never go short of things to write about
And to become a top writer of one a big ask
And to succeed as a writer for many seems too daunting a task.

Most writers do not write for wealth or for fame
And despite lack of success they pen on just the same
For every one hundred thousand writers perhaps one writing millionaire
Amongst the ranks of the wealthy the writers are rare.

Few writers can hope for to scale success height
For the love of writing they only do write
Few writers get published and fewer know of success
But in their writings on paper their thoughts they express.

Most writers will never know wealth and renown
And they are not even well known in their own Hometown
They never will be known beyond their home shore
They write for the love of it and little more.

poem by Francis Duggan
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Writer's Drought

You've heard of a thing called writer's block and you've heard of writer's drought
But writers are never short of things on which they can write about
It's just at times their inspiration well does seem to run dry
And they cannot seem to pen a line though hard enough they try.

The writers drought it causes writers moments of self doubt
Till the words that seem locked in them eventually flow out
Through their pens to their notebooks their dry spells do not last
And on time lost out on penning words they seem to catch up fast.

Some writers in their writing drought cannot seem to feel inspired
To write even a single line they feel mentally tired
But when fresh inspiration comes to them much better stuff they do write
And feeling re-invigorated they sit and pen all night.

Most writers you will talk to of writers drought can tell
When there is no inspiration in their inspiration well
But when inspiration returns to them and their creative juices flow
They become much better writers and in self confidence grow.

poem by Francis Duggan
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Dr Samuel Johnson's Dictionary Masterpiece

June 1746 deeply dissatisfied
with the dictionaries of the period
London booksellers contracted

Dr Samuel Johnson to write
'A Dictionary of the English Language'
15 April 1755 finally published.

Johnson took nine years to create
an authoritative dictionary of the English language
could finish in three years he claimed?

Preposterous Académie Française employed;
in comparison over forty learned scholars
spending needing forty years to complete;

its dictionary in the French language.
Forty Frenchmen times forty years
is not nine but 1600 years to complete.

Miracle miracle Johnson 1591 years defeats.
For what princely sum did Johnson contract
with William Strahan and printer associates;

a preeminent Dictionary in English to complete?
18 June 1746 in historic morning was signed
a project prestigious contact worth 1,500 guineas?

This sum of 1,500 guineas is
in pounds £1,575 equivalent
in 2012 to about £230,000.

A consortium of London's most
successful printers including Robert
Dodsley, Thomas Longman, would

finance a dictionary none could afford;
on such scale to undertake alone, thus was
contracted to be; a meticulous feat of legend.

Twas said 'the world contemplated
with wonder so stupendous a work achieved
by one man, while other countries

had thought such undertakings
fit only for whole academies'.'
OED took writers 70 years to complete.

[...] Read more

poem by Terence George Craddock
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Stream Line Consciousness

Big brother voyeur blimps unidentified spies
uncle sam peeping toms patrolling skies
bird brain police intelligence
remote viewing homeland pest control
pentagon private eye monitoring the public's every move
mass produced micro chips intercepting prayers patrolling citizens from heaven
Bentham's Panopticon NSA
super computer surveillance cameras
world police spying Manhattan streets

'Athens plummets Euro death spiral
suicide rates soar deepening into despair'

haaretz..the post.. the times
blogs tribunes dailies all in a mad gab
headlong headline attention grabbing scramble

'Yugoslavia - Iraq - Egypt - Yemen - Iran - Syria - United States'
bilderberg building blocks New American Century post apocalyptic prophecy

'foreign mercenaries …national guard...DOD
homeland security to amass covert munitions stockpile
Americans on guard anxieties mounting surrounding
the stripping of amendments 1st if you swing to your left
2nd if you stand on the right
whispers of martial law circulate Anarchical reverberations
emanate from internet Alt culture epicenters
bottle necking global tensions'

'common feeling of deepening disappointment...
heightened expectations...
people expecting an explosive situation over the
next few weeks'

...riot police respond 'to preserve public order'
public roads barricaded to 'protect security of citizens'

'blatant act of censorship
western mainstream media staying away
from Myanmar massacres of Mohammedan Angels
further showing strong anti Muslim bias'

