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The love of their country is with them only a mode of flattering its master; as soon as they think that master can no longer hear, they speak of everything with a frankness which is the more startling because those who listen to it become responsible.

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A Blessing For Those Who Listen

the opportunity to learn
to learn so much
is a blessing for those who listen

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The Everlasting Throes of Those

The Everlasting Throes
Of Those
Who Argue about Poetry versus Prose
And about the Propriety or Crime
Of Meter and Rhyme
In Poetry:


as I see it, it’s back to the ancient Greek idea
of three near-absolutes – Truth, Beauty and Goodness
and although they’re all absolute in their aim,
and therefore theoretically equal,
most of us, I suspect, have our personal order for this list

those who put Truth first at all costs are more likely
to write prose; but if they love beauty in words
and have the urge to write something beautiful in words
they may try poetry; but to them,
rhyme is untruthful, dishonest, because
looking for a rhyme
becomes a crime:
and leads your mind away from the strict Truth.

while those who put Beauty first don’t have
a fixed attitude – they may, as children do,
love the formal music of hearing about
A certain Mrs Dhutti
Who was very slightly nutty
She wouldn’t wear a saree
As her arms and legs were hairy
And thought it was much better
To wear trousers and a sweater
etc.
or they may feel that their response to the world
is so full of love, of awe, of wonder
(of which Aristotle said the second and third
are shared by philosophers, that is, lovers - note the word - of wisdom,
and poets – though a poet
may not know it…)
where was I oh yes, their response to the world
is most truly - note the word - expressed
in free verse
which may be better poetry
or worse

and what about Goodness – oh let’s not
get into that: the poetry Forums are full of the emptiness
(though it’s a necessary evil, looked at in a way)
of poets and readers and critics saying
what’s good poetry and what’s bad
according to them and feeling
they’ve made a contribution to
Truth, Goodness, and Beauty, in that order
by pronouncing this.

some few, some worthy few, and I’ll mention no names
for reasons not unconnected as Milton might put it
with the previous stanza,
whose brilliance of that servant mind which we all share,
manages to juggle Beauty, Goodness and Truth,
in that order in this instance, and not only juggle but
remain faithful to them all; we could call them
The Absolutely Great – they speak straight from heart to heart
and they don’t worry about prosaic considerations like the above
because they’ve got it all, all this, within their art; within
their constant heart.

(Readers, please note,
that last line’s a quote.)

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The More You Pay

The auctioneer said, I'm not through yet,
Here's a horse the likes of which you've never seen,
And the straw hats in the sun, with a face beneath each one,
Shown doubtful and the auctioneer got mean.
Do you think that you can find a horse like this every day?
I don't think there's any better on this earth,
And the more you pay, the more it's worth.
Then out she came, a snow-white mare,
Prancin' and a dancin' in the silver sun,
They watched her from behind, as she did her bump and grind,
Walkin' naked, sad and graceful for their fun.
Oh how I wished I could afford that lady painted white,
A queen with high nobility of birth,
But the more you pay, the more it's worth.
My pockets hung with empty blues,
Silent heels were standin' on my growin' pains,
My bid was not too bad, two bits was all I had,
And the stable boy just handed me the reins.
Well the gallery went wild, and the auctioneer half smiled,
What we don't sell we shoot or give away,
'Cause the more you pay, the more it's worth.
And where was the boy, who rode on her back,
With his arms holding tight round her neck?
How tightly he clung,
When they both were young,
And fate had not let this poor girl be so
Disgraced.

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Those Who Hold The Reigns of Change

Thoughtless.
Arrogant.
Disrespectful.
And showing a high disregard,
For humanity.
Lies.
And flaunts an elitism.

'Oh...
She is much too outdated to lead,
The masses.
And she declares herself the more experienced?
That's the kind of experience,
We no longer need!
And besides...
There is one already,
Who has been totally ignored!

What do they believe they represent?
What other clues do they need?
He was nearly on his knees begging!
Can't they see...
Those who hold the reigns of change.
Those who could care less,
About such pretentiousness! '

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Erica Jong

For All Those Who Died

For all those who died-
stripped naked, shaved, shorn.

For all those who screamed
in vain to the Great Goddess
only to have their tongues
ripped out at the root.

For all those who were pricked, racked, broken on the wheel
for the sins of their Inquisitors.

For all those whose beauty
stirred their torturers to fury;
& for all those whose ugliness did the same.

For all those who were neither ugly nor beautiful,
but only women who would not submit.

For all those quick fingers
broken in the vise.

