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I would like to provoke ambiguous responses in my readers.

quote by James Ellroy
Added by Lucian Velea
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We'll Be Burning

[Intro]
Just gimme di trees and mek we smoke it yo (smoke it yo)
It don't mek we peace so dont provoke it yo (voke it yo)
We nuh need nuh speed so we nuh need coke it yo (coke it yo)
Set ya mind at ease we gotta take it slow
So when yuh see di S.P. floatin', dont provoke him
Cau di weed weh we smokin' need fi soakin'
Fastin' fi di medication, and di best hygrade a Jamaican
When we a bun a weed we supportin' and promotin'
Lau di crack and di coke ting yeah we smoking
Herb a di healin' of di nation
Legalize it right now we wanna blaze one
[chorus]
Everyday, we be burnin' not concernin' what nobody wanna say
We be earnin' dollars turning cau we mind deh pon we pay
Some got gold and all dem diamonds all we got is Mary J
Legalize it, time you recognize it
This purple haze it mek mi crazy
Mek mi write new tune yeah dats what pays me
Cau dat not di only occupation
Goin' to get some I give yuh medication
When a farmer grows it he knows to close it
Economical benefit help fi those who a fi deh yah pon di hard jugglin
Cau di system only keep man struggling
Studyin people a use it dont abuse it
Cau di concentration well reputed
Dats why herb man dem a di wise one
And it found on di grave of King Solomon
And it good fi di eye sight and di chest sight
And it give yuh nuff inside just gimme di light
And, mek we blaze it we should a neva waste it
[chorus]
Again, we be burnin not concernin what nobody wanna say
We be earnin dollars turning cau we mind deh pon we pay
Some got gold and all dem diamonds all we got is Mary J
Legalize it, time you recognize it
Just gimme di trees and mek we smoke it yo (Smoke it yo!)
It dont mek we peace so dont provoke it yo (Voke it yo!)
We nuh need nuh speed so we nuh need coke it yo (Coke it yo!)
Set yuh mind at ease we gotta take it slow
So when yuh see di S.P. floatin dont provoke him
Cau di weed weh we smokin need fi soakin
Fastin fi di medication, and di best hygrade a Jamaican
Cau we know it as a great ting no debatin
While incarceratin true dem hatin
Cau dem dont wanna see we a remain calm
Even though dem condemn (?)
[chorus]
Again, we be burnin not concernin what nobody wanna say
We be earnin dollars turning cau we mind deh pon we pay

[...] Read more

song performed by Sean Paul
Added by Lucian Velea
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The Aeneid of Virgil: Book 7

AND thou, O matron of immortal fame,
Here dying, to the shore hast left thy name;
Cajeta still the place is call’d from thee,
The nurse of great Æneas’ infancy.
Here rest thy bones in rich Hesperia’s plains; 5
Thy name (’t is all a ghost can have) remains.
Now, when the prince her fun’ral rites had paid,
He plow’d the Tyrrhene seas with sails display’d.
From land a gentle breeze arose by night,
Serenely shone the stars, the moon was bright, 10
And the sea trembled with her silver light.
Now near the shelves of Circe’s shores they run,
(Circe the rich, the daughter of the Sun,)
A dang’rous coast: the goddess wastes her days
In joyous songs; the rocks resound her lays: 15
In spinning, or the loom, she spends the night,
And cedar brands supply her father’s light.
From hence were heard, rebellowing to the main,
The roars of lions that refuse the chain,
The grunts of bristled boars, and groans of bears, 20
And herds of howling wolves that stun the sailors’ ears.
These from their caverns, at the close of night,
Fill the sad isle with horror and affright.
Darkling they mourn their fate, whom Circe’s pow’r,
(That watch’d the moon and planetary hour,) 25
With words and wicked herbs from humankind
Had alter’d, and in brutal shapes confin’d.
Which monsters lest the Trojans’ pious host
Should bear, or touch upon th’ inchanted coast,
Propitious Neptune steer’d their course by night 30
With rising gales that sped their happy flight.
Supplied with these, they skim the sounding shore,
And hear the swelling surges vainly roar.
Now, when the rosy morn began to rise,
And wav’d her saffron streamer thro’ the skies; 35
When Thetis blush’d in purple not her own,
And from her face the breathing winds were blown,
A sudden silence sate upon the sea,
And sweeping oars, with struggling, urge their way.
The Trojan, from the main, beheld a wood, 40
Which thick with shades and a brown horror stood:
Betwixt the trees the Tiber took his course,
With whirlpools dimpled; and with downward force,
That drove the sand along, he took his way,
And roll’d his yellow billows to the sea. 45
About him, and above, and round the wood,
The birds that haunt the borders of his flood,
That bath’d within, or basked upon his side,
To tuneful songs their narrow throats applied.
The captain gives command; the joyful train 50

