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Edgar Allan Poe

Beauty is the only legitimate domain of poetry.

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The Only One

You are the only one to make me a drink,
You are the only one to love me for who i am,
And the price of a virtuous wife is far above rubies.

Trust is the foundatuion for joy, peace and love;
And a thing of beauty is of a great joy!
So, you are the only one who can share my loneliness.

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Oh The Beauty Of The Poems I Would Have Written

OH THE BEAUTY OF THE POEMS I WOULD HAVE WRITTEN

Oh the Beauty of the Poems I would have written
The poignancy the pain the perception-

What Life gave in other more meaningful moments
Of love of loss of grief of understanding-

Oh the Life in certain times and ways
So much greater than anything I could say about it-

Oh the Poetry too at its best
Beyond what I could have written

Oh the poetry of the great233 poets- not mine.

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I Have The Mind And Mood Of Poetry

I HAVE THE MIND AND MOOD OF POETRY

I have the mind and mood of poetry,
But I have no poem-
And all I can do is wait
And hear the words come
And wonder whether their strength
Is in my own inner quiet
Which loves the words
And loves the poem
And loves the light from my window
And the flowers on the balcony
And all I see and feel and breathe now-
Because Love makes the universe resound
Even when there is only a small poor poem to add to it.

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The Language Of Poetry Is Metaphor

The language of poetry is metaphor
And irony and ambiguity
And beauty-

Beauty is the language of poetry
And metaphor and irony and ambiguity
And irony -

Beauty is the language of metaphor
And poetry without beauty
Is like poetry without metaphor
Like poetry without simile-

Poetry is poetry
Like beauty is beauty
And metaphor, metaphor
And language language -

Ironically
Without themselves they are something else
Or perhaps another variant of themselves
Ironically.

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Beauty In The Woman

Perched, dropped, flipped
Sounds of the day
Sounds of the woman in colors

In beauty she crops
In beauty she counts
While beauty in her eye
Is blonde, scorch, gloomy

Drunkard in spots hit
Is a woman with beauty
Her face, agolden facet

Beauty in the woman
Craves no murmurs, calm she comes
Head on the valley of green
of saltless
Speechless and never smiling
Like adog

Beauty in the woman
Loving she is born
Caring she spoils in a reborn
While dragging in no wars
such afamily of fame
Only lives in her

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Loving Is The Only Heaven

You pad across
the white tile floor

almost animal

your beauty
something only you
could tame

I have to raise my arm against it
as you come out of the sun

wearing only my white silk shirt

blown gracefully
against your curves

the shirt billowing behind you

as if
you were an angel
with folded wings

each step
a thing of wonder

lost in thought

as if you had taken – a wrong turning
& seemed surprised to be

here
stranded

kissing this human

who seems to know

that loving
is the only Heaven.

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The Only Flower You Are

A sunbeam caress the only flower from my garden,
What a nice feeling, what a pleasure,
Than to admire the beauty of a flower,
And closing eyes to dream about it.
It's a sweet flower,
Which opened its petals,
To get the joyful morning dew,
And with its fragrance to stun me,
To bring into my heart its magic.
But the most beautiful flower,
That sit next to me,
It's you my love,
You are just a flower bud,
You are all i ever want to hold, ,
You are my dream transposed into reality,
You are my life, my joy.

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I Wait To Hear From Within The Words Which Will Mean 'Poetry

I WAIT TO HEAR FROM WITHIN THE WORDS WHICH WILL MEAN ‘POETRY

I wait to hear from within the words which will mean ‘poetry
I listen to myself
Only these lines come-
Silence is greater than I am
But I must be, mustn’t I?
The world does not know or care-
Universes in the distance burn bright and then die-
The world does not care
It need not care
Who am I?
What is my poetry?
Billions and trillions and zillions of each and everything
Come into being
And then are not-
Like one of them
The silence will too embrace me
And the vast worlds elsewhere go on
In their indifference
Even to themselves.