For all those soft arms
pulled from their sockets.

For all those budding breasts
ripped with hot pincers.

For all those midwives killed merely for the sin
of delivering man
to an imperfect world.

For all those witch-women, my sisters,
who breathed freer
as the flames took them,

knowing as they shed
their female bodies,
the seared flesh falling like fruit
in the flames,

that death alone would cleanse them
of the sin for which they died

the sin of being born a woman,
who is more than the sum
of her parts.

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A Poem For Those Who Are Sad

did Octavio say that happiness
and charm are cliches?
did he really mean that he
shall write about those who
labor in pain
about those who stopped
smiling because of the
harsh rain
about those who hide
because of the coming storm?

he could be right
not writing about the cliches of
happy days

for they have all enough
that make the sweet syrups
of their eating lives

let me write a poem for those
who are sad
for those who have less

let me write about the opening
of a flower
about the butterflies moving
out from their cocoons

let me write about the
end of the bitter days
for they have less and now

they may have more
through my lines

let me write about the
rising of the sun
the waking up of the boy
from his sleep
and the beginning
of his play on the yard
with his bike

let me write more
about what i really like...

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The Traveler

alright i did it
upon your wishes
i went to San Isidro
i hate the place
there are no trees

Papa died
even in that last moment
he smiled for me
i am his guy
i followed him
his every wish

not mine of course
i love San Francisco
my friend all live there
they made themselves
to their own images
nothing
is a mimicry

alright i need not
regret it
i have life too
i can buy my own bed
and sleep
the rest of the day
feeling
so invigorated
not a bigot
or an
ergot

the years are flashes of
lighting
one gets attuned to the heavy rain
and those who are dead
have become mere numbers
you shift channels and
choose
to travel

alright i am now in San Francisco
the gate is not
golden
it is only in the mind

i never calculated that it is
even colder
than the cold that i imagine

my friends are no longer my friends
time spent for waiting has become
an anger

alright i walk alone
but know what? i have no fear
i love being alone now
i am enjoying sunset

red orange, flaming yet
mellow to my eyes
the sun is inside my heart
and it is burning

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Recollections

Ye dear stars of the Bear, I did not think
I should again be turning, as I used,
To see you over father's garden shine,
And from the windows talk with you again
Of this old house, where as a child I dwelt,
And where I saw the end of all my joys.
What charming images, what fables, once,
The sight of you created in my thought,
And of the lights that bear you company!
Silent upon the verdant clod I sat,
My evening thus consuming, as I gazed
Upon the heavens, and listened to the chant
Of frogs that in the distant marshes croaked;
While o'er the hedges, ditches, fire-flies roamed,
And the green avenues and cypresses
In yonder grove were murmuring to the wind;
While in the house were heard, at intervals,
The voices of the servants at their work.
What thoughts immense in me the sight inspired
Of that far sea, and of the mountains blue,
That yonder I behold, and which I thought
One day to cross, mysterious worlds and joys
Mysterious in the future fancying!
Of my hard fate unconscious, and how oft
This sorrowful and barren life of mine
I willingly would have for death exchanged!

Nor did my heart e'er tell me, I should be
Condemned the flower of my youth to spend
In this wild native region, and amongst
A wretched, clownish crew, to whom the names
Of wisdom, learning, are but empty sounds,
Or arguments of laughter and of scorn;
Who hate, avoid me; not from envy, no;
For they do not esteem me better than
Themselves, but fancy that I, in my heart,
That feeling cherish; though I strive, indeed,
No token of such feeling to display.
And here I pass my years, abandoned, lost,
Of love deprived, of life; and rendered fierce,
'Mid such a crowd of evil-minded ones,
My pity and my courtesy I lose,
And I become a scorner of my race,
By such a herd surrounded; meanwhile, fly
The precious hours of youth, more precious far
Than fame, or laurel, or the light of day,
Or breath of life: thus uselessly, without
One joy, I lose thee, in this rough abode,
Whose only guests are care and suffering,
O thou, the only flower of barren life!

The wind now from the tower of the town
The deep sound of the bell is bringing. Oh,
What comfort was that sound to me, a child,
When in my dark and silent room I lay,
Besieged by terrors, longing for the dawn!
Whate'er I see or hear, recalls to mind
Some vivid image, recollection sweet;
Sweet in itself, but O how bitter made
By painful sense of present suffering,
By idle longing for the past, though sad,
And by the still recurring thought, '_I was_'!
Yon gallery that looks upon the west;
Those frescoed walls, these painted herds, the sun
Just rising o'er the solitary plain,
My idle hours with thousand pleasures filled,
While busy Fancy, at my side, still spread
Her bright illusions, wheresoe'er I went.
In these old halls, when gleamed the snow without,
And round these ample windows howled the wind,
My sports resounded, and my merry words,
In those bright days, when all the mysteries
And miseries of things an aspect wear,
So full of sweetness; when the ardent youth
Sees in his untried life a world of charms,
And, like an unexperienced lover, dotes
On heavenly beauty, creature of his dreams!