[...] Read more

poem by Publius Vergilius Maro
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Hunting or Fishing?

Hunting or fishing – which is better?
That is what I am thinking about!
In business many hunt for customers;
Some men prefer casting net to catch fish!
Even for poets the position is the same
In poetry websites to catch readers!
Some lay wise traps to catch readers!
I use fishing rod with a needle and bait
To catch readers who can understand!

Whether the rank is high or low it is
Immaterial but the true comment is!
Hunting readers to comment and rank
Or fishing readers to comment and rank
Are not really going to enhance one’s status;
For, voluntary comments are indeed valuable!
Poets are jealous to appreciate others’ merit
But some poets raise the status of others!
So, letters to such poets increase sans end!
This is the status of poetry websites now!
So, it is left to you to hunt or fish or lay trap
As you wish to catch readers for rank, etc.!

poem by Ramesh T A
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Untitled

- Faith provoke me to have hope, hope inspire me to have peace, peace please provide happiness for me.
- Joy provoke me to wake, wake inspire me to sleep, sleep please provide for me dreams.
- Reality provoke me to have goals, goals inspire to achieve, achieve please be like faith, joy and reality and provoke for me to succeed

poem by Thato Maluleka
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Bedlam and Evil

We need a fear injection,
To get done...
To keep the people fed with fearing.

We need to keep their minds afraid,
And imbedded with an enemy that's creeping!

We need to keep suspicions up
To provoke the notion,
Of bedlam and evil!

We need a fear injection,
To get done...
To keep the people fed with fearing.
We need to keep their minds afraid,
And imbedded with an enemy that's creeping!

We need to keep suspicions up
To provoke the notion,
Of bedlam and evil!

We need to keep the devil publicized...
And sadness on our faces and our eyes!

Well...
We need a fear injection,
To get done...
To keep the people fed with fearing.
We need to keep their minds afraid,
And imbedded with an enemy that's creeping!
We need to keep suspicions up
To provoke the notion,
Of bedlam and evil!
And if none of this is done...
No one will know,
Who or what it is we are!

We need a fear injection,
To get done...
To keep the people fed with fearing.

We need to keep their minds afraid,
And imbedded with an enemy that's creeping!

And if none of this is done...
No one will know,
Who or what it is we are!

We need to keep suspicions up
To provoke the notion,

[...] Read more

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Readers

Wormed,
I have died many times in this life;
Dragged,
I have suffered many times in this life;
But my readers will learn from me like the sea of love,
For, i am with the works of peace in this world.

Readers, reed, read, dear, deer, ear, ears, are, red;
Now i feel safe with you,
But the level of your love stems out from your hearts! !

Readers, sad, rare, dare, sear, seer, see, sea, as;
And like the muse of your love!
For, it comes out straight from the heart.

Readers,
My source of pleasure;
Readers,
The source of my hope;
But, forgivde me if i have wronged you,
For the acts of your total power is like the loyal soldier!

poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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An Essay On The Different Stiles Of Poetry

To Henry, Lord Viscount Bolingbroke.

I hate the Vulgar with untuneful Mind,
Hearts uninspir'd, and Senses unrefin'd.
Hence ye Prophane, I raise the sounding String,
And Bolingbroke descends to hear me sing.

When Greece cou'd Truth in Mystick Fable shroud,
And with Delight instruct the list'ning Crowd,
An ancient Poet (Time has lost his Name)
Deliver'd Strains on Verse to future Fame.
Still as he sung he touch'd the trembling Lyre,
And felt the Notes a rising Warmth inspire.
Ye sweet'ning Graces in the Musick Throng,
Assist my Genius, and retrieve the Song
From dark Oblivion. See, my Genius goes
To call it forth. 'Twas thus the Poem rose.

