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Curiosity is the key to creativity.

quote by Akio Morita
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The Key

Let me in your life
Open up the door
Let me in your heart
Give me the key
Youre the only one
Ill ever want
Show me the way
Give me the key
Give me the key
Give me the key
I wont let you down
Ill never let you go
Ill love you forever
Give me the key
Youre the only one
That knows what I need
Take me in your arms
Give me the key
Give me the key
Give me the key
I dont want to wait
Another second more
Im down on my knees
Give me the key
Im over my head
Too far gone
You know how I feel
Give me the key
Give me the key
Give me the key
Give me the key
Give me the key
Give me the key
Give me the key
Give me the key
Give me the key
(m.charlton)
Copyright 1989 elgin music

song performed by Nazareth
Added by Lucian Velea
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Love Is The Key

Here is the news to make you feel better, love is the key
Oh what can we lose if our hearts are together-love is the key
Kick out your shoes and get down with it-love is the key
Just let the music take you there, and open your heart to the world
Love is the key, love is the key, so plain to see, love is the key
Heres what Ive found, love really makes the world go round
Ooh, kick out the blues and let the music take you-love is the key
How can we lose, its not gonna break you-love is the key
Kick out your shoes and get down with it-love is the key
And sing to the world to listen, listen and open their ears to the music
Love is the key, love is the key, so plain to see, love is the key
Heres what Ive found, love really makes the world go round
Love is the key, love is the key
Just let the music take your there and open your heart to the world
Love is the key, love is the key, so plain to see, love is the key
Heres what Ive found, love really makes the world go round

song performed by Rick Springfield
Added by Lucian Velea
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Magpie, My Keeper, Is Flying - Upon Freeing the Gift of Creativity Turned Inward

.
for Elaine Bellezza, Beloved Anima-as-Fate

'There is only one real deprivation, I decided this morning, and that is not to be able to give one's gift to those one loves most...The gift turned inward, unable to be given, becomes a heavy burden, even sometimes a kind of poison. It is as though the flow of life were backed up.' - May Sarton, Journal of a Solitude

This afternoon while still somewhat hungover from last night's rich meal and several glasses of strong red wine, I stumbled as one does when hungover, only today without feet but with eyes, upon the above quote by May Sarton. I had awakened this morning with fragments of a dream, repetitive of other dreams the past few months, where I am carrying something precious and just cannot put it down in any old place or upon just any available surface. I cannot put it down until I find the right surface and location.

These dreams are full of torrential flood waters, or backed up, stagnant water, toilets full of filth and pungent bright orange dark urine days old and fermenting. I cannot unhand the burden even though the urge to pee or flee or drive a car away or into flood waters is strong. I must not put down the burden odd as it is; it is my laptop carrying case made of canvas. It is large enough to carry not only my laptop but also many books with which I cannot, will not be parted from as they are the must-have-with-me-always 'bread', my staple and stability in a given to me world out of balance.

I have understood the dreams only a little - something within the psyche is flooding up, over-spilling or has already, has not been adequately canalized, channeled, streamed and guided, shaped and formed. Or flushed. I knew that eventually, as dreams do when one sits consciously, patiently, persistently with them, they would yield their messages to me, and upon revelation these must be obeyed, brought out into the world, Carl Jung having said that one has a moral responsibility to dreams once they are kenned and must be conscientiously acted upon in the outer world. Just dreaming is not enough. Everyone dreams but not very many know to dream them out into the world, to let their messages unfurl, flood and flow to bring forth new consciousness, to reshape old forms no longer adequate to self, place and time into symbol and their sense, usually not literal.

And thus, only just now, upon opening up haphazardly in a book about Dostoevsky and his struggle with addictions which mirror the profound compulsion to create at any cost perhaps beyond one's capacities to renew oneself, I find May Sarton's quote and suddenly the dreams clarify and sharpen into focus; I understand them as the burden of creativity too long turned inward, the burden of writing, the burden of poetry which I have carried heavily for most of my life since middle school when I was 11 or 12 years old when books became my lifeline, my link to existence that I could live on in spite of not wanting to do so. Written words, books, kept me from disappearing though I was and remain a mostly invisible word.

