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It is still color, it is not yet light.

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Not Yet Spring

It is not yet spring.

The birds return and build their nests,
the sun lingers long in the sky,
but it is not yet spring.

The crocus peek among the grass,
the daffodils raise their head,
but it is not yet spring.

For I am dormant still,
in my winter state.
I wait.

(5-12-2001)

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The Morning Has Not Yet Come

The morning has not yet come-
The darkness is still here-
And yet there is peace and quiet
And a space for thought -

The middle of the night too has its place-
So too the surrounding darkness
In a well- lit room-

Time and Memory also have their place-
All has its place in its time
And all does not when its time comes-

We live and we die
And we do not know why.

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Like Fledged Birds Not Yet In Adult Plumage

I've been investigated, under-rated...
Berated to scold to deflate in debating,
A non-existing ego...
Believed I frequently visit to feed upon,
With a craving I love to salivate.

Like fledged birds not yet in adult plumage,
What else will these juvenile deliquents do?

And still I seek something more,
To invigorate my insatiable need...
For that which keeps me motivated,
Since knowing others probe my deeds...
Before they disbelieve I sense them done.

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Fly Not Yet

Fly not yet, 'tis just the hour,
When pleasure, like the midnight flower
That scorns the eye of vulgar light,
Begins to bloom for sons of night,
And maids who love the moon.
'Twas but to bless these hours of shade
That beauty and the moon were made;
'Tis then their soft attractions glowing
Set the tides and goblets flowing.
Oh! stay, -- Oh! stay, --
Joy so seldom weaves a chain
Like this to-night, that oh, 'tis pain
To break its links so soon.

Fly not yet, the fount that play'd
In times of old through Ammon's shade,
Though icy cold by day it ran,
Yet still, like souls of mirth, began
To burn when night was near.
And thus, should woman's heart and looks
At noon be cold as winter brooks,
Nor kindle till the night, returning,
Brings their genial hour for burning.
Oh! stay, -- Oh! stay, --
When did morning ever break,
And find such beaming eyes awake
As those that sparkle here?

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Not Yet

NOT yet hath Nature, lovely colorist,
Bestirred her from creative dream to fling
Soft flame upon the woods, —nay, not to dip
One pleading maple-tip
In carmine; all the waiting world is whist,
Alert to hear the first faint flutes of spring.
Not yet the tingling flood of blue and gold
Is poured through heaven, but o'er the misty pond,
Quiet as patterned silk, flushed saplings lean;
And the auspicious green
Through the deep woods and on the unpathed wold
Brightens in patient moss and wistful frond.
Not yet cascades of melody invoke
The holy dawn, but all the air perceives,
By some fine thrill, the rushing northward flight
Of myriad wings, despite
The nonchalances of this crookback oak,
Still clinging to its russet shreds of leaves.
Not yet the laughing hid-folk of the earth
Thrust Up white helm and golden coronet,
Sweet elfin host armored in gossamer,
But gentle tremors stir
The conscious mold; new beauty comes to birth
Under the snow's fast-melting coverlet.
Not yet, not yet the yearly miracle
Is wrought, but ecstasy is on the wing,
And her divine, irrevocable flight
Is swift as all delight.
The heart is hushed as for the sacring-bell,
Awe-smitten by expectancy of spring.

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Not yet over

I lay wounded on ground
Enemy has still not found
He may search me in next round
I may look tot hem very sound

This is not th truth
I am holding poison in tooth
I my bring an end to life
Before he cuts my throat with knife

I am not dead
I am still army head
Have lead many expeditions
There was never such humiliating coandition

There are deep wouds in stomach
It gives me pain and ache
It is endured and hidden
They emerge all of sudden

The battle is not yet over
So much lost groud yet to recover
Enemy has not fled away
They are regrouping to find the way

It is is crucial blow aand certainly delivered
It was not expected and believed
We did it at our personal life risk
I was stabbed twice and given kick

I lay unconscious just to be picked
My wounds have aggravated and licked
The blood is slowly drying up
I am waiting for the game to stop

I amy be decorated with award
It may be preiceless reward
It may take my nation forward
I still dram and not look backward

I have done it along with comrades
They are lying scattered and dead
Many have brathed their last
I am certainly going very fast

The waist is still holding sword
I had promised all with word
I shall lay down but not come back
There is so much precius at stake

This is simple but naked truth
It is not like capturng booth
This is life for life and death for death
You got be laden with only wreath

Soon dark may descend
Vultures may cry and not ascend
They will find their pound of flash
There may not be any room for clash

I had dreamed of harmony and peace
No one was taking it with ease
It was last resort to to go in for war
It was never questioned what for?