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I Wait To Hear Within The Words Which Will Mean 'Poetry

I WAIT TO HEAR FROM WITHIN THE WORDS WHICH WILL MEAN ‘POETRY

I wait to hear from within the words which will mean ‘poetry
I listen to myself
Only these lines come-
Silence is greater than I am
But I must be, mustn’t I?
The world does not know or care-
Universes in the distance burn bright and then die-
The world does not care
It need not care
Who am I?
What is my poetry?
Billions and trillions and zillions of each and everything
Come into being
And then are not-
Like one of them
The silence will too embrace me
And the vast worlds elsewhere go on
In their indifference
Even to themselves.

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Beauty of the Trees

She came as nature made her, beauty as can be
to a rose, her lips intimidate; to a tree, her body curves
her hair, like the leaves, move in the breaze
and tasteful dreams her body serves-
in between her thighs-
as women watch in jealousy-
green-envied were their eyes,
to see such a bird, as was this girl-that fluttered with beauty
and envy overtook them-twisting them evil
bright days turned dark-and darkness-but a mute
as women did dispute-
the honor of killing the sweet bird
-only in silence-heard-
and thus the end of beauty came-
blowing out her flame
but her beauty lurks in present ease
in the beauty of the trees

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The Poem I Cannot Write/ Is The Poem Beyond My Own Poetry

THE POEM I CANNOT WRITE/ IS THE POEM BEYOND MY OWN POETRY

The poem I cannot write
Is the poem beyond my own poetry -
It is greater than what I am capable of -
It surprises in ways my awkward phrases cannot
It is complex beyond my simple simplicity
It has an infectious beauty
That demands to be recited again and again -
It lingers in the mind and memory
As a strange new beauty beyond anything done by anyone else before.

The poem I cannot write
Has been written will be written
By those greater than myself-
I have the great blessing
Of being able to read them
But I cannot join them
Despite a lifetime of trying.

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The Only Land For Me (A currency Lad)

Prate not to me of foreign strand,
Of beauty o'er the sea -
"This is my own - my native land" -
The only land for me!

The only land for me
The only land for me
"This is my own - my native land" -
The only land for me!

I love to roam, like a wild gazelle,
O'er my native mountains blue,
And wildly, thro' the woody dell,
Chase the bounding kangaroo!

The bounding kangaroo
The bounding kangaroo
And wildly thro' the woody dell
Chase the bounding kangaroo!

I've rode upon the stormy wave,
I've danc'd aboon the sea;
And where's the pleasure that it gave
Like my native land to me?

My native land to me
My native land to me
And where's the pleasure that it gave
Like my native land to me?

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Beauty of the Buffalo

Have you ever been up very close
To an animal so extremely large
That you feel quite insignificant
You know you are not in charge?

But you find the beauty of this animal
Is overwhelming to the core
You want to stay there forever
It seems that it is what cameras are for.

That’s how it was for me, my friend
It was in Yellowstone Park that I saw
The Buffalo very close to me
I know that this animal is a major draw.

The Buffalo’s head was simply enormous
And captivating was the face
If only I could have felt secure enough
To get out of my car for a quick embrace.

But no, that was not the case, I’m afraid
We kept on driving very slow
So we did not miss a single moment
As we enjoyed the beauty of the Buffalo!

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The Only Way I Know

In a world where love is found and
lost so easily
I'm so thankful I share my life with you
All around you hear the sound of
faithless poetry
Oh, I won't lie
That's something I won't do
There must be a million words
To whisper soft and low
There must be a million ways
I could let this feeling show
But loving you with all my heart
And never letting go
That's the only way
The only way I know
Maybe I will never say everything I feel
Even so, you'll always know the truth
In the silence of a touch every word is real
As long as I live
That's what I'll give to you
There must be a million words
To whisper soft and low
There must be a million ways
I could let this feeling show
But loving you with all my heart
And never letting go
That's the only way
The only way I know
That's the only way
The only way I know

