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Life can only be understood backward, but it must be lived forward.

classic quote by Kierkegaard
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Life can only be understood backwards; but it must be lived forwards.

quote by Soren Kierkegaard
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Losing My Senses

Dave mustaine
One man speaking the truth
No one likes when it fits
So we tell soothing lies
And betray our own lips
The uncivilized world
And its people decay
Once sweet breeze is defiled
Sucking our breath away
Fill solos - mustaine
Yesterdays answers has nothing to do
With todays questions
Life can only be understood in reverse
But must be lived forwards
Im losing my senses, Im losing my senses
Fill solos - mustaine
We watch as the living all die
Contemplating if we should
Ever open our eyes
If all that we touch
Keeps turning to sand
We will cease to exist
Till the last living man
Fill solos - mustaine
Yesterdays answers has nothing to do
With todays questions
Life can only be understood in reverse
But must be lived forward
Life can only be understood in reverse
But must be lived forward
Im losing my senses
Fill solos - mustaine / solo - pitrelli
Yesterdays answers has nothing to do
With todays questions
Life can only be understood in reverse
But must be lived forwards
Life can only be understood in reverse
But must be lived forwards
Fill solos and synth - mustaine
String arrangement - suzie katayama

song performed by Megadeth
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One Can Only Ask Why

Sharp tears flow down my face
Eye-to-eye I stand with death
Disfigured by his gruesome breath

My life a puppet to depression
Trying to escape the over shadow of pain
Suffocated by confusion
A victim to my own thoughts

Shiny metal into my skin
Bleed away the pain within
Show me a cliff
And I’ll try to fly

I’m tired of fighting
The invincible
So depression I say to you this

You win
But before I die
One can only ask why?

poem by Jess Cadman
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Life can be... But life is...

Life can be happy and great
It can make you energetic and feel so awake
It shows you, you can do anything if you just believe
There is no limit to try and conquer your dreams

But what happens
When it all turns bad
Where instead of being happy
You end up sad

Where life shows it's bad side
That makes you break and fall
There's nothing underneath you
So you can't stand tall

Where pain gets you
Right in the heart
It controls you
As you break and fall apart

It gets you down
Where it's hard to get back to your feet
It might take a while to recover
So hold tight on your seat

poem by Lisa French
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I Can Only Give You Everything

I cant give you more than what Ive got
I cant expect to give what I have not
I-i-i can only give ya lovin till the sun goes down
And, until the leaves of summer turn to shades of brown
I try and I try
But baby, you know that i
Can only give you evrathing
I cant argue with you to a-understand
cause afterall, I am just a man
A you-ooo-ooo are on my mind
When stars appear and shadows fall
And, when evra little flower goes
And and no buds call
I try and I try
But baby, you know that i
Can only give you evrathing
(instrumental)
Ill do anything you want me to do
cause I dont want to know theres life without you
Ooh, ooh, ooh,
Dont ever go and leave me in this world alone
I-i-Id be like a child if I was on my own
I try and I try
But baby you know that i
Can only give you evrathing
Evrathing, baby
A little bit of this, a little bit of that
And evrathing
Ooh, ooh, ooh
Fades
Ooh, ooh, ooh
Whoa, ooh, ooh
Whoa, ooh, ooh
Yeah, yeah, yeah

song performed by Van Morrison
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If life can be

If life can be measured
Then there won't be any pleasure
It has everything in abundance
Take it freely and avail golden chance

This is the only field where you need no wealth
Love takes you forever till the last step of death
Hand in hand to last and take deep breath
Everything is before you as good faith

If at all anything that can bring smile
Stay there and think for a while
What is secret behind such magic?
Why love airs such music?

Think not about fragrance
It can be had by chance
But what about whole atmosphere?
Where you dream about her without fear

Think about such magnetic field
It is forever and permanently held
Individual reaches to perfection
With only one touch and simple action

I shall prefer to swim and sink
But shall not give any chance to think
This one has been obtained through without struggle
Later on let there be hurdles and enough of troubles

If ever you feel that heart has run out of kind feeling
Go to near by jungle, sit under tree and start thinking
It may generate series of waves to make you realize
Nature is always there to take care of and oblige

I wish that love stream should never dry out
We talk enough of love and rule out
Yet its essence remains to be seen with naked eyes
Person longs for it throughout life time and tries

poem by Hasmukh Amathalal
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Master Of Mind Can only be a Master Mind!