I may find next day’s light
It may be considered valiant fight
Many may analyse it wrong or right
We as soldiers have nothing to fear in night

It may not be right moment
I have nothing to comment
I am partly dead
I have yet to pick the thread

I may be taken by surprise
It may not be death or demise
I shal come to life again
To serve the natin and to remain

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These Are Not Yet the Days of Summer

Warm.
Sticky.
And thick...
With humidity!
And you?
Do you have a cool box,
To go into?
How are you enjoying your heat?
And these are not yet,
The days of Summer!

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My Writing's Not Yet Done

When I shall die
And in my casket lie
Lost in eternal sleep
No reason there to weep
Rested in deepest slumber
Gone will be my laughter
My eyes will be closed
Like a withered red rose
And no more to hear
The songs I hold dear
Quietly like the setting sun
At close of day, I will be gone.

But not yet, for my writing's not yet done.

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Choices Still Unmade

Shadows drift over the cradle
And there in lies the future
Of possibilities yet to be explored
Of choices still unmade
Like seasons not yet passed
Lullabies tell of sweet memories
Just like stars tell of far away worlds
Little tear drops fall like rain
Glinting like shiny pearls
And there in lies the future
Of possibilities yet to be explored
Of choices still unmade

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Not yet 40, my beard is already white.

Not yet 40, my beard is already white.
Not yet awake, my eyes are puffy and red,
like a child who has cried too much.

What is more disagreeable
than last night's wine?

I'll shave.
I'll stick my head in the cold spring and
look around at the pebbles.
Maybe I can eat a can of peaches.

Then I can finish the rest of the wine,
write poems 'til I'm drunk again,
and when the afternoon breeze comes up

I'll sleep until I see the moon
and the dark trees
and the nibbling deer

and hear
the quarreling coons

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Lost but not yet found

He is lost like a lone sheep
Blahing away to heard

She is lost like a lone bee
Buzzing around the window sill

They wander both seeking
As if a conspired feeling
Year after year they wander
Month after month they ponder
Wondering what is yonder

Both lost but not yet found
The answer lies on the same strange ground
They have walked before round after round

Making wishful sounds
Lost but not yet found
Hiding away in common grounds
Help if you must
Or they shall never find their way!

Copyright 2006 - Sylvia Chidi

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I Am Not Yet Dead, Read Me

I am not yet dead, read me.
For a moment spare some time to see
Yourself in this concise poetry
And there you may find a truth, maybe.

For all men tread the same life journey
Though some are more blessed and free
With wealth, and yet some are not happy
So common and plain is that theory.

For the simple pleasures that can be
Enjoyed and seen by you and me
Around us there is abundantly
God's Nature laid in all her beauty.

Happiness comes from love of family
And that does not cost a lot of money
Affection and care given sincerely
Will last all your life most assuredly.

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Forget Not Yet The Tried Intent

Forget not yet the tried intent
Of such a truth as I have meant;
My great travail so gladly spent,
Forget not yet.

Forget not yet when first began
The weary life ye know, since whan
The suit, the service, none tell can;
Forget not yet.

Forget not yet the great assays,
The cruel wrong, the scornful ways;
The painful patience in denays,
Forget not yet.

Forget not yet, forget not this,
How long ago hath been and is
The mind that never meant amiss;
Forget not yet.

Forget not then thine own approved,
The which so long hath thee so loved,
Whose steadfast faith yet never moved;
Forget not this.

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Forget Not Yet The Tried Intent

Forget not yet the tried intent
Of such a truth as I have meant;
My great travail so gladly spent,
Forget not yet.

Forget not yet when first began
The weary life ye know, since whan
The suit, the service, none tell can;
Forget not yet.

Forget not yet the great assays,
The cruel wrong, the scornful ways;
The painful patience in denays,
Forget not yet.

Forget not yet, forget not this,
How long ago hath been and is
The mind that never meant amiss;
Forget not yet.

Forget not then thine own approved,
The which so long hath thee so loved,
Whose steadfast faith yet never moved;
Forget not this.

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Forget Not Yet

Forget not yet the tried intent
Of such a truth as I have meant
My great travail so gladly spent
Forget not yet.

Forget not yet when first began
The weary life ye knew, since whan
The suit, the service, none tell can,
Forget not yet.

Forget not yet the great assays,
The cruel wrongs, the scornful ways,
The painful patience in denays
Forget not yet.