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The Only One

(w.orbison/c. wiseman)
Everyone you knows been through it
You bite the bullet, then you chew it
Tie a knot at the end of your rope
Buy a book to help you cope
But no consolation gonna come
Youre the only one
Take a look at history
Recant some bits of poetry
Youll find the words still ring true
Some things dont change
Some things do
And youre the only one with a broken heart
The only one whos afraid of the dark
The only one in a crowded room
The only one who sees the blue moon
What you wouldnt give right now
To be another face in the crowd
And youre the only one who is all alone
The only one whose love is gone
The only one who has given in
The only one who will give again
And youre the only one with a broken heart
The only one whos afraid of the dark
The only one in a crowded room
The only one who sees the blue moon

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You Have Let The Beauty Of The Day Go Over

You have let the beauty of the day go over,
You have let the glory of the noon go by.
Clouds from the West have gathered close and cover
All but a remnant now of our proud sky.

Dumbly the rain beats on our darkened faces.
Hushed are the woods. Alas, for us no bird
Shall sing to--day of pleasure in green places,
No touch shall thrill, no soul of leaves be stirred.

Why did we wait? What faith was ours in fortune?
What was our pride that fate should kneel to us?
Oh, we were fools. Love loves not to importune,
And he is silent here in this sad house.

Alas, dear love, the day for us is ended,
The pleasure of green fields, of streams, of skies.
One hour remains, one only of joy blended
With coming night. Ah, seize it ere it flies.

Draw fast the curtains. Close the door on sorrow.
Shut out the dusk. It only makes us grieve.
Here we may live a life,--and then, to--morrow,
If fate still wills it, we may take our leave.

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my Brother Was The Only One

I remember one late afternoon memory
Through the gate
the sound of my steps after me

Under a warm shade
where all her children had gather
had come and gone
My brother was the only one

I remember the loose wood
from that uncertain gate
Out of character the handle being firm
yet the context of frame
being old and bent
Somebody teach me where he went

I remember under the shadows
by his dreams
Many moments he must have saved
cautiously filling his regrets
a place call home
he can't forget

My brother they say
loves the beauty from eyes
the son of his own
He gathers to capture fragrance
of a little girl he's known
That's my girl! come-on... hon
My brother was the only one

He sits in my thoughts
alone under that dormant grey tree
His eyes captivated as if time stands still
His eyes filled with passive glare
But yet
life no longer his care
My brother was the only one
That time and chance never another
Did words did I cover
that didn't say, dearly brother
I Love You

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The Beauty of the Woman

The Beauty of the Woman


For Thea and Alexi Katherine ~ 16 April 2011


The beauty of the woman is behind her touch
In the space between her fingers and the son’s
As he takes his first steppes
Between her hand and the daughter’s
As the father leads her down the isle

The beauty of the woman is behind her eyes.
In the circumference of each teardrop
Which shrunk: keeping pace with the contractions.
And disappeared when the daughter
Kicking and screaming was laid on her chest
Which became a stream of awe—wondrous

Even as the daughter found comfort on her breast
The beauty of the woman is behind her smile
Which she held through sleepless nights
Teething, feeding, monsters, and proms
Through the holding and the swaddling
Even the letting go…

The beauty of the woman is in the strength
To hold, to watch, in love-eternally
To spend eternity letting go
Of the hand that grasped her pinky
And each little piggy-toe
The hand she felt inside her
Which made her beauty glow

The beauty of the woman is
Something I’ve only seen
Something I know incompletely
But touch with my own hands
but the beauty fall between my fingers
and the beauty behind her hands.

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Pigeons Aren't the Only Obstructionist

The whiskers on my face
are spreading vicious
rumors after five
'bout the obvious ejection
and possible retirement
of my razor to the back
of a dirty and crud filled tub
-the kitchen table is
feeling a bit melancholy
with empty whiskey bottles
lined up in the apparent
chronological order
of their alcoholic demise
while according to the proof
listed on their
peeled off labels
they seem to be discussing
the lack of any formal
seating arrangements
for this evening's
unrehearsed entertainment
beat street poetry reading
live at nine-
-the street whores are gathering
out on my brick and concrete stoop
they're dressed in red and purple
skimpy neoprene injected tubes
and it's got the pigeons
all cooing over who'll
get to go first
as some sanitation workers
in white jumpsuits
with pockets full of
clean money to spend
search for sloppy seconds at best
in a big green dumpster's
discarded contents-
-when one of them suddenly shouts
'Hey, somebody give me a hand'
He's spotted a cheap wrist watch
with a body still attached-
I turn a deaf ear still connected to a dead head
-as some hooker leaned in my doorway
and just asked me to have a dance
but the needle tracks in her arm
look like the pecker tracks on my pants
And baby I'm here to tell you
That 'smack and crack' will leave
the one who brought you to the dance
I smile and she falls out into the hall
Where a wino picks her pocket book
And promises to call....