Seeing and hearing,
Is it eye that see?
Is it ear that hear?
Eyes are windows of Mind,
Like are ears, eyes have eyelids, ears remain open!

Seeing is not perceiving,
Light passes through the small camera,
Giving picture of world around,
Yet mind is the processor,
Process the data,
Process the colourful image,
Sometime filling with its own colour!

But it is not vision,
mind sees something itself,
Seeing through the mind without the help of eyes
Neither windows opened,
Nor light from open windows affect!

Mind is that faculty sees something within,
And day by day the vision become clear,
When mind learns it is not the seer,
It sees everything clear,
Clearly presented to the master,
And Self is the master of Mind,
When mind is pure and clear,
Without prejudice and suspense traits,
Self perceives self in its true nature,
Nothing goes bad,
processed food for thought remain good for ever!

one who sees eyes as seer,
He is ignorant,
One who sees mind as a seer,
Knows not,
One whose mind sees the seer is different,
Vision get purified, seer can see through the mind,
Scenes seen by mind with eyes closed,
when perceived by seer,
It becomes vision of life,
And that vision when becomes ambition of life,
Ambition becomes aspiration,
Aspiration transforms into mission,
Mission transmits wisdom and genius of self!

Self becomes master Of mind
Self becomes master Mind,
Master and mind becomes one,
Master Of Mind Can only be a Master Mind

poem by Ramdas Bhandarkar
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God, I Hurt Sometimes For Reasons I Can Only Guess

for Sally

God, I hurt sometimes for reasons I can only guess.
Don't know what it is, too much love, too little,
but it feels like I'm giving birth to fog,
or my heart is standing in the doorway
of an abandoned chrysalis asking if
we could do it all a little differently this time,
and ingather like the nebulae of the stars
instead of the circus tents of these gypsy moths
swarming the Dutch elms like fake starmaps
that don't know much about shining in the dark,
but eat mini blackholes through the leaves
that have known greener days of radiance,
and more creative things to do with the light.

I can see the stars even in daylight
from the bottom of this fathomless well
only the snakes and the frogs and the fireflies
descend into to drink from the dark watershed
of the mystery I'm swimming through
like an albino bioluminescent fish through black ink
trying to find the words to express this sorrow
that overtakes me from time to time
as if life's waterclock had confined itself
to one bucket for awhile. And time had stopped.

It's as if I could feel every wound in the world
pierce the hummingbird of my heart on the thorns
of a black rose, as if I could feel the secret grief
of the yellow star in the violet eye of the beautiful lady
who toxically weeps like the belladonna
under the chandeliers of the deadly nightshade
that cures what it kills in love
administering death like mercy to put her lover
out of his misery with an oceanic love potion
he can't help but thrive upon like nectar and ambrosia.

As if I were picking up the small body of a sparrow
in the cradle of my hands and seeing in it,
its random extinction in the face of the windowpane
that lied, the death of the sky. And it's strange
that I do, that my eyes should fill with unprompted tears
that I'm digging a hole with my bare hands
in the same bed of tiger lilies I buried my goldfish in
like the big June bugs lying on their backs
perfectly preserved out in the open on the cement sidewalk
where I stopped to bury them with a finger for a spade,
when no one was looking who might laugh at me,
and mark their graves with two blades of grass,
on my way back from rugby practise, on King's Street,
to make sure nobody stepped on them just for fun,
as if death itself weren't already enough of a desecration,
a seeming destruction, to satisfy them for awhile.

And it's silly, I know, to bury the dead
in the soil of my heart as if they were bulbs
I planted in the fall to bloom in the spring
like the bells of the blue hyacinth
and the white gold daffodils of a pagan Easter
emerging like the high priestesses of a mystery religion
that returns resurrection to the womb of a woman.

