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The Federal government does not have any information about extraterrestrial life to conceal, and there are no secret projects for me to investigate.

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She Does Not Need Any Praise (Cavatina Sequence)

(after Archibald MacLeish)

The greatest happiness she have given
today to me,
in the ways that together our lives is,
tranquillity
is in each smile, like a hot summer day,
totally free
she does her duty in words and her ways,
she acts unhindered like the sun's rays.

Fresh loaves of bread, lovely food she spreads,
great joy she finds
in her selfless acts that brings happiness,
free like the winds
her feet run while she lights candles, sometimes sings;
one of her kind
my wife is, she does not need any praise
as she loves with an amazing true grace.

[Reference: 'Poem in Prose' by Archibald MacLeish.]

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They Would Not Have Any Chance

If the man was not black...
They would not have any chance,
To regain from their losses!
But they don't know that.
They just know his skin is Black!

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A Poem Does Not Have to Rhyme

There are those who think in order for a poem to have rhythm it must rhyme, but a poem does not have to rhyme to have rhythm.
The rhythm comes for the poet’s soul not the rhyming of words.
The rhythm is in emotions that the poet’s poem evokes.
From a soulful cry to feeling of love and from the passion of hate to the awakening of understanding this is the beat, the rhythm of a poem. Now don’t get me wrong if a poem rhyme and has soul it is cool too, but I just wanted everyone to know that a poem does not have to rhyme.

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It Does Not Have To Be This Way

Every culture tries to control, manipulate, shame, dominate the other culture, the dominate cultures today where the so called inferior cultures of the past, the so called inferiors to day where the dominate cultures of the past in many or most cases, in their region or in their portion of their continent. This is what individuals do to one another. This is how we are habituated on many levels, but it does not have to be this way. Believe in your self, face this tendency of humanity that we need to grow out of, defend your self from this, rise without putting others down. Weed out dysfunctional patterns of relating, of being that you picked up from your family.

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The Poem I Do Not Have

THE POEM I DO NOT HAVE

The poem I do not have
The poem I would have written
The poem that is not here now
And will never be.

The poem I do not have
The poem I cannot see
These little morning flowers
Yellow in the breeze.

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The World Today Does Not Need A Poem

THE WORLD TODAY DOES NOT NEED A POEM

The world today
Does not need a poem

It exists as it exists
Satisfied in itself
Happy, at peace.

It needs nothing
And wants nothing.

It is rich and easy
Bright and blessed.

The World today does not need a Poem,

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The Morning Light/ Does Not Remember The Night

THE MORNING LIGHT

The morning light
Does not remember the night.
It opens the day
It makes us want to live again
It says
The whole world is waiting there for us
If we will only walk out into it.

The morning light does not remember the night
It gives us hope again
God bless the morning light
And life which begins again each day.

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In addition, the oil royalties the Federal Government does not collect from big oil will starve the Land and Water Conservation Fund of critical financial resources.

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Do You Have Any Thoughts About Me?

Do you have any thoughts about me?
And I want to know if the thoughts that you have about me
Are any good?
Do you mind sharing the thoughts about me?
What are the thoughts about me like?
Are the thoughts about me semtimental?
Are the thoughts about me very romantic?
Are the thoughts about me full of love?

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Dark Nights

Dark nights, stars are burning billions of miles away, in the hollows of the black sky. That is how she feels all the time.
Dark nights, how will she navigate her way, find her way, when all she can see in the nothingness all around her.
Dark nights, she screams at the nothingness the around her. She screams at the numbness inside her, the pains she cannot get away from, and the coldness that drowns her.
Dark nights, no one knows about the fights she fights alones, trapped inside her own self.
She is stuck in the darkness, the nothingness, and the numbness.
The dreadful dark nights she is consumed by. She doesn’t want no one's help. she wants to do this on her own.
Dark nights, she is actually comfortable here. She is used to it here. she belongs here
at least for now.
Dark nights, it is her one place she is accepted. No one knows her, no one is there.
Dark nights, it is a place of her own. A place she created. No judgments.
The dark nights ask nothing of her, the dark night does not have any expectations of her.
She owns the Dark nights.

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A Dog's Tale for M' lady Ernestine

A dog’s tale


A small dog shows his loyalty
he sleeps beside his master grave.
By his own choice he is quite free
to seek the home he does not have.

He leaves his post by morning light
and sallies forth in search of food.
Where he is greeted with delight
by children from the neighbourhood.

Polite and friendly he’ll accept
what ever scraps may come his way.
The people know by night he slept
beside his masters grave, he lay.

This duty although self imposed
he carried out until he died
Though no one at that time supposed
his fame would spread, become world wide.

Granted freedom of the city
by order of the Lord Provost.
A reward for his constancy
an honour very few can boast.

Epitome of loyalty
this small dog earned his world wide fame.
By keeping vigil faithfully.
Grey Friars Bobby was his name.

His statue stands for all to see.
Today keeps vigil in his stead
but Bobby has gone hopefully
to lie beside his master’s bed.

The tourists come from far and wide
to view his statue and to see
the place where Bobby lived and died
in Greyfriars cemetery.