O hopes, illusions of my early days!--
Of you I still must speak, to you return;
For neither flight of time, nor change of thoughts,
Or feelings, can efface you from my mind.
Full well I know that honor and renown
Are phantoms; pleasures but an idle dream;
That life, a useless misery, has not
One solid fruit to show; and though my days
Are empty, wearisome, my mortal state
Obscure and desolate, I clearly see
That Fortune robs me but of little. Yet,
Alas! as often as I dwell on you,
Ye ancient hopes, and youthful fancy's dreams,
And then look at the blank reality,
A life of ennui and of wretchedness;
And think, that of so vast a fund of hope,
Death is, to-day, the only relic left,
I feel oppressed at heart, I feel myself
Of every comfort utterly bereft.
And when the death, that I have long invoked,
Shall be at hand, the end be reached of all
My sufferings; when this vale of tears shall be
To me a stranger, and the future fade,
Fade from sight forever; even then, shall I
Recall you; and your images will make
Me sigh; the thought of having lived in vain,
Will then intrude, with bitterness to taint
The sweetness of that day of destiny.

Nay, in the first tumultuous days of youth,
With all its joys, desires, and sufferings,
I often called on death, and long would sit
By yonder fountain, longing, in its waves
To put an end alike to hope and grief.
And afterwards, by lingering sickness brought
Unto the borders of the grave, I wept
O'er my lost youth, the flower of my days,
So prematurely fading; often, too,
At late hours sitting on my conscious bed,
Composing, by the dim light of the lamp,
I with the silence and the night would moan
O'er my departing soul, and to myself
In languid tones would sing my funeral-song.

Who can remember you without a sigh,
First entrance into manhood, O ye days
Bewitching, inexpressible, when first
On the enchanted mortal smiles the maid,
And all things round in emulation smile;
And envy holds its peace, not yet awake,
Or else in a benignant mood; and when,
--O marvel rare!--the world a helping hand
To him extends, his faults excuses, greets
His entrance into life, with bows and smiles
Acknowledges his claims to its respect?
O fleeting days! How like the lightning's flash,
They vanish! And what mortal can escape
Unhappiness, who has already passed
That golden period, his own _good_ time,
That comes, alas, so soon to disappear?

And thou, Nerina, does not every spot
Thy memory recall? And couldst thou e'er
Be absent from my thought? Where art thou gone,
That here I find the memory alone,
Of thee, my sweet one? Thee thy native place
Beholds no more; that window, whence thou oft
Wouldst talk with me, which sadly now reflects
The light of yonder stars, is desolate.
Where art thou, that I can no longer hear
Thy gentle voice, as in those days of old,
When every faintest accent from thy lips
Was wont to turn me pale? Those days have gone.
They _have been_, my sweet love! And thou with them
Hast passed. To others now it is assigned
To journey to and fro upon the earth,
And others dwell amid these fragrant hills.
How quickly thou hast passed! Thy life was like
A dream. While dancing there, joy on thy brow
Resplendent shone, anticipations bright
Shone in thy eyes, the light of youth, when Fate
Extinguished them, and thou didst prostrate lie.
Nerina, in my heart the old love reigns.
If I at times still go unto some feast,
Or social gathering, unto myself
I say: 'Nerina, thou no more to feast
Dost go, nor for the ball thyself adorn.'
If May returns, when lovers offerings
Of flowers and of songs to maidens bring,
I say: 'Nerina mine, to thee spring ne'er
Returns, and love no more its tribute brings.'
Each pleasant day, each flowery field that I
Behold, each pleasure that I taste, the thought
Suggest: 'Nerina pleasure knows no more,
The face of heaven and earth no more beholds.'
Ah, thou hast passed, for whom I ever sigh!
Hast passed; and still the memory of thee
Remains, and with each thought and fancy blends
Each varying emotion of the heart;
And _will_ remain, so bitter, yet so sweet!

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A Little Songbird

A little songbird sang
from a treetop high.
It sang for blue skies
for within to fly.
It sang out its message
at the first rays
of the dawning day.
It also sang for peace and love
within a world filled with unrest.
It sang a joyous message
for all those who wanted to hear
that little songbird
that sang in a treetop high.