Amorphous pain, homogeneously dispersed,
like the afterbirth of the background universal hiss
that miscarried into the post-natal depression
of an emptiness that keeps reversing its spin
on the state of things like synchronous happenings
in the charged particle field of a duplicitous politician,
like a ghost in the rain, like a faraway train,
my heart's the red lantern of a Chinese box-kite
way down the line at the last stop
where no one gets off, and no one arrives,
and there are no starmaps like tourist brochures
to point out like cabbies, the hotspots
of what's shining down upon nothing tonight.

I can feel the inhuman solitude
of eighty thousand prisoners sentenced
to years of isolation in the third eye of the pen
chewing on their shadows like leg-hold traps,
and the contemplative vengeance of their keepers
walking the night rounds with socks on their feet
in the wee hours of the morning as if it were they
who had avoided capture and mastered failure
by defeating these uncaged in their sleep.
As Robert Louis Stevenson said, or was it Walter de la Mare,
tread lightly for you tread on my dreams,
some like mushrooms, some like landmines.

But it isn't the kind of pain you can factor
a cause into like fireflies into the Slough of Despond,
or the Valley of Death, after the storm has passed
like an electric chair that's just thrown the switch.
It's softer than that, inclusive, embrasive, almost
lunar in its compassion for the least of things
from flies with wings torn off like the pages
of a calendar, June bugs, to the orphanage of asteroids
that nobody wanted when the solar system
was first forming into myriad nuclear family ways.

Not the kind of sorrow that brings rain, but
pain like the condensation of hydrogen clouds
that have been lingering like ghosts of the stars
they used to be, waiting to break into light
like the constellation of a new myth of origin
to explain being exiled this far from home.
No grave in sight, but still I mourn
for all the wishing wells that
didn't get what they wanted
when they kissed the moon
like a coin they had blessed
and returned to river they had retrieved it from
only to discover the dark side of their luck
when it popped up again like a sacred syllable
under the forked tongue of a lottery ticket.

Pain without locus, pain without focus,
a blur, a smear, a smudge, an atmosphere, an aura,
cataracts in the eyes, flowers in the sky,
and everywhere I see the belongings of the Beloved,
her passion for lightning and fireflies,
scattered all over this unbegotten house of life
like battered flowers and shattered trees
and power-outages that make the stars flicker
and black out, for days at a time, like an ice-storm
in the middle of summer, passing over the distant hills,
like a glacier following its own melting
all the way to the dark night sea
as if water, as it is to a river a raindropp and a tear
whether it's painted on a clown's face or not,
or just trying to make the mascara of the poppies run,
were the only guide it could trust.

And these are the green swords of the gladiolas
and wild violet irises down by the river
where the waterlilies and the corpses flow by
like floats in a parade of burning flowers
that make the river's eyes run with grief and bliss,
hello, farewell, good-by, as if you just saw
the silouhette of a bird fly across the moon
with a few beats of its wings, a small pulse,
the brief thought moment of a passing wavelength,
like my own, a braille dot on the starmap of a blind star,
with the emotions and aspirations of a Cepheid variable
trying to keep pace with the measure of the death march
beating on the drum of my heart
like dollops of funereal rain on a tin roof.

And what do you learn when you die like this
for the things you lived in the name of too long
to bear the loss of the world mountain
on the turtle of your heart when the black swan
of the new moon has been snapped up from below
as if the only way you can come to the end of things
is to run out of beginnings, and that hasn't happened yet
since the universe first broke into stars and went prime time.

All opening nights. Everyone of them. And there are
scimitars of the moon at last crescent and poems and lovers
you can cut your wrists on like the brass moonrise
of a tuna fish can, if you don't really want to talk
to the ambulance about anything unreal as reality.
And you can be rushed to the emergency ward,
like a rose that's bleeding out, and there'll
you'll meet a nurse, not a nun, at the end
of a long tunnel of light that isn't estranged from death
but embodies the female principle of life
with a smile like a silver herb of the moon
and she'll inser the other fang of the snake that heals
into your vein like a boomslang of blood
hanging on the branch of a a chromium tree
with mandalic wheels that wobble like planets down the hall.