27-Jan-08

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The Mountain Of Poverty

this is what i can tell you:
the children are running in the hills
looking for their favorite butterflies to play
chasing dreams, i suppose, who knows
what they really know and
feel, i was once a child myself, perhaps i have the right to guess
what simple wants they have,

freedom, but i can tell you about something else,
their breakfast today is only brown sugar and rice,
and they have not taken their baths in the river because
the water is dirty, and there is no water system in the hills,
primitive, and still undeveloped, the grasses are not cut
tall and wild, and the coconut trees are not bearing much fruits,
there is drought, and the tenants do not have a good harvest
of their upland rice and there are rats infesting the rice fields,

it rains so hard, the road is slippery and we all have to walk slowly
to keep themselves warm, the men drink wine and smoke
the women do not weave mats anymore, they're sold cheap
and they are so disappointed with what they are getting

sugar is a precious commodity here, no coffee,
salt is expensive, salted fish is a luxury,
bread is like gold here and children do not know what is bread all about
cookies do not exist here

stone age, this is stone age in the midst of an expanding world
the children here are left out
i stare at them as they throw stones at play,
dirt and foul smell, but on the other hand i look at the pictures
that i took on that day

less the smell, less the dirt on their faces,
they are so beautiful, and the mountains are still hopeful.

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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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Who Does Not Really Want To Write The Best Poem In The World?

yes, a five-star poem.
the one fit for first prize
awards, the one that will
make you famous
worldwide,
who does not like to
go on tv? read that famous
poem personally.

me? sorry i don't.
i am tired writing the best poem
of my life
been writing for years
i can imagine
trying to fit in
with the most famous ones
dead and alive
but i know i can never write it
because i can't
because i don't
because i do not have any reason
to write it.

i love to write.
AND that is foremost.
that is final. nothing ambitious.
nothing to change your world
or this world or that world
nothing to influence another
indonesian or turk
or swedish or
anybody or anything

what advantage do i get
when i say i just love to write
when i say i do not want to write the best poem in the world?

nothing, except the joy of having
to make the deep breath
in my life.

air that fills my lungs
and make me dream and make me sleep
longer than you do.

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I Could Have Written The Truth About The Sigh

oh yes, i could have told you
that there were so many women to love
and yet
i got only the least time to share

when i leave
let no one weep for i shall lie again....

the one that does not shed any tear
shall be the one that i loved most

let that one one who really loved me
forget me with all ease,

time flies so swiftly on wings that never tire.

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The Unending Journey Does Not Know A Home

to the heart there is never a blank wall
the fences do not work
they always fail, the bulls of Manawan
are at it again, breaking free from the ranch
and going back to the Mountain
just as the sparrows that by chance entered
your room through an open window
though there were rice grains on that tray
soon shall fly away after every grain is consumed
the beasts and birds unlike you do not have a house
neither do they know of any home

so tell me, how can you understand a vagabond
mind like mine?

the bulls always want to break free
the birds migrate to distant lands
the whales inhabit no permanent ocean
every path is a passage
and if there are stops, they are just temporary resting stations
after a while
the journey takes everyone on their feet, their fins and wings
again....

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The Sky Does Not Protest

In the early years of my flavoured childhood,
Could not I differ between an evil and a good,
And went to the forest afar with my age fellows,
To collect, to gather the dry sticks or fire wood.

In summer seldom the swishing winds blew,
The grains of sand and contents of dust flew,
And made the clean spheres reddish brown,
We bundled the fuel as the harsh winds grew.

Contending the winds, to home we returned,
On each step blurring, blowing blows burned,
And we rested on the way beside the old well,
Wherefrom damsels obtained water churned.

They talked themselves with the concern deep,
About some innocent murder, they did weep,
Then I understood why the sky grew vague,
Why did winds raise dust, why they did beep?

Ah! The sky now does not protest, nor frown,
Nor change colour from blue to reddish brown,
He too might have grown accustomed to blood,
Though Man is killed in each village, each town.

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How I Wish The World Does Not Have A Hundred Eyes To See Me Naked

how i wish the world is blind to see me naked and broken
they always say
ever since i was small
this little girl is ugly
she will not have a promising future

(did they think that i better be thrown
to the sea and be eaten by sharks
or to the forest so i can be the prey
to those predators?)

they let me live, however,
thanks, nonetheless, and i have grown to be what i am
ugly
learning to live this way
ugly
time however has told me a different story
about the ugliness that lies only on the surface of
things, and living memories have grown in me
the seeds

some possibilities
for beauty

like i can grow a mind of my own
like i can be cultivated like a beautiful flower
of my choosing
in my own garden

like i can have the possibility of
a sweet scent
or i can be a slender plant that will bear
some luscious fruits
to feed the world and make it feel
that i can
quench its thirst
or satisfy its hunger

i have learned patiently
how to be a better possibility and long time ago
when i undressed myself
removing some layers of sadness
and confusion
skin upon skin upon skin

i was once afraid of everything
the windows
the cracks and the crevices
i was once afraid of the hundred eyes of this world
those walls barring me
those writings on the fences of my existence
shouting that

i am ugly
(that i do not have the right to live
or anything to live with)

i go naked again
time places another mirror at the center of my
thoughts,

to see another me
i am beautiful
in my nakedness

now, i do not wish anymore a blind world
so it can see the unfolding
the coming of my
thousand possibilities like some kind winds
white sea caps and gentle sands,

i am beautiful and i really know it now
by heart

this confident soul undressed and still so beautiful.

that you, my lovely world, must start to see.

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She May Not Come

she leaves at any moment
when she wants it and we
who are left live on our own
resources. We are sad.
In darkness we thrive.
Each sharing a slice of
pain. And then one day
from out of the blue she
comes and says, why is
everything dark? Why
black? Change it. That is
not the right color.

She does not have any
sense of light at all.

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Putting all the eggs in one basket

Every time I leave
Mother always reminds me
This: do not put all your eggs
In one basket,

Because when I fall
All the eggs will break and I will be left with

Nothing.

Even a nincompoop understands that.

Oh mama! I do not have those many eggs
And she does not have any basket,
We sure both, have nothing to lose.
Thanks for the reminder, anyway.

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