Wit is the Muses Horse, and bears on high
The daring Rider to the Muses Sky:
Who, while his strength to mount aloft he tries,
By Regions varying in their Nature, flies.

At first he riseth o'er a Land of Toil,
A barren, hard, and undeserving Soil,
Where only Weeds from heavy Labour grow,
Which yet the Nation prune, and keep for show.
Where Couplets jingling on their Accent run,
Whose point of Epigram is sunk to Pun.
Where Wings by Fancy never feather'd fly,
Where Lines by measure form'd in Hatchets lie;
Where Altars stand, erected Porches gape,
And Sense is cramp'd while Words are par'd to shape;
Where mean Acrosticks labour'd in a Frame,
On scatter'd Letters raise a painful Scheme;
And by Confinement in their Work controul
The great Enlargings of the boundless Soul.
Where if a Warriour's elevated Fire
Wou'd all the brightest Strokes of Verse require,
Then streight in Anagram a wretched Crew
Will pay their undeserving Praises too;
While on the rack his poor disjointed Name
Must tell its Master's Character to Fame.
And (if my Fire and Fears aright presage)
The lab'ring Writers of a future Age
Shall clear new ground, and Grotts and Caves repair,
To civilize the babbling Ecchoes there.
Then while a Lover treads a lonely Walk,
His Voice shall with its own Reflection talk,

[...] Read more

poem by Thomas Parnell
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Mars Landing Party

Embrasse - moi, mets ton doigt dan mon cul,
Embrasse - moi, mets ton doigt dan mon cul,
Une prsence ambige,
Une prsence inconnue,
Jusqua ce que jen peux plus,
Embrasse - moi, mets ton doigt dan mon cul,
Embrasse - moi, mets ton doigt dan mon cul,
Une prsence ambige,
Une prsence inconnue,
Jusqua ce que jen peux plus,
Embrasse - moi, mets ton doigt dan mon cul,
Embrasse - moi, mets ton doigt dan mon cul,
Une prsence ambige,
Une prsence inconnue,
Jusqua ce que jen peux plus,
Translation
Kiss me, put your finger up my arse,
Kiss me, put your finger up my arse,
An ambiguous presence,
An unknown presence,
Until I cant take it anymore,
Kiss me, put your finger up my arse,
Kiss me, put your finger up my arse,
An ambiguous presence,
An unknown presence,
Until I cant take it anymore,
Kiss me, put your finger up my arse,
Kiss me, put your finger up my arse,
An ambiguous presence,
An unknown presence,
Until I cant take it anymore,

song performed by Placebo
Added by Lucian Velea
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Joseph's Gloss On God

When Joseph tells his brothers: “I
am not God, ” he perhaps implies
that unlike God he sometimes lies,
and unlike Him, is doomed to die.

The words that Joseph never said
are wrong, as we find out when burned;
God often lies, a lesson learned
from history, and God is dead.

Inspired by a review by Paul Buhle of R. Crumb’s The Whole Book of Genesis, in Forward, October 10,2009 (“In the Image of God: The Ambition of R. Crumb’s Graphic Genesis”:

To say this book is a remarkable volume or even a landmark volume in comic art is somewhat of an understatement. It doesn’t hurt that excerpts of the book appeared during the summer in the New Yorker and that the Hammer Museum in Los Angeles is opening an exhibit of the original drawings from which the book’s contents were adapted. “The Book of Genesis, ” Robert Crumb’s version, nevertheless stands on its own as one of this century’s most ambitious artistic adaptations of the West’s oldest continuously told story.
No comic artist has been more influential than Crumb. In terms of sales, his work is dwarfed by the superheroes and, in comic art prestige. Art Spiegelman, and a short list of others including Alison Bechdel and Marjane Sartrapi may have displaced Crumb. But Crumb’s influence abides and endures in his occasional LP/CD covers, in his volumes of collected work (16 volumes so far and counting) , his artistic prizes and a generation of artists who have incorporated his particular view of humanity.
Surprisingly, his best work in 20 years has actually been in the genre of adaptation, specifically an adaptation of Franz Kafka, dating to the mid 1990s. On that highly curious point, any consideration of this “Genesis, ” as a highly personal comic art, properly begins. Notoriously, Crumb is a gentile who fled from his deeply dysfunctional Delaware family to the Cleveland neighborhood of Harvey Pekar and the arms of the first of two Jewish wives. “Crumb, ” the 1994 film documentary, was in many ways about emotional pain (including a brother doomed to suicide) and his craving for a certain kind of woman, who, although possibly any female with a bemuscled backside, was in fact most likely to be Jewish. She, reality and image, was his consolation. The strips that he drew of Jewish-American life, nevertheless, reworked stereotypes, some funny (he visits Florida with his second wife, and holds a tiny grandfather on his knee) , and some, doubtless, insulting to many readers.
In the pages of “Introducing Kafka, ” Crumb became his fictional protagonist with such depth of insight into the logic of the doomed writer, as well as of Kafka’s famed works, that many readers were simply astonished, this reviewer among them. Kafka is the exemplar par excellence of a type of ambiguous, tortured mittel European Jewish personality as it hovered between faith and uncertainty, shortly before the Holocaust. Not Spiegelman, not Ben Katchor, nor Sharon Rudahl, nor others who drew historical or quasi-historical strips about Jewish history, had taken the characterization as far as Crumb. An earlier escape from Middle American culture had propelled Crumb toward his satirical protagonist Mister Natural, a Zen-like, robed quasi-prophet of the 1970s-80s. Three decades later, Crumb’s robed prophets are far from Zen.
Crumb’s “Genesis” is then perfectly serious and the author wants us to know it. As he says on the cover, “Nothing Left Out! ” Every “beget” from the King James Bible can be found here, along with plenty of scenes censored from previous graphic adaptations. And more prose, in the final “Commentary” segment of the book, than non-writer Crumb may have put on the page anywhere, aside from his published letters. More striking for anyone but the seasoned Crumb fan: unlike previous Biblical comic adaptations, including some published and drawn by Jews, Crumb’s characters actually look Jewish, the women even more than the men. The contrast to the classic work, EC Comics’ “Picture Stories from the Bible” (1945) in that respect is most illuminating. But more recent works like the best-selling “Manga Bible” (2000) are not much different (nor was the “The Wolverton Bible” by one of the strangest of comic artists Basil Wolverton) . Close readers will see Crumb’s wife Aline Kominsky, to whom the book is dedicated, again and again, in various guises; perhaps only Chagall drew his beloved wife so often and with such varied imagination.
Not only are the characters Jewish here, they are all ages and sizes. If, for instance, there are more drawings of Jewish elders in any single volume of comic art anywhere, I have never seen them. The women here are beautiful when young, heavily busted with large, muscular thighs. The men are strong, their beards full and noble. The deity has a really big beard and retains his notoriously bad temper, as well as his commanding presence, and absolute demand for loyalty. The animals of Genesis (in Noah’s ark and elsewhere) may be where Crumb is most similar to earlier comic art adaptations of Biblical texts, but they are drawn, like everything else, with such loving care that they are special and demand repeated viewing.
In those extensive notes at the end, Crumb comes as close as he is ever likely to revealing the sources and depth of his commitment to the text. He had been puzzling, no doubt under a wave of feminist criticism, about the gender struggle, until Torah scholar Savina Teubel’s “Sarah the Priestess” (1984) gave him new insight: a matriarchal background, female deities and actual female power, in a society turning toward patriarchy but retaining some elements of women’s prehistorical strength and centrality to the direction of early civilization. If anything is reinterpreted purposefully in “Genesis, ” it is in gender, and Crumb does so not by scoring points but by rearranging the visual subtext. Gender issues also help him reframe somewhat the class dimension of tribal society, which endures not through brute force but because of the strength of its women.
The commentary on his visual choices and his broader interpretations explores and explains his few intentional deviations, not only in the name of narrative clarity but artistic intent. Mainly, his notes drive home how he struggled to interpret the text in suitable graphic form, chapter by chapter, sometimes even character by character. There is no doubting the artist’s integrity or hard work, in no small part because he redrew again and again, trying to find historically accurate clothing and scenery. The Old Testament of cinematic Charlton Heston, so to speak, became the Genesis of lived and perceived experience, socially real and super-real. Clues are provided with translations of specific Hebrew names within the visual text, essentially metaphorical in meaning. These clues may be the closest to footnotes that Crumb has ever provided.
Comics scholar Jeet Heer, has noted in “Bookforum” that Crumb’s biblical characters, with the exception of the deity, have no internal lives: only the deity has depth and personality. As with the original text, much more is implied in Crumb’s visual text than can be stated, because scenes rush by so fast and because the artist forever works out, pen or brush in hand, a unique meaning that escapes easy interpretation. Even closer to the mark, Heer argues that above all, this is a book about bodies, the natural expression of an artist whose work has, possibly more than any other master of comic art, been concerned with body structure and expression.
And offending the deity? Crumb treads with a caution all the more remarkable for an artist, who, short decades ago, allowed himself the full run of his imagination, heedless of the consequences. Crumb’s innovation might be summed up in his characterization of Joseph, brilliant in subjugating Egypt but weary of his own powers. In the final phrases of the book, the artist suggests a radical view several thousand years previous to Jewish Karl Marx. “In the very last chapter, when his obstreperous brothers fling themselves at this feet and proclaim, ‘Here we are, your slaves, ’ he says to them, “I am not God, am I’ Joseph has learned a much finer humility than the fear-driven kind shown by his barbaric brothers.” So says a humble Crumb.