'Media blackout Burmese army
seeking coverage under propaganda blankets'

from the middle east throughout the western world
planet consciousness blurring lines between conspiracy/reality
conflicting global network narratives multiply violent scenarios daily
Victims in a world wide scramble
Government Banking Military

[...] Read more

poem by Gregory Allen Uhan
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My burning desire to create

MY BURNING DESIRE TO CREATE

So intense and so powerful
Like a furious burning fire
My desire to create is so powerful
So painful and so throbbing
Like a hungry child crying for food
My desire to create is so hopeful
So rigid and so consistent
Like a passionate entrepreneur
My passion to create is so unshakeable

Every hour that passes by I want to create
Every moment I spend I long to create
I have a living urge and desire to create
A living passion to express myself
A burning desire to live my true life

Sometimes I hide myself in the midst of business
At times I deliberately cloud my space with my busy life
Sometimes I try to hide away from my passion to create
Sometimes I try to narrow down the size of my passion
But regardless of all my efforts my desire always finds me
I am so transparent inside, my passion to create
Has invaded all my privacy inside
So strong and so powerful
Like a helpless child looking for love and security
My desire to create is so seeking and so burning.

poem by Tsholofelo Mooketsi
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Most Of The So Called Literary Experts

Most of the so called literary experts are dismissive of rhyme
They say 'tis the poetry of a long gone time
Yet the poets that they laud the poems they do write
Cannot be put to music and are hard to read and recite
The rhymer of today is not looked on as a poet
Or is not seen as one worthy of literary note
By the so called literary experts with literary degrees
Though their judgement on what is or is not poetry not everyone does please
They never will convince the old style rhyme buff
To him or her well written rhyme is not throw away stuff
In well written rhyme are the words to a song
And good rhyming poetry to music belong
Yet the degreed literary experts who on poetry like to have their say
Dismiss rhyming poets and their poetry as of yesterday.

poem by Francis Duggan
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Because I Don't Confront You

Because I don't confront you
doesn't mean this tree
doesn't know how to stand up to the wind.
If I bend like a river reed in a current
I'll still be here
long after the current has passed.
To the unenlightened it's inconceivable
there's nothing to win
because both opposites are empty.
Take empty from empty it's still empty.
No reason to put a gun to your head to check it out.
Just because you've got a trigger
like the first crescent of the moon
doesn't mean you have to pull it.
Three for three.
Blood and cartridges.
Strange lipstick.
But you're still banking on the one that's empty.
Those that have the power to hurt
but will do none.
Shakespeare.
Sonnet 94.
Lonely advice to those who never take it.
And it's not hard to imagine
better things to do in the world
than trade barbs and stingers
with third world killer bees.
And there's nothing unholier than a holy war.
Or a faith that festers
because it doesn't know
how to clean a wound properly.
Even maggots make better nurses than that.
And besides
as unlikely as it seems at times
I'd rather be loved than right.
I don't want to lie down with a woman at night
like a body count.
You say I'm not in touch with reality
as if reality were some kind of guillotine
you expected me to stick my neck out for
swanning on the block.
No.
I don't stay in touch much
with French executioners.
But I can see the world as you see it.
A snakepit with the occasional apple-tree.
You think of reality as a hard medicine
you have to wince like a lemon to take
but if you ask me
the way you put it

[...] Read more

poem by Patrick White
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Cursed (story)

I am Bill.I live with my brother, my dad, mom and my lil sis.There's always this thing that bothers my mind..it's because i believe that my mom and sis already died.It was almost a yearago yet not that old to be forgotten.our house was burnt for unknown reason.They we're found dead on the room i was staying.Burned, yet there's still mystery upon their death.