And thus the floods. One cannot ignore them. Alphabets tumble and roil. One dare not ignore them. One must see them without a choice to not see them. In them I am suddenly made visible, bright orange p*ss pots and all. I am both appalled and pleased. My burden is upon my knees.

The backed up water, the urine, is creativity. A somewhat odd symbol of creativity, there is more than enough evidence that urination is symbolic of self expression which is creativity. In ancient Rome the highly valued dirt from the urinals of boys' schools was collected to be used as a cosmetic in order to restore youthful energy and looks. A young boy, or puer in Latin, is an archetypal symbol of ongoing creativity and inspiration, the puer aeternas, the eternal youth, well springs of ongoing creativity still imaged in solid fountains of the world where eternal waters flow from the peni of cherubic youth.

I have struggled my entire life with a strong urge to create, to write, to express in words that creative daemon within which torments no matter the completion of a poem or essay, a lecture, a psalm. And now my dreams have had me consciously, urgently seeking a place to put the burden down, to perhaps come to it anew. I imagine that landing the burden means bringing it down to earth, manifesting creativity all the more by bringing my efforts to others for the strongest part of the compulsive urge in my creativity has been to contribute one good thing, one good poem or piece of writing which in some way might further the culture even if only by a flea's leg length.

The dreams urge me to let the urine flow, to let the flood waters indeed flood over, to be less self conscious of what I write and say but to have at it all and to say my say. And to let whatever waves there are crest and break upon ever receptive banks and shores whose duty it is to allow what may come from motion without complaint, the more compliant toward as yet to be fully formed purposes as yet to be scored.

Synchronistically, a few days ago I listened to a lecture by poet Allen Ginsberg about Walt Whitman and his imitators, those who were goodly influenced by his effulgent, self indulgent style, his garrulous poems which presumed to express the very expansiveness of the North American continent over-flooded by a plague of itinerant, persistent poachers and prophets from Europe to Eastern disembarkation and then inland and Westward, compelled to overtake land and native peoples in their possessed, pushed wake. Ginsberg imagined himself to be a timely extension of this unruly school, as savage as the projected upon land and justly-resistant, resident humanity stretched beyond known bounds and sounds. Blood drowned and pounded the god-hounded land even now is flooded by unleashed mighty rivers seeking, if rivers seek at all, to undo and renew in horse shoe and other shapes the crimes of consciousness compelled to overtake while leaving it up to human souls to repent and repair, to prepare for more powerful insurgencies of land and Self ever seeking new and nower expressions of dirt and deity. There's enough history beneath layers to support the scarp and scrape of momentary yet monumental motions finally given mouths to utter what lies both beneath and within the heaping huzzahs of here here here full and deep. As in my dream, it is hard to steer in such surpassing tides and currents. Still, I am searching for holy campground that I may lay my burden down.

I have no wish to imitate Whitman nor Ginsberg - though both are easily imitated since they did so themselves, an occupational hazard for writers - but only to be obedient to the daemon, that urgent, emergent, creative force within. It rushes within and against me. No matter whether derived of the grandiose American continent and the even more grandiose sky or not, I have all too successfully braced against it in fear of failure, reprisal or, worse, complete indifference from others. My dreams now urge floods and resultant coagulations, they bring creative splurges to ground from hand to the hard world. And Nature, too, is indifferent but begs none the less and all the more to be given utterance and response.

Respondeo ergo sum. I respond, therefore I am. I respond, therefore the other, earth, all her ants, is as long as there are eyes, ears, and scanning minds to acknowledge and touch, wrestle, caress, shape - some in scansions - outer from inner, inner from outer, landscapes to be all too quickly discarded in time for what is sung just ahead. And seen. Or hoped, all praise to telescopes. We would be they, so addicted to horizons, to bring them close.