13 January 2008

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For Those Who Seek Comfort

Now that the race has been won...
You can move forward with your agenda.
And those plans you are ready to implement.

'Oh...
That's right! '

You 'are' ready to implement those plans?

'Uh, yeah.
As soon as we can figure out what they are,
We are certain to come up with something.'

But you won a race,
On the basis you are prepared to move forward.

'Uh...
Yeah.
Gee!
Well...
We'll have to go backward first,
To see if moving forward is in the best interest...
For those who seek comfort,
In a past that no longer exists.'

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Those Who Truly Loved

they say that those who truly loved
have become so vulnerable, euphemistically speaking,
they have become so foolish to surrender everything

do you remember the lion king who had his sharp teeth removed
his claws cut and his roar suppressed? they say it was a fable
about love, and they say that the moral lesson of the story is
as simple as being so stupid about love and then be defeated
by the pretentious lover. Ouch! You're dead.

they say those who truly loved have become the characters of
the romantic movies, the famous figures of the opera house,
the unforgettable tragedies, the stigma, the catharsis of life.

today i am offering flowers for those who truly loved and offered
their lives. They are silent. They are dead.

Ask me. I am alive. I am not a pig.

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Those Who Betray And Lament

At THIS hour of the day.
And with time allowed,
Over the years to slip away.
Someone sits not to forget or forgive,
Those who intentionally took steps to offend,
With a doing of it they went ahead to inflict.

And at THIS hour of the day,
It would not matter who said what to have what's been done...
Wished away,
To acknowledge what took place.
Since what took place can not be erased,
From the mind of the one this misdeed continues to sit...
Long after it was considered someone's fun!

And at THIS hour of the day...
Wishing for a way to turn back the clock,
To prevent what should not have happened...
To have it stopped and blocked from a doing,
Is not on the mind of the one who is visited with memories...
At THIS hour of the day,
When one witnesses images from a distance...
A payback paid to those who betray and lament.

Those who betray and lament...
Grieve.
Those who betray and lament...
Can't sleep.
Those who betray and lament,
Become haunted.
Unwanted.

Those who betray and lament...
Grieve.
Those who betray and lament...
Can't sleep.
Those who betray and lament,
Become haunted.
Unwanted.
And have nobody near them to hear their pleas!

Those who betray and lament...
Grieve.
Those who betray and lament...
Can't sleep.
Those who betray and lament,
Become haunted.
Unwanted.
And have nobody near them to hear their pleas!

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Those Who Declare Themselves Proud and Beautiful

They don't speak to them
Because of what was said
To a family member,
Associated to a relative of a friend.
And that friend is rumored to be gay
On the down low and cheating
With the first cousin's lesbian wife.

And the commuters could care less
About any of this as they trespass
To collect and run.
This has all been a setup...
To leave the inner cities,
As a place they do not wish to live
But leech!

Gang wars on turf those fighting don't own.
Drug confiscations done...
While everyone is spied upon!
Either filmed by street cameras,
Or illegal phone tappings...
By those who satisfy their justified immorality!

And the commuters could care less
About any of this as they trespass
To collect and run.
This has all been a setup...
To leave the inner cities,
As a place they do not wish to live
But leech!

Every street has at least one church,
To praise something that's said to represent 'God'.
And no one thinks it strange or odd,
These areas of high crime produce higher illiterate rates.
With illegitimacies of all kinds taking place...
And fostered!
Those elected to terms take turns debating fates.
Handing out pamphlets to those who can not read,
Write or recite a word understood!
But it's 'all good' in these depressed neighborhoods.
Since the people aren't aware,
Just how valued their presence is there!
They are used to fund all of the profit to them...
For them never comes!
But supports activities for those 'assigned'
To enrich their lives with grants and subsidies!

And the commuters could care less
About any of this as they trespass
To collect and run.
This has all been a setup...
To leave the inner cities,
As a place they do not wish to live
But leech!

They don't speak to them
Because of what was said
To a family member,
Associated to a relative of a friend.
And that friend is rumored to be gay
On the down low and cheating
With the first cousin's lesbian wife.

And this is the life lived by those
Who declare themselves proud and beautiful!
Devoting time to diversity...
With federal funds in communities,
Outsiders decide who qualifies!
In acts that are clearly apartheid!