And there she'll teach you as you heal
that just as your lungs have learned to trust
the oxygen in the air that others are breathing along with you
like the Amazon jungle, fish in the sea, the flower
of the candle that blooms in fire, so your heart
that imbibes the skull cup of the moon down to its lees
to read the partial eclipses of your prophecies and dreams
like shipwrecks at the bottom of lunar seas
that have been drained of water,
drained of atmosphere and wine
looking for signs in dry creekbeds
like the lifelines on the palms of your hands,
must water the dust at your feet,
the stars above your head like the Milky Way,
the Road of Ghosts, your passage on earth,
with as many boodstreams in life
as it takes to float your lifeboat
on a bubble of the moon at high tide.

Such is life. Such is the flashflood of love
that makes the seven year long sleep of the frogs
up to their voices in starmud, sing
that their dream has finally come alive again,
and the voodoo doll of the cactus pierced with thorns,
flowers, and the serpent revels in the rain
that falls on its scales like the petals of a marigold
or the keys of a piano with its eighty-eights straight
and plays such music as it's never heard before
its scales turn into the feathers of a bird, or if
it's enlightened, the wings of a dragon of serpent fire
running up your spine like the sign of a healer
coiled around the axis of the earth like a caduceus
because even a single blade of grass here
is a strong enough medicine to give
the whole world vertigo like a Sufi
at a crossroads on the moon
dancing alone with dust devils
when things begin to overflow again
like a cup, like a heart with a crack and a broken handle,
like a watershed in a hourglass,
or a mirage in a desert of stars
because love, when it leaves home,
always forgets to turn the faucet off
like the four rivers flowing out of Eden
to water the root fires in the star gardens of paradise
when love jumps up stream like a salmon
coming home to the womb it will be buried in
like a loveletter from the sea to the moon.

poem by Patrick White
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Life can Be Mundane

Life can be mundane
for those of us
who chose
to bury their heads
in the ground
But once you
start to see
what you yourself can do
then the frustrations
become your badge
that makes you
a better human being

poem by Kaila George
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I Can't Give You Anything But Love

Dorothy fields / jimmy mchugh
I can't give you anything but love, baby
That's the only thing i've plenty of, baby
Dream a while scheme a while
We're sure to find
Happiness and i guess
All those things you've always pined for
Gee, i'd like to see you looking swell, baby
Diamond bracelets woolworth doesn't sell, baby
Till that lucky day
You know darned well, baby
I can't give you anything but love

song performed by Billie Holiday
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I Can't Give You Anything But Love (Baby)

Dorothy Fields / Jimmy McHugh
I can't give you anything but love, baby
That's the only thing I've plenty of, baby
Dream a while scheme a while
We're sure to find
Happiness and I guess
All those things you've always pined for
Gee, I'd like to see you looking swell, baby
Diamond bracelets Woolworth doesn't sell, baby
Till that lucky day
You know darned well, baby
I can't give you anything but love

song performed by Billie Holiday
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I Can't Give You Anything But Love

I can't give you anything but love, baby.
That's the only thing I've plenty of, baby.
Dream a while. Scheme a while.
I'm sure you'll find
Happiness, and I guess
all those things you've always pined for.
Gee I'd like to see you looking swell, baby
Diamond bracelets Woolworth's doesn't sell, baby.
till that lucky day you know darn well, baby.
I can't give you anything but love.
(repeat the whole thing)

song performed by Ella Fitzgerald
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We Can Only Be Proud Together

I am proud to be selected,
To be your leader.
However...
You 'are' going to fix what is broken.
I will assist.
And you will not sit.
I can only be effective...
If you are not negligent.
Do not look for me to lead...
If you aren't prepared to proceed!
Those days of sitting back to watch others,
Work their butts.
While you do nothing but complain and cuss...
Are gone!
We can only be proud together,
Or never achieve our goals.