Something there is needs completion via coagulation, forming, shaping, and sharing with whomever may be open to clods delivered. If not, rivers will, as they will without reason, continue to overrun their banks and insist upon covering designated previous cultivations. Let then excess of creativity have its say, play out, and leave the critical post-considerations to others. I will surely sit and ponder spent what spills forth, to shape, to edit, to discard. And watch my little yard sink beneath needed and needy floods.

I will have done with deprivation and bring myself, what I have shaped and misshapen, to the world. These things, this burden, have I most loved and felt responsible for, have born the shame of. I have fought and have failed utterly again and again though my attempts have been, and still are, sincere though not blameless. Fear has been my encampment, a longing beneath knowing feet in secret cellars just beyond reach of contracted hands forever spelling hunger. I know open bastion doors and windows to now fling beyond embankments what has been wrung out of my floes and woes though hands wither from too much turning against and inward. What a relief to burst beyond boundaries too long successfully restraining.

I recently wrote a poem about much too too solid bastions of self, of forceful puer energy ramming through and over and into long buried storms and petrified forms, of passion mangling the delusion of 'norms' ignoring too sensitive alarms. Given May Sarton's May revelation this morning I now understand that the poem is about more than eros, it is about that powerful creative/destructive force, the daemon/tyro that ever urges outward intent on making and staking Self in new land and at least one aging man wrenched and rendered from dried and calcified encrustations. I am, to borrow from the insistent dream image, beginning to leak. And to break open.

Archeology - What The Stele Says 'Upon Taking A Much Younger Lover'

That this old ground yields to plow stuns.
What begins to be, earth swell, breaks
root-room open to blood means.

Old skeins tear upon what is new terrain,
hunger worn, long appended. There is
no blame for pain is the blessing.

All hurt now stings twilight quaked into being.
Your breath falls upon me now, taut, sinew,
bruising hand, purple inside flares warrior nerves

[...] Read more

poem by Warren Falcon
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Key Lime Pie

Ocean breeze, tire swing
Coconut fall if you shake that thing
And my, my, my - my key lime pie
Not too tart, not too sweet
My baby loves to watch me eat
Her key lime pie
Her key lime pie
Tall green tree, yellow bird
Bikini bottom and a tie-dyed shirt
And my, my, my - my key lime pie
Big white sail, red sunset
Lobster tail and don't forget
My, my, my - my key lime pie
A six string, ten shots
Of Cruzan rum, hey, I like it a lot
With my, my, my - my key lime pie
Tortola, a full moon
Shining down on a blue lagoon
And my, my, my - my key lime pie
Not too tart, not too sweet
My baby loves to watch me eat
Her key lime pie
Her key lime pie
We got Ginger and Mary Ann
Cookin' up a real good tan
And my, my, my - my key lime pie
Key lime pie, key lime pie
Key lime pie, my my my
My, my, my key lime pie
Key lime pie, key lime pie

song performed by Kenny Chesney
Added by Lucian Velea
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Hateful Hate

[ music: natalie merchant/words: natalie merchant ]
In the dark night a giant slumbered untouched for centuries
til awakened by a white mans cry: this is the eden I was to find.
There were lands to be charted and to be claimed for a crown,
When a hero was made by the length he could stay in this dangerous land of hateful hate.
Curiosity filled the heads of these, there was an upper room they had to see.
Curiosity killed the best of these for a heros hometown welcoming.
Still they moved on and on.
Who came building missions?
Unswerving men of the cloth who gave their lives in numbers untold so that black sheep entered the fold.
Captured like human livestock, destined for slavery.
Naked, walked to the shore where great ships moored for the hellbound journies.
Bought and sold with a hateful hate.
Curiosity filled the breasts of these with some strange ecstasy.
Curiosity killed the best of these by robbing their lives of dignity.
Still they moved on and on.
Calling men of adventure for a jungle bush safari.
Come conquer the, his claws and teeth.
See death in his eyes to know youre alive.
European homesteads grew up in the colonies with civilized plans for wild hinterlands, their guns and God willing.
Such a hateful hate.
Curiosity spilled the blood of these for their spotted skins and ivory.
Curiosity filled the heads of these madmen with the lies of destiny.
Curiosity spilled the blood of these, then blotted their lives from history.
Curiosity filled the heads of these, one man claimed all that he could see.
Curiosity still entices these madmen with a lusting and a greed.
Their legacy, legacy, legacy...