10/22/09

poem by Gershon Hepner
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Moses

To grace those lines wch next appear to sight,
The Pencil shone with more abated light,
Yet still ye pencil shone, ye lines were fair,
& awfull Moses stands recorded there.
Lett his repleat with flames & praise divine
Lett his the first-rememberd Song be mine.
Then rise my thought, & in thy Prophet find
What Joy shoud warm thee for ye work designd.
To that great act which raisd his heart repair,
& find a portion of his Spirit there.

A Nation helpless & unarmd I view,
Whom strong revengefull troops of warr pursue,
Seas Stop their flight, their camp must prove their grave.
Ah what can Save them? God alone can save.
Gods wondrous voice proclaims his high command,
He bids their Leader wave the sacred wand,
& where the billows flowd they flow no more,
A road lyes naked & they march it o're.
Safe may the Sons of Jacob travell through,
But why will Hardend Ægypt venture too?
Vain in thy rage to think the waters flee,
& rise like walls on either hand for thee.
The night comes on the Season for surprize,
Yet fear not Israel God directs thine eyes,
A fiery cloud I see thine Angel ride,
His Chariot is thy light & he thy guide.
The day comes on & half thy succours fail,
Yet fear not Israel God will still prevail,
I see thine Angel from before thee go,
To make the wheeles of ventrous Ægypt slow,
His rolling cloud inwraps its beams of light,
& what supplyd thy day prolongs their night.
At length the dangers of the deep are run,
The Further brink is past, the bank is won,
The Leader turns to view the foes behind,
Then waves his solemn wand within the wind.
O Nation freed by wonders cease thy fear,
& stand & see the Lords salvation here.

Ye tempests now from ev'ry corner fly,
& wildly rage in all my fancyd Sky.
Roll on ye waters as ye rolld before,
Ye billows of my fancyd ocean roar,
Dash high, ride foaming, mingle all ye main.
Tis don—& Pharaoh cant afflict again.
The work the wondrous work of Freedomes don,
The winds abate, the clouds restore ye Sun,
The wreck appears, the threatning army drownd
Floats ore ye waves to strow the Sandy ground.

[...] Read more

poem by Thomas Parnell
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What Do They Know?

They tell me my poetry lacks classicism.
This is for that eternally ambiguous "they."

Tonight in the heat
A green haiku is sprung new
What a kitsch art style

Tercets are difficult in any but Latin
So like Poe I'll turn Eden into Aiden and quatrain into quattrin
You thought only Dante could write in words of pure satin?

Speaking of, quatrains and types of verse-
Let us take a minute to converse
About types in this style, epic or pentameter
And therein know art so that we might greet her.

Yes, that just happened, forgive the meme.
But quatrains end in couplets about love and redemption extreme.

Forget the couplet I can keep going in an effort to glean
And remember this, truth form the dishonestly obscene.