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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I Can Only Write Like Me

Poet Poe, though 'Raven' mad
His work could all excite
Forever, I'd be mighty glad
If I could Poe-like write

I'd love to write like Shakespeare
With nothing 'much ado'
But, Bard-William, have no fear
I could never write like you

Cole Porter, clever word-king
Your songs are all the rage
My words, though to my liking
Your reign I can't up-stage

The opera Boris Godunov
Has great linguistic string
My lyrics aren't good enough
To have written such a thing

Those writers cut me down to size
It's true, unfortunately
Since I don't care to plagiarize
I can only write like me

poem by Stanley Cooper
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Things Can Only Get Better

Were not scared to lose it all
Security throw through the wall
Future dreams we have to realize
A thousand sceptic hands
Wont keep us from the things we plan
Unless were clinging to the things we prize
And do you feel scared - I do
But I wont stop and falter
And if we threw it all away
Things can only get better
Wow wow wow oh, wow wow wow oh oh oh oh
Treating today as though it was
The last, the final show
Get to sixty and feel no regret
It may take a little time
A lonely path, an uphill climb
Success or failure will not alter it
And do you feel
Wow wow wow oh...
And do you feel...

song performed by Howard Jones
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Human Life Can Be Much

Human life can be much like a game of football
The winners we only do wish to recall
The hero as usual kicks the winning score
Tell us something new we have heard it before
For the winner the glory and that says it all
The winner the proud one the winner walks tall
The taste of success it is always so sweet
Whilst only bitterness in the taste of defeat
Even the gallant loser we tend to ignore
For him or her there is never an encore
The winners have earned their right for to boast
And 'tis only to them that we do drink a toast
Human life can be much like a game of football
For those known as losers life's not good at all.

poem by Francis Duggan
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The Love a Life can show Below

673

The Love a Life can show Below
Is but a filament, I know,
Of that diviner thing
That faints upon the face of Noon—
And smites the Tinder in the Sun—
And hinders Gabriel's Wing—

'Tis this—in Music—hints and sways—
And far abroad on Summer days—
Distils uncertain pain—
'Tis this enamors in the East—
And tints the Transit in the West
With harrowing Iodine—

'Tis this—invites—appalls—endows&mda sh;
Flits—glimmers—proves—di ssolves—
Returns—suggests—co nvicts—enchants—
Then—flings in Paradise—

poem by Emily Dickinson
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Facts Of Life Can Be Hard

'Tis a fact of life and facts of life can be hard
You give some people and inch and they will take a yard
They always do take far more than they are due
That greed begets greed happens for to be true
With their type it is never live and let live
They always do take far more than they do give
You give some people a yard and they do take a mile
They know how to cover deception by guile
Their three special people are me, myself and I
And that's how they will be 'til the day that they die
They leave others to live in financial hell
But karma it surely will not serve them well
Yet sad to say some even their praises do sing
But not everyone is like them which is a good thing.

poem by Francis Duggan
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Life can be fun

Life can have it's ups and downs
days that are dark and Grey
but it also can be full of fun
with laughter along the way.
Some people just make us happy
they make you feel good all the while
you get out of bed feeling lousy
but their humour soon brings a smile.
There are times you need to be serious
because life has it's moments of pain
but laughter can ease the worries
and bring relief to the stress and strain.
In life you will live and learn a lot
have good times along with the bad
but a beautiful rainbow follows the storm
and a friend can lift you when your sad.
So whatever life may throw at you
try and have a laugh and some fun
and while some people can be cold
others can be friendly and warm as the Sun.

poem by Kevin Halls
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Life's Only Real Mystery

Life's only real mystery-the only one I can not impart,
Is the remembrance of thee in mine own fragile heart!
Persistence not lacking though, far it is from such,
Cursed be my heart, as I long for thee so very much!

Many a day has passed since our life's tragedy-
Now, besmirched have I been, with a life-long malady!
Naught is able to lessen my heart's immense pain,
Save for one thing perhaps-my family, back again!

The 'why' of it all I shall never quite understand,
I only endeavor to provide for what my heart commands!
Strength is drawn from God, in His 'higher place',
Attempt I do, all of this pain, to erase!

Serve it must, a far higher purpose than is now known,
As is, sure now as ever, I go not into this torment alone!

Maurice Harris,26 July 2008

poem by Maurice Harris
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