song performed by 10000 Maniacs
Added by Lucian Velea
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Down On Longboat Key

She sits and stares out the window at the water
Every night down at ....Cafe'
All alone she sips her pina colada
Talking to herself, dreaming time away
The story is that a dark haired stranger
Stole her heart many years ago
He promised her he'd come back and take her
Around the world, bring her hills of gold
Chorus:
Down on Longboat Key
Where the island sand meet the Gulf Stream Bridge
Down on Longboat Key
She spends her life in a dream
On Longboat Key
Down on Longboat Key
Down on Longboat Key.
Each afternoon as the snugboats come in
She runs to meet them down at the pier
She sees the fishermen, the nets and the sunset
But she don't see him, her eyes fill with tears
She stands there looking at the crystal blue water
And in the coral she imagines pearls
She makes believe he brought them all the way from China
Then the water swirls
The blue-green water swirls
Chorus:
Down on Longboat Key
Where the island sand meet the Gulf Stream breeze
Down on Longboat Key
She spends her life in a dream
On Longboat Key
Down on Longboat Key
Down on Longboat Key.
Young sailors make a play to take her home
She says 'No, I'm already taken'
Oh, they just laugh when she mentions his name
She just keeps on waiting, waiting, waiting, waiting
Chorus:
Down on Longboat Key
Where the island sand meet the Gulf Stream breeze
Down on Longboat Key
She spends her life in a dream
On Longboat Key
Down on Longboat Key
Down on Longboat Key.

song performed by Alabama
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Keys!

Key to Happiness is Rejoice
Key to Friendship is Friendliness
Key to Singing is Voice
Key to Love is Fondness

Key to Learning is Understanding
Key to Music is Rhythmic flow
Key to Relationship is Bonding
Key to Wisdom is Expressive show

Key to Success is Endurance
Key to Dance is Posture
Key to Achievement is Experience
Key to Growth is Nurture

Key to Art is Culture
Key to Life is Nature!

-Sonnet-

poem by Manjeshwari P MYSORE
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Paranoia Key Of E

How come you say you will and then you wont
You change your mind and then you say you dont
The mystery is why I play the goat
The mystery you call love
Sometimes youre like an eagle strong like a rock
Other times it seems you get unlocked
And all your worst fears come tumbling out
Into the street, into the snow
I remember when you had a dream
Everything was what it seemed to be
But now nightmares replace everything
And everything you see is wrong
You said wed meet but youre two hours late
You said you thought someone had picked your gate
So you hid and were afraid to wait
Seeing shadows in the snow
Seeing shadows in the snow
Now your friend godfrey is a perfect choice
One minute down next time rejoice, he seems -
- to have found the perfect voice
Paranoia key of e
Lets say everything he says is true
You love me but I cheat on you
And in my bedroom is a female zoo
Worse then clinton in prime time
I swear to you Im not with jill or joyce
Or cyd or sherry or darlene or worse
Im not kissing you while inside I curse
Paranoia key of e
Lets play a game the next time we meet, ah
Ill be the hands and you be the feet
And together we will keep the beat
To paranoia key of e
Now, you know manias in the key of b
Psychosis in the key of c
Lets hope that were not meant to be
In paranoia key of e
Anorexia is in g flat
And f is anything Ive left out
Dyslexia, kleptomania and vertigo
Patricide a, matricide d the same schizos
Paranoia key of e
Lets have a coda in the key of k
Something that only we can play
Maybe well light up like a hundred k
Paranoia out of key
Paranoia key of e
Paranoia key of e
Anorexia, dyslexia
Kleptomania, patricide a, matricide d, vertigo, schizos

[...] Read more

song performed by Lou Reed
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Unlock That Box Just For You

The key to feeling happy and free...
Unlock that box.
And walk away from it when you get out.
Experience what life is about.
It's not inside to keep up whining,
It's not inside to throw a tantrum and pout.