The Following Public Service Message...required by law....
-No animals were harmed
in the writing this poem
cause most things in life
have no real meaning anymore-
the sanitation department
is cleaning up the mess
but it will not be better
till the pigeons leave us alone-
oh well, what the hell
I'm going to fix me another drink
then stand on a three legged chair
with a necktie made of nylon
and a dirty razor just in case-
Death is the only thing which remains
true to its promise
And the formerly deceased Poet in room 128
With the needle in his leg
Knows all too well what I'm talkin' about......


(2007)

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Patrick White

Beauty In The Aloofness Of My Usual Sorrows

Beauty in the aloofness of my usual sorrows.
A respite in time and care. A hole in space
I can escape through without setting off any alarms.
And I don't care what this poem is going to be about
I can write it with no preconceived deceptions,
no utilitarian intent, no split lip ego-defects.
For a moment, the ice age is thawing
and the blue chicory and English ox-eyed daisies
like the taste of the air, and the drainage-ditches
are a riot of Queen Ann's Lace and Viper's Bugloss.
Temperate consolations modify my mood
into a truce with the bleaker conditions of life.
I'm gulled by the sunshine. I'm a schill of the mindstream.
The killer bees are away from their hives.
Amber tears of Baltic honey flow in my veins
without attracting flies. Life is unconscionably reasonable
in the efflorescence of its mystically specific details.
Even my dragon skull basks in the beatific wavelengths
of a better attitude toward its own martyrdom
in the greener fires of earth like salt in a flame.

And later tonight, if I'm still so entranced,
I'll make my way down to the Tay River
to see if the fireflies are out dancing pianissimo
with the abandoned lighthouses of the stiff-necked cattails.
I'll sit on a rock that doesn't aspire to lord it over
anyone's kingdom, and I'll stare at the stars
until they're tattooed like an indelible starmap
on the back of my eyelids, to keep my tears
from diluting them like smeared watercolours
or my more igneous aspects, from shattering them
like the menagerie of a zoo with glass bars.

And o, basking in the freedom of my own madness,
hilarious as peace, the infinite homelessness
of knowing I come from everywhere all at once,
and there's nowhere I've walked alone in my life
down any road beset with assassins, or feathered
like strippers in boas of white sweet clover,
I haven't been stepping across the threshold
of another wilderness always as vast
and cautiously intriguing as I am mysteriously lost
when the human intimacy of a longing heart
encounters the sentient impersonality
of an infinite mind that isn't aware of anything
the heart doesn't bring before it like a child's drawing.

And there are themes you can follow
like bush wolves through the back woods
trampled down by the padding of their circuitous descents
into the dangerous pantries of the farms
pseudomorphically nestled between the hills.
It's an itinerary that's serviced the pack for years
with a sufficiency that's got them this far against the odds.
And each to their own way, go with the gods
and I'll rejoice in hearing you howl among the trees
to the chagrin of your detractors listening
with a begrudging admiration a civilization away
from what's been bred out of them like freedom
under a full moon in heat. As for me
and my homeless approach to the ghost towns
of future zodiacs, I never want to know where I'm going
until I get there inconceivably as the only path
I could have taken in the first place,
because that's always the way it is
even when you delight in the wiles of going astray.
Signs of your emptiness in the midst of the great unknowing.
Time and space mindscaping the exploration
you keep thrusting into the dark like the light and the lamp
of an estranged nightwatchman, hoping
you haven't been here before, and anything
worth keeping an eye on has already been given away for free.

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