Aye, that eternally ambiguous body of readers wants classicism
Look backwards; enjoy the art and more than that-
Enjoy the view of the dead.
Whitman set the stage,

It's not my fault if there is no place on it for you.

poem by Daniel Northcutt
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A lucky seventh ton

It is great feat forward to watch the completion of seventh ton
I received congratulation from friends with several phones
The line is still buzzing with many more waiting to come on line
It is wonderful day in life to feel elated and very fine

It is nothing new to go on piling the creations
It may add in n umbers with good citations
I may blend it with fine oratory and quotations
It may certainly be liked by friends with equations

How much love and affections readers have given?
For all my silly mistakes, I have been forgiven
Their cautious comments made me to believe in constant change
It was tremendous boost for writer and had nothing to do with age

When I look back and glance at journey?
It was never meant for any quest or money
It provided me rich food in the form of literature
I was nothing if front of all as small and ordinary creature

The words have flowed with universal love and brotherhood
The readers remained with me as true people in neighborhood
They never found flaws but encouraged to write more and constructive
Their outrage, if any, was in the right direction and very instructive

I stand in deep desert wishing to find sweet water
I am not in position to offer new challenges or needs to cater
It may be their love and affection that has brought me to such level
Otherwise where was I to stand, marvel and all of sudden excel?

If good readers are not there, no creation is possible
Ideas and thoughts remain in books and not convertible
The purpose to reach out to far end fails
No one comes forward to read and avails

It looks wonderful to fly in open air
We can keep loose our fancy with split hair
We may stare at sky and watch the flair
It will definitely be extra ordinary occasion and very fair

I have to rejoice at completion but with utmost care
Any deviation from path may lead me no where
I must write ceaselessly till the last breath
The last word may end only with death

The name and fame are synonyms of success
You have power and ability to find access
The horizon is very vast to explore
Fill it with sweet water from fresh well or bore

[...] Read more

poem by Hasmukh Amathalal
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Tales Of The Brothers Grimm

It is better some readers
critics do not read us.
Better that these readers
read tales of the Brothers Grim.

To perceive threads of life reality
writ to prepare perceive us.
All is not happy sunny in fairy
tale land hark warning at hand.

It is better some readers critics do not read us.
Better that these readers read tales of the Brothers Grim.
To perceive threads of life reality writ to prepare perceive us.
All is not happy sunny in fairy tale land hark warning at hand.
Life warnings lessons harsh are written in insight child terror tale.
To disobey wisdom wise parent warnings is life soul up for sale.
If you enter dark woods beware evil hides bidden in mysteries rare.
Lessons proclaim abstain refrain from curiosity investigating dark lair.

poem by Terence George Craddock
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Whether Daggerless But...And, Or If Cloaked

I wish I knew your true identity.
I wish I knew who you were...
Coming into my lfe,
Daggerless but cloaked.
With mental teases...
That do not provoke.
Even though you could...
But you don't provide a heat...
To ignite and get that fire started.

I wish I knew your true identity.
I wish I knew who you were...
Coming into my lfe,
Daggerless but cloaked.
With mental teases...
That do not provoke.
Even though you could...
But you don't provide a heat...
To ignite and get that fire started.
Why?

Do you sense a commonness between us,
Perhaps?
Do you perceive my 'eclecticness'
Has a variety of pieces,
I make comfortably fit.
And you believe you know 'the how'
'The why' and reason I do this?
If there is a 'reason behind it at all!

I wish I knew your true identity.
I wish I knew who you were...
Coming into my lfe,
Daggerless but cloaked.
With mental teases...
That do not provoke.
Even though you could...
But you don't provide a heat...
To ignite and get that fire started.

I sense you like to wine and dine,
Under candlelight?
But you don't provide a heat...
To light and get that fire started.
Whether daggerless,
But...and, or if cloaked...
Or not!
We both need something to eat.
Curiosity may have killed the cat...
But this dude does not feed on teases,

[...] Read more

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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A book is sent out into the world, and there is no way of fully anticipating the responses it will elicit. Consider the responses called forth by the Bible, Homer, Shakespeare - let alone contemporary poetry or a modern novel.

quote by Chaim Potok
Added by Lucian Velea
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Tale Of Brave Ulysses