The key to feeling happy and free...
You've got to move your feet with direct speed.
You've got to unleash from guilt and pity.

The key to feeling happy and free...
You've got to accept what is there and care!
You can not wish for something you think is fair.

The key to feeling happy and free...
You've got to unload despair and grief.
You've got to move with faith and beliefs.

The key to feeling happy and free...
You've got to move your feet with direct speed.
You've got to unleash from guilt and pity.

The key to feeling happy and free...
You've got to accept what is there and care!
You can not wish for something you think is fair.

The key to feeling happy and free...
Unlock that box.
And walk away from it when you get out.
Experience what life is about.
It's not inside to keep up whining,
It's not inside to throw a tantrum and pout.

The key to feeling happy and free...
Unlock that box and get out.
Look around and see what your world's about.

The key to feeling happy and free...
Unlock that box and get out.
Look around and see what your world's about.

The key to feeling happy and free...
Unlock that box and get out.
Look around and see what your world's about.

The key to feeling happy and free...
Unlock that box and get out.
Unlock that box and get out.
Unlock that box and get out.

[...] Read more

poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Curiosity

Because of curiosity
All the Vandals had to see
The golden throne
Of Ancient Rome
And brought the city to its knees
Because of curiosity
Because of curiosity
I'm just riddled with anxiety
I'm the lowest level
As a matter of fact
I often dwell for days on this
But when I see your smiling face
I'm so disgraced
And if you're holding out on me
I get curious
As curious as I can be
Curious
Because of curiosity
Curiosity killed the cat
But satisfaction brought it back
In terms of this cat
As a matter of fact
I'll meet you at the old mouse hole
I'll meet you at the old mouse hole
When I see your smiling face
I'm so disgraced
If you're holding out on me
I get curious
As curious as I can be
Curious as I can be
Curious as I can be
Yeah, curiosity

song performed by Iggy Pop
Added by Lucian Velea
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Stream Line Consciousness

Big brother voyeur blimps unidentified spies
uncle sam peeping toms patrolling skies
bird brain police intelligence
remote viewing homeland pest control
pentagon private eye monitoring the public's every move
mass produced micro chips intercepting prayers patrolling citizens from heaven
Bentham's Panopticon NSA
super computer surveillance cameras
world police spying Manhattan streets

'Athens plummets Euro death spiral
suicide rates soar deepening into despair'

haaretz..the post.. the times
blogs tribunes dailies all in a mad gab
headlong headline attention grabbing scramble

'Yugoslavia - Iraq - Egypt - Yemen - Iran - Syria - United States'
bilderberg building blocks New American Century post apocalyptic prophecy

'foreign mercenaries …national guard...DOD
homeland security to amass covert munitions stockpile
Americans on guard anxieties mounting surrounding
the stripping of amendments 1st if you swing to your left
2nd if you stand on the right
whispers of martial law circulate Anarchical reverberations
emanate from internet Alt culture epicenters
bottle necking global tensions'

'common feeling of deepening disappointment...
heightened expectations...
people expecting an explosive situation over the
next few weeks'

...riot police respond 'to preserve public order'
public roads barricaded to 'protect security of citizens'

'blatant act of censorship
western mainstream media staying away
from Myanmar massacres of Mohammedan Angels
further showing strong anti Muslim bias'

'Media blackout Burmese army
seeking coverage under propaganda blankets'

from the middle east throughout the western world
planet consciousness blurring lines between conspiracy/reality
conflicting global network narratives multiply violent scenarios daily
Victims in a world wide scramble
Government Banking Military

[...] Read more

poem by Gregory Allen Uhan
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The Key