I can barely remember that i see mere smoke and huge fire.i was just 7 yet my mind works as if i was not.After the tragic happenings the ocean made noise and i saw a huge wave comming towards our direction.Crowds of neigbors, the police, the rescuers and even i, my lil bro and dad run away.

our house was swallowed by that huge wave.After that i don't know what else happened.I hear my dad yell and my lil bro crying.I see blurry lights and hear the sirens.I was asleep! am i? i see the lights striking in my eyelids yet i can not see any image.i hear the sound of waves smashing unto rocks then i'm

shocked to reality i'm just sitting on the deck before the emergency room in the city hospital.I was wonderin' what i'm doin' there but 'twas just a couple'o seconds when i saw my lil bro and dad walked out the emergency room, smiling and waved on me.My dad shouted com'mon bill let's go home.okey, well my dad's calling me.Gotta go!

i really don't know what happened but as we go back to where our house was build it was still there standing steady and strong.I looked around i saw our neighbor's house burnt.and i said' oh, bla bla i really don't know what's happening! ' and asked dad 'dad i thought it was our house burned? '

and as i always hear from him dad answered in a huge voice 'what? are you out of your mind? '

then i heared a soft voice saying 'John, let him rest.Maybe he's hallucinating.he's from kelly's house beside the shore.we all knew it's almost impossible for him to survive that huge fire.'

my pores closed, my spines shivered..and my heart pumped fast...

i shouted' who's that'? ... MOM?

and the voice answered 'yes dear.'

my dad then said' LEt's took him to the doctor, maybe the accident affected his mind too.'

'but DAD! ! , Mom and tricia died already! '

he answered: 'That's not funny bill! if yu're thinking this is the right time to crack pranks.well ITS NOT! ! ..Go to your room! ! '

'but DAD? '!

'NO buts, go to your room.NOW! '

okey, it seems like i really am hallucinating..maybe i came over kelly's house and caused fire and cause of the pressure and i was so scared that i would be charged for the accident i run out of my consciousness..yeah..maybe that's what happened..

[...] Read more

poem by Ellirie Aviles
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Sugar We're Going Down

Am I more than you bargained for yet
I've been dying to tell you anything you want to hear
Cause that's just who I am this week
Lie in the grass, next to the mausoleum
I'm just a notch in your bedpost
But you're just a line in a song
(A notch in your bedpost, but you're just a line in a song)
Drop a heart, break a name
We're always sleeping in, and sleeping for the wrong team
We're going down, down in an earlier round
And Sugar, we're going down swinging
I'll be your number one with a bullet
A loaded god complex, cock it and pull it
We're going down, down in an earlier round
And Sugar, we're going down swinging
I'll be your number one with a bullet
A loaded god complex, cock it and pull it
Is this more than you bargained for yet
Oh don't mind me I'm watching you two from the closet
Wishing to be the friction in your jeans
Isn't it messed up how I'm just dying to be him
I'm just a notch in your bedpost
But you're just a line in a song
(Notch in your bedpost, but you're just a line in a song)
Drop a heart, break a name
We're always sleeping in, and sleeping for the wrong team
We're going down, down in an earlier round
And Sugar, we're going down swinging
I'll be your number one with a bullet
A loaded god complex, cock it and pull it
[x2]
Down, down in an earlier round
And Sugar, we're going down swinging
I'll be your number one with a bullet
A loaded god complex, cock it and pull it
We're going down, down in an earlier round
And Sugar, we're going down swinging
I'll be your number one with a bullet
A loaded god complex, cock it and pull it
We're going down, down (down, down)
Down, down (down, down)
We're going down, down (down, down)
A loaded god complex, cock it and pull it
We're going down, down in an earlier round
And Sugar, we're going down swinging
I'll be your number one with a bullet
A loaded god complex, cock it and pull it

song performed by Fall Out Boy
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Double Vision

Feeling down n dirty, feeling kinda mean
Ive been from one to another extreme
This time I had a good time, aint got time to wait
I wanna stick around till I cant see straight
Fill my eyes with that double vision, no disguise for that double vision
Ooh, when it gets through to me, its always new to me
My double vision gets the best of me
Never do more than I really need
My mind is racing, but my bodys in the lead
Tonights the night, Im gonna push it to the limit
I live all of my years in a single minute
Fill my eyes with that double vision, no disguise for that double vision
Ooh, when it gets through to me, its always new to me
My double vision always seems to get the best of me - the best of me, yeah
Ooh, double vision, I need my double vision
It takes me out of my head, takin me out of my head
I get my double vision, oh, seeing double double
Oh, I have double vision, yeah, Im getting double vision... (to fade)

song performed by Foreigner
Added by Lucian Velea
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Reality's Dream

I staggered back from the blow;
Reality struck me again
this time harder
mocking me as I fell.