Coming to me in the morning, leaving me at night.
Coming to me in the morning, leaving me alone.
You've got that rainbow feel but the rainbow has a beard.
Running to me a-cryin' when he throws you out.
Running to me a-cryin', on your own again.
You've got that pure feel, such good responses,
But the picture has a mustache.
You're coming to me with that soulful look on your face,
Coming looking like you've never ever done one wrong thing.
You're coming to me with that soulful look on your face.
You're coming looking like you've never ever done one wrong thing.
So many fantastic colors; I feel in a wonderland.
Many fantastic colors makes me feel so good.
You've got that pure feel, such good responses.
You've got that rainbow feel but the rainbow has a beard.

song performed by Cream
Added by Lucian Velea
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Swlabr

By jack bruce and pete brown
Coming to me in the morning, leaving me at night.
Coming to me in the morning, leaving me alone.
Youve got that rainbow feel but the rainbow has a beard.
Running to me a-cryin when he throws you out.
Running to me a-cryin, on your own again.
Youve got that pure feel, such good responses,
But the picture has a mustache.
Youre coming to me with that soulful look on your face,
Coming looking like youve never ever done one wrong thing.
Youre coming to me with that soulful look on your face.
Youre coming looking like youve never ever done one wrong thing.
So many fantastic colors; I feel in a wonderland.
Many fantastic colors makes me feel so good.
Youve got that pure feel, such good responses.
Youve got that rainbow feel but the rainbow has a beard.

song performed by Cream
Added by Lucian Velea
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Swlabr

By jack bruce and pete brown
Coming to me in the morning, leaving me at night.
Coming to me in the morning, leaving me alone.
Youve got that rainbow feel but the rainbow has a beard.
Running to me a-cryin when he throws you out.
Running to me a-cryin, on your own again.
Youve got that pure feel, such good responses,
But the picture has a mustache.
Youre coming to me with that soulful look on your face,
Coming looking like youve never ever done one wrong thing.
Youre coming to me with that soulful look on your face.
Youre coming looking like youve never ever done one wrong thing.
So many fantastic colors; I feel in a wonderland.
Many fantastic colors makes me feel so good.
Youve got that pure feel, such good responses.
Youve got that rainbow feel but the rainbow has a beard.

song performed by Eric Clapton
Added by Lucian Velea
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The Quantum Of Solace

When in distress you look for solace
But, know there is always a certain
Quantum of solace, in place,
In your mind space,
Reach it in peace and in no pace

That zone which can comfort you
In difficulties is within you
And get hold of it as and when you need
The quantum varies with people
Based on their impressions
Of the occurrings outside

You can enhance this solace domain
By trying to understand you, especially
Your nature and your reacting-to-situations pattern

Quantum of solace is least among those
Who wants to be special
Because of their haste
And note, not prompt, responses to demands

Quantum of solace improves
With weighed responses
Assessing situations objectively
And not self-biasedly or subjectively

An attempt to understand
Your standing is the essence
Of enlarged quantum of solace

Real mentors are those
Who have a very large solace quantum
And indirectly share their solacing space
To those who ask for comfort

You can do that too
And achieve that level
Where you require no solace
As you stay ever in peace
Irrespective of situations you are in

A self-directed exercise
To examine yourself
To scan your thoughts
To trace your dreams
And to develop skills to direct them,
Instead of their directing you,
Will make you yourself
A solace to others, who need comfort in distress

poem by Bashyam Narayanan
Added by Poetry Lover
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Unlimited

Self soars unlimited, awakes
soul-song, swims unpolluted lakes.
Responses not reactions braid
fair future’s flowing escapade,
no metamorphosis, no breaks,
when intuitions banish brakes.
There is no answer ready made,
nor 'need to be', nor 'feel afraid',
no contradictions, past mistakes
stunt growth. Inspired by all it takes,
no depths unplumbed, life unafraid
rechannels energies relayed
to seed search for fresh bloom which tomb
defies, denies lost lonely gloom …

Unlimited

Responses not reactions braid
the future’s flowing escapade,
no metamorphosis, no breaks,
when intuitions banish brakes.
There is no answer ready made,
nor need to be or feel afraid,
no parody where instinct takes
to growth inspired by past mistakes.
Self is unlimited when wakes
the soul to unpolluted lakes,
whose depths, unplumbed, and unafraid
may channel energies relayed
to seed the search for bloom which tomb
denies, defies all lonely gloom …

poem by Jonathan Robin
Added by Poetry Lover
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