Sometimes I have this scary dream
In my head
Apocalyptic scenes
It makes my instincts mad
Surrounded by machinery
The warheads never ever rest
It's an untrustful century
So open up
You hold the key in your hand
Unlock the door to the future
You hold the key in your hand
The end of all the torture
And all the time I wake and scream
Where's a lead
Assassinated hopes
They make my body bleed
We're running out of energy
How did we generate this mess
Made ourselves the enemy
So open up
You hold the key in your hand
Unlock the door to the future
You hold the key in your hand
The end of all the torture
Nobody's there to help - we're just
On our own
The epidemics rage
We rally to the call
We're the leaders of our destiny
It's the only other chance we've got
Why are we unable mentally
To open up
You hold the key in your hand
Unlock the door to the future
You hold the key in your hand
The end of all the torture
You hold the key in your hand
Never say no one told ya
You hold the key in your hand
I hope the message will reach ya
You hold the key in your hand

song performed by U. D. O.
Added by Lucian Velea
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Singring & The Glass Guitar

(an electrified fairy tale)
This is an electrified fairy tale. if youve never heard of an electrified
Fairy tale, just picture little fairies with wee tiny electric guitars.
Once upon a time [not long ago] in a land not far from here, there was a place
Called harmony. everyone in harmony was happy and this joie devivre was
Guarded by their invisible patron, the muse singring. but jealous forces, and
There are always jealous forces in such tales, have conspired to capture the
Spirit, imprisoning it in [an instrument of glass, locking it in] a chest with
Four keys, and casting the keys to the four corners of the earth so that only
Four particularly brave and talented individuals might retrieve them. it is
Here that our story begins.
Theres a rumor I heard thats going round town
Someones captured singring, singring
Come hear the news, come hurry on down
Down to the old town square
The announcer wipes at his eyes, hes trying to hide
See it in his face, tell by his expression
The secret knowledge that claws to escape as he cried
Day of infamy, someones captured singring
Day of tragedy, someones captured singring
Now what shall we do, what shall we do now?
And if you take a look around, harmony is dying
Someone trapped the spirit in a glass guitar
And if you listen with your heart, you can hear it crying
Free me from my crystal prison in this glass guitar
Theres a rumor I heard thats going around
Someones saving singring, singring
Come hear the summons, hurry on down
Down to the village green
And the spokesman speaks for us all, together we call
Brave adventurers, warriors, and free men
Conquer self and so in the end save us all
Conquer earth and wind, conquer fire and water
Brave adventurers, come and save us all
And if you fail to win the keys, harmony is dying
Trapped away forever in a glass guitar
And if you listen with your heart, you can hear it crying
Free me from my crystal prison in this glass guitar
Having gathered on the green, the brave adventurers of the land march off in
Search of the keys. their quest leads them first to the rivers edge.
Lead me to the water
Pass me my flagon of wine
I said show me to the water
Quick before I change my mind
I go down to the river and bravely the rapids I row
Over the falls to the bottomless pool
And its down to the bottom I go
Only one has the courage to dive into the river and brave the bottomless pool
In search of the first key.
Let the four winds blow icy breath before me

[...] Read more

song performed by Utopia
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Dangerous

Can you feel it? watching you in the darkness
Can you feel it? watching you in the darkness
Touching you like a sickness
Touching you like a sickness
Fear is taking control,
Fear is taking control,
The beach head is the street.
The beach head is the street.
In the gutter lies defeat.
In the gutter lies defeat.
Fear is the key to your soul
Fear is the key to your soul
That makes you dangerous
That makes you dangerous
So dangerous to yourself
So dangerous to yourself
Can you feel it in the shadows?
Can you feel it in the shadows?
Watching you, touching you,
Watching you, touching you,
Can you feel it in the shadows?
Can you feel it in the shadows?
Watching you, touching you
Watching you, touching you
Changing you into a mad dog.
Changing you into a mad dog.
Howling at the moon.
Howling at the moon.
And youre so far out of tune
And youre so far out of tune
Better learn how to sing.
Better learn how to sing.
Fences, we put up our defences.
Fences, we put up our defences.
Then we come to our senses.
Then we come to our senses.
It may keep them out
It may keep them out
But it keeps us in
But it keeps us in
And that makes us dangerous
And that makes us dangerous
Were all dangerous to ourselves
Were all dangerous to ourselves
This is a jungle, not illusion,
This is a jungle, not illusion,
Jungle city, in confusion,
Jungle city, in confusion,
We are the next step in evolution,
We are the next step in evolution,