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For Those Who Are Wise

for those who are wise
are the very first to admit
they do not know much
just a little pinch of salt
to taste,

for those who are young
they do not talk about age at all
for those who are healthy
the medicine is not an issue

for those who are rich
money is not an issue
for those who are intelligent
the I.Q. is a taboo
for those who speak much
their inside is hollow
for those who listen much
everything is taken as such

for those who are dying
life becomes the most precious thing
for those who are fooled
to honesty must be glued.

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Goats

He sends prophets
For every ages and for every nations
You can not deny of having His messages

And He made each and every prophet
a shepherd in their early life
with a definite purpose

as prophets suppose to guide those
who are worse than the goats

push them ahead
they will pull you back
if you pull them back
they will drag you ahead

basic characteristics of goats.

So He sends shepherds in every age and for each nations
To guide us to reach the definite destination
To protect us from evils
But we never learn
And behave like goats..

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And There Were Those Who Sailed East

yes we learned later that there were those
who sailed towards the east
and they became our forefathers
before they died they left their voices
on the mouths of the waves
and gentle as they are
they settled permanently
on the shores of the earth

there were those who stayed
on nipa huts and wrote their books
on bamboo shoots and they
thought that all these would be lost
after the whites have fulfilled their
conquest. But they were wrong.

some found a way to survive on
the lips of their mouths
words handed from one child's palm
to another and we found them
transported by the winds of their times
from one meadow to another
their treasures now embedded
in the tattoos of our oily brown skins.

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Implemented Craziness

It seems as though the more I age,
The less I care about those who address pettiness.
And their hollowed professed confessions...
Of having beliefs in God.
And afraid to step out on their faith.
What sense does that make?

People 'say' they pray for peace!
And as soon as they are 'released'
From their places of worship...
I overhear them passing judgements.
And condoning needless wars.

People 'say' they pray for unity,
And brotherhood.
And in most neighborhoods,
There is conflict of some kind.

People 'say' they pray for racial equality.
As long as they are made to feel superior,
Over others of color.
And they are restricted from a quality of life,
That is diminishing rapidly in quality...
And those 'values' they uphold,
Are materialistic and has devastated the economy!

It seems as though the more I age,
The less I care about those who address pettiness.
And their hollowed professed confessions...
Of having beliefs in God.
And afraid to step out on their faith.
What sense does that make?

It seems as though the more I age,
Those who take offense
To an obvious display of implemented craziness,
Are quicker to defend this mess...
As if it is tradition.

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Those Who Go To College

Those who go to college,
Should decide with a clear knowledge...
What it is,
They hope from it to get.

And those who go to college,
Should decide with a clear knowledge...
What it is,
They hope for them benefits.

So many drift in dreams,
Have no clue what it is they want.
But party just to congregate in hallways,
Just to flaunt...
A getting into college but afraid to polish up,
And succeed.

'Not me.'

Those who go to college,
Should decide with a clear knowledge...
What it is,
They hope from it to get.

And those who go to college,
Should decide with a clear knowledge...
What it is,
They hope for them benefits.

So many drift in dreams,
Have no clue what it is they want.
But party just to congregate in hallways,
Just to flaunt...
A getting into college but afraid to polish up,
And succeed.

'I got in college! '

But...
Are you there in college just to party,
Or to polish and succeed?

'I got in college! '

But...
Are you there in college just to party,
Or to polish and succeed?

Since many are in college,
Just to party and to get a degree.

'Not me! '

But...
Many are in college,
With no knowledge what it takes to succeed.

And those who go to college,
Should decide with a clear knowledge...
What it is,
They hope for them benefits.
And what they wish to get from it.

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Those Who Would Love Nothing More

No one should be shocked or surprised,
By the overhearing of those wishing...
For the defeat of someone else.

There are those who would love nothing more,
Than to see others fail and then to ignore.
With a doing of this as if their own lives aren't effected.
Or directly affected by witnessing their own wishes.

And without realizing their own indoctrinations,
Inflicted with conditions...
Allow their own failures to be accepted to exist.

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Sonnet: Lift Not The Painted Veil Which Those Who Live

Lift not the painted veil which those who live
Call Life: though unreal shapes be pictured there,
And it but mimic all we would believe
With colours idly spread,-behind, lurk Fear
And Hope, twin Destinies; who ever weave
Their shadows, o'er the chasm, sightless and drear.
I knew one who had lifted it-he sought,
For his lost heart was tender, things to love,
But found them not, alas! nor was there aught
The world contains, the which he could approve.
Through the unheeding many he did move,
A splendour among shadows, a bright blot
Upon this gloomy scene, a Spirit that strove
For truth, and like the Preacher found it not.

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