'You have always been so clear about
your plans and goals haven't you;
clear about what you wanted to achieve or know
how you would overcome all obstacles
but Pilgrim you had no plan B;
I always grant people like you
first place in my line
because you all are Prisoners Of Your Own Dreams and Schemes
hurtling through life 'Dreamers of the Impossible Dream'
Perfection's Confection blinds you by its own light-
wouldn't you agree? '

I gradually regained my feet and
stared into those unforgiving, taunting eyes
thinking strangely
that Reality is much like a bully.

'And hear you are now, ' Reality was saying
'alone
without family or friends
clutching to those dreams
which will never come true
being instead
here now
my prisoner
for all eternity

forced now to worship
at my altar.

He cackled a horrible cackle.

I looked at him in a haze
realizing he had a point
but too
that moment
exposed Reality's
own weaknesses:
he was counting upon my apathy-
my sense of defeat-
to make me surrender to him
believe in him and his power.

I rose
stared at him

[...] Read more

poem by Lonnie Hicks
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Reality (1st of Seven Secondary Virtues)

Poem Title: (Reality) 1st of Seven Secondary Virtues of a Happy Marriage

Poem 174 b …. Title : (Reality) 1st of Seven Secondary Virtues of a Happy Marriage.

Subject Reality...As a Human being.A creature that cuts down trees, then to pulp in a machine.
As an attempt to manufacture a cost effective way of transmitting News to all the World.
Most of which is of Climate Change and full of subjective slogans on how we must save the trees!

Real Reality..... How about this Poet? Who lives within a Fantasy of Trust whereby he allows
His Loving Partner to hold the sacred knowledge of the password to his private website.
And always knowing this, knew that anything that he did write could then be read in true Reality.

Hypo statical Reality ….As a Happy Marriage holds three levels of Hypo stasis in a given day.
Blood pressure rising or falling in anticipation as to the level of eggs that he be treading upon.
Metaphysically thinking and speaking in riddles or codes too, for all time to confuse an enemy.

Beyond the wit of Reality........ Any Happy Marriage is beholding three levels of wit.
The wit of knowing when to sleep with the wisest of wise tongues keeping the wisest of heads.
The wit of the pretence of reality and being wide wide wide awake too a Lovers every need.

The Fantasy of the Reality.....Of any Happy Marriage is the joint ability to understand difference.
Difference in attitude, Man to Woman, Woman to Man.Lie to Exaggeration, Exaggerative Lie.
Fantasy of the moment, of the drudgery of daily grinds or the reality of a magic carpet ride.

The Reality of a Happy Marriage is striving to achieve to score the winning Goal in allotted time.
Loosing score, playing two halves plus extra time and neither gaining upper hand through penalties
Real Subjective Reality, Hypo static God Head to prevail by use of Wit and Prose and Pure Fantasy!

(Written 13th July 2010) A Triversen at first attempt. Success or Failure (Time will tell)

poem by Philip Winchester
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Edgar Allan Poe

An American literary icon but what caused his death none seem to know
He was more than a man of words the great Edgar Allan Poe
He died when in his forties his best writing years of him ahead
His fame has attained greatness and he is widely read.

Most writers in their forties have scarcely reached their writing prime
His marvellous poem 'The Raven' has not faded out in time
A writer for all ages and one of literary note
And many who love literature have him as their favourite poet.

In life he was quite famous in death greatness he did attain
As an immortal literary gem 'The Raven' does remain
In the English speaking Countries of the World from North to Southern shore
His writings remain popular and his readers now far more

Than he had in his lifetime his genius is living on
Whilst millions of his contemporaries to obscurity have gone
Despite the passing of time his literary legend grow
Though in his too brief life span few him did wish to know.

poem by Francis Duggan
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