[...] Read more

song performed by Who
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Rizal

i agree
education is the key

when the door if
finally opened
in fact a long time ago
and

we already had
333 years in that
Spanish convent and
43 years of
that Hollywood experience

another door has been
closed
and still
the key has to open it

one door leads to
another
same key

the young keep on getting
that key
another door is close
more keys

each key has become
more expensive
and some have thrown
that key away

meanwhile the Authority
is asking
that doors outside the country
be opened

export labor
brain drain
that is another key
problem

on the other
hand
it is not the money
it is the open mind
resilient to
poverty

[...] Read more

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Magic Locket

There's a wood nymph in my pocket
I keep her close to me
Around her neck a golden locket
For everyone to see
I know magic; and so does she
She stays close and watches me
I know magic
I know magic
The golden locket has a key

There's a wood nymph in my pocket
I only show a few
When the key goes in the sprocket
Just watch what it can do
I turn the key when it goes in
And then the room will start to spin
I turn the key
I turn the key
The magic starts and then I grin

There's a wood nymph in my pocket
She’ll never fly away
But she’s quick, just like a rocket
I saw her fly one day
The magic key will make me strong
I’ll rule the world, it won’t be long
The magic key
The magic key
So won’t you come and sing my song?

Author notes:

Trijan Refrain
The Trijan Refrain, created by Jan Turner, consists of three 9-line stanzas, for a total of 27 lines. Line 1 is the same in all three stanzas, although a variation of the form is not to repeat the same line at the beginning of each stanza. In other words, the beginning line of each stanza can be different. The first four syllables of line 5 in each stanza are repeated as the double-refrain for lines 7 and 8. The Trijan Refrain is a rhyming poem with a set meter and rhyme scheme as follows:

Rhyme scheme: a/b/a/b/c/c/d, d refrain of first 4 words of line five /c

Meter: 8/6/8/6/8/8/4,4 refrain/8

poem by Amera Andersen
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The Great Conch Train Robbery

'Twas sunset down in old Key West
The locals all were high.
The tourists snapped their photographs
And munched their Key Lime pie.
And meanwhile down at Sloppy Joe's
The drinks were standin' tall
With Buffett on the jukebox
And Hemingway on the wall.

Then up spoke Sam the Shrimper:
He said, 'I've been a shrimper all my life.
My daddy was a shrimper
And my mom's a shrimper's wife.
And I'm tired of bein' a shrimper
Cuz a shrimper's life's too tame
So I'm gonna ride the Conch Train, boys,
And be like Jesse James.
Gonna be like Jesse James, boy...
Gonna be like Jesse James.
Case you didn't hear me the first three times...
Gonna be like Jesse James.'

Now the Conch Train is a tourist toy
That rolls through Key West Town
Like some weird ride from Disneyland
It drives the tourists round and round
While the engineer on her P.A.
Points out all the sites
'Well, Tennessee did you-know-what
To you-know-who that night.'

'The tourists all have money', said Sam
'Their wives all have rings of gold.
Their mopeds all are pawnable.
Their cameras can be sold.
And think of all the glory, boys,
The money and the fame
To be the first and only man
To rob the Key West Train.'

Now the engineer of the Conch Train
Her name was Betsy Wright.
She drove the Conch Train all day long
And loved Shrimper Sam all night.
And with some sweet persuasion,
She agreed to join the game:
She'd slow it down and flag the lad
And let him ride the train.