Forget not yet, forget not this,
How long ago hath been, and is,
The mind that never means amiss;
Forget not yet.

Forget not yet thine own approved,
The which so long hath thee so loved,
Whose steadfast faith yet never moved,
Forget not this.

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Forget not yet: The Lover Beseecheth his Mistress not to Forget his Steadfast Faith and True Intent

FORGET not yet the tried intent
Of such a truth as I have meant;
My great travail so gladly spent,
Forget not yet!

Forget not yet when first began
The weary life ye know, since whan
The suit, the service, none tell can;
Forget not yet!

Forget not yet the great assays,
The cruel wrong, the scornful ways,
The painful patience in delays,
Forget not yet!

Forget not! O, forget not this!--
How long ago hath been, and is,
The mind that never meant amiss--
Forget not yet!

Forget not then thine own approved,
The which so long hath thee so loved,
Whose steadfast faith yet never moved:
Forget not this!

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Emily Dickinson

Struck, was I, not yet by Lightning

925

Struck, was I, not yet by Lightning—
Lightning—lets away
Power to perceive His Process
With Vitality.

Maimed—was I—yet not by Venture—
Stone of stolid Boy—
Nor a Sportsman's Peradventure—
Who mine Enemy?

Robbed—was I—intact to Bandit—
All my Mansion torn—
Sun—withdrawn to Recognition—
Furthest shining—done—

Yet was not the foe—of any—
Not the smallest Bird
In the nearest Orchard dwelling
Be of Me—afraid.

Most—I love the Cause that slew Me.
Often as I die
Its beloved Recognition
Holds a Sun on Me—

Best—at Setting—as is Nature's—
Neither witnessed Rise
Till the infinite Aurora
In the other's eyes.

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Peace Is Not Yet

Whisk the rose-wine veiling fume
And the reedy rendezvous of the stars
But be cautious to exhume the gravid
But frail burden of the canopies
Underneath the marred chortles
And the playful lisping of the lips
These eyes sweep the dusts bashfully
And bleaches the tattoo of oppression
Cringing the sallow skin of somnolence—
The pawned peace in slumber;
To usurp the fissures of the greedy sand
Siphoning the path thoroughly
Until the stride bends in a spur
Of evocative and spurious reveries
And as hope grovel for hope
I shall contend with the manacles
And as pride devour pride
I shall rival with the angry tides
So I can forgive you,
So I can forgive myself,
And sleep may arrive the harbinger
Of peace and quietude
But until then, I remain astray
In this ravine inside myself
In this harried tug-of-war
Of cajoling phantoms
And their mourning deaths
Peace is not yet, sleep is not yet,
In the equinox of unreality.

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Leave Taking, After Matsuo Basho, Circa 1978

'There is a blessed fidelity in things.
Graceless things grow lovely with good uses.' - John Tarrant


Expecting more rain.
Not yet light though 6 a.m.-
night still over the barn.


From the porch, high wind.
The moon, a corner of it,
rides comfortably in clouds.


Clouds moving over mountains,
their night work -
some rain in the buckets.


Bestowing order,
things feel their boundaries,
robes of autumn rain.


Back to bed,
just-dawning.
Noises in these old walls -
mice search for food or string,
bird stretching its wings.


Soon these things I must leave -
wood smoke, frayed rope coil,
finger prints on faded walls' wrong color.


Last flights -
on the sill
scattered wings,
musky corners'
gently waving webs.


A fertile shelter.
Many nights I have wrestled here.
Some mornings have
broken into me like thunder.


I have shed skin after skin.
These I leave behind.
Some warmth they may
provide for the mice,
rags for the moths to eat.

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It's Not Yet Over

A bleeding heart hits the page
The deep red stain sinks through
The soft sent of burning sage
Signals the death of you
But come to life my dear friend
It's not your time to go
You may think this is the end
But I will not believe it is so
So come to life again today
The light my just be near
Fight your way through the fray
And do not fight the tears
The pain you feel is true I know
But loss is not always forever
Though your thrown to and fro
I refuse to cause this sever
My dear friend stay here with me
The eternal night has not yet come
My dear friend just wait and see
We can make it if we run

She may be gone for now
But wait and see
Do not make yet, your final bow
She may yet think 'You and me'
Give her the time you took yourself
All the confusion not yet clear
Put your pain and fear upon the shelf
And tell her how you'ld hold her dear
I write this for you my friend
For I know your pain
I write this for you my friend
In hopes that you come through again.

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