The conch train made its turn

[...] Read more

poem by Sheldon Allan Silverstein
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X Diary 07 Happy Sam And The Magic Horse

A Children's Tale

Once upon a time
There was a little boy called Happy Sam
Happy Sam lived in a house by a forest
With his mother and his father
And his baby brother
Lucky Peter
One day Happy Sam was walking in the forest
Further from home than he had been before
And he saw –
A HORSE
In the horse’s mouth there was –
A KEY
Happy Sam wanted that key
'HORSE'
Said Happy Sam
'GIVE ME THE KEY'
'Neigh'
Said the horse
Without letting go of the key
Well Happy Sam wanted that key really badly
So he thought
And he thought
And he had -
AN IDEA
Then he ran through the forest
And he ran through the garden
And he ran through the kitchen
And he ran to the refrigerator
And he found -
A CARROT
Then he ran back to the horse
And he said
'HERE HORSE
HAVE A CARROT! '
Well the horse wanted that carrot
So he opened his mouth to get it
And -
HE DROPPED THE KEY
Happy Sam caught the key
And he ran through the forest
And he ran through the garden
And he ran to his family
And he noticed for the first time
That in their hearts there were -
KEYHOLES
And he tried his new key
And he found that it -
JUST FITTED

poem by Stewart McKenzie
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Creativity is a great motivator because it makes people interested in what they are doing. Creativity gives hope that there can be a worthwhile idea. Creativity gives the possibility of some sort of achievement to everyone. Creativity makes life more fun and more interesting.

quote by Edward de Bono
Added by Lucian Velea
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Creativity Can't Make Up For Depression

Creativity cannot make up for depression
which it attempts to cure,
it can’t replace it with the kind of supersession
that made spurious lure
of Christianity when it induced some Jews
to make up for their loss
of their identity, condemned, they thought, to lose
unless they chose the cross.
No, creativity provides a transient high,
and then becomes a wraith,
for those who’re so depressed they find they cannot fly,
because they’ve lost their faith
in their ability to reproduce success,
which if it is not con-
stantly repeated is a letter whose address
appears to be, “Dear John.”

Inspired by an article (“In Praise of the Crack-U: A novelist peers through darkness to find glittering gems in writing and art”) , by the South African-born novelist Jeanette Winterson, lesbian lover of Julian Barnes’s widow, Pat Kavanagh, in the October 17,2009 WSJ (A report about her lesbian relations includes the information: Blessed with good looks that led many to compare her to Katharine Hepburn, she secured a nonspeaking part in Under Milk Wood. “I never got paid, but I did get to snog Richard Burton, ” she said) . Winterson writes:
The stories are well known; Vincent Van Gogh cut off his ear and went mad. Sylvia Plath gassed herself. Anne Sexton committed suicide. Emily Dickinson was manic-depressive. Virginia Woolf worked through alternating bouts of madness and depression for most of her life. The mad, bad and dangerous wild boys of high art and popular culture make great copy—whether it's Caravaggio on the run for murder after one of his rages, or Allen Ginsberg, naked and drunk, howling through Manhattan. The women—Plath, Frida Kahlo, Maria Callas, Janis Joplin—imploding like dark stars, are the stuff of obsession…. Longing is painful. Every work of art is an attempt to bring into being the object of loss. The pictures, the music, the poems and the performances are an intense engagement with loss. While one is in the act of making, one is not in loss, and one has meaning. The fierce crashes that happen to many creative people when a piece of work is done (read Hemingway on this) come out of the sense that however good the work, it has not answered the loss. The strange thing about creative work is that it can have enormous value for others while its maker is left ravaged. The ancient Greeks understood this as the price of an encounter with a god—the divine forces enter the human and use him or her as an instrument, only to be ultimately destroyed. But I do not believe that creativity is destructive or divine. I believe it is the part of us that gives shape and voice to our innermost reality. This is frightening. Encounters with the real, in particular what we really feel, are something we generally try to avoid. Art mediates the encounter, allowing us to get nearer to our longing and our loss, to risk more, to dare more. Yet for the maker, the exposure is not mediated; it is total and terrifying. That is why so many creative people cut themselves off from their own experience, using drugs or drink or sex or shipwreck to avoid absolute exposure to the pain of creativity. When Whitman turned to face his dark angel, to wrestle with himself, he was acknowledging his own loss, his own longing, his own unstaunched wound.

10/18/09

poem by Gershon Hepner
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