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James Geary

Cliches are aphorisms that have become victims of their own success.

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Victims of Their Own Exploits!

It should be quite obvious to many by now...
Just 'who' those villains are in ones' life!
Who smuggled in their sorrows to share.
And 'who' brought along despair...
With a tinge of bitterness diced with strife!

And I'd place any bet,
Those who have done this with acceptance...
Are not the ones slandered or defamed.
Or reputations ruined...
By those who have gossiped their way,
To dead ends!
Finding themselves...
Victims of their own exploits!

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That Voice Of Choice Is Their Own

When a game of catch up,
Believed can be played to be done...
Is initiated by some who think,
This battle against time can be won...
Is a matter of choice?
Their minds are stuck!
Listening to one voice.
And that voice of choice is their own.

And there is nothing in this world,
To convince people like this...
That their resistance in a stubbornness,
Has nothing to do with enemies or terrorists.

The ones witnessed being victimized,
Are they who perceive doing what they please...
Ultimately results to their benefit.
And there is a mindset of folks who think life is a joke!

With a listening done to one voice!
Not yours or mine,
By choice.
Just one voice and that is their own.

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Those Who Have Been Victims

Leave them to fight.
They will be clinging on to life...
Asking 'why' very soon.
Barbarians can do only one thing successfully.
Declare victory...
After total destruction,
And chaos has been determined.
It convinces them they created fire.
And the only purpose the Sun has...
Is to bronze their skins.
Ignoring those of natural color.
For fear insecurities will be exposed.
Leave them to fight.
They will be clinging on to life...
Asking 'why' very soon.
And those who have been victims,
Of their crimes...
Appear to be both deaf and blind,
To the sounds and sights of their screams.
Wondering...
Why do they point to the sky,
With frightened looks in their eyes?
Since all they see are angels,
Coming to make deliveries!

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The Sins of the Parents

History has shown us
just how damaging it is for the child
of a parent who has been badly brought up
The circle has to be broken
The cruelty has to stop
for if not stopped now then each generation
will needlessly have to suffer the same fate
as the generation before overpowers the now
Fathers are by far the worst
victims of their own Father before
The old fashioned beatings and violence
the struggle to show emotion
The jealousy of the love his wife and children share
The taunting of daughters
Fear is the key to the problem
freeing the masculine soul from self rejection
Healing his mind from his past
and opening his eyes to the present
Children suffering
Wife in pain trying to appear brave
over compensation with gifts to their offspring
to divert pain
Children learning that material items ease the pain
Children closing their hearts to protect themselves
The cycle cannot end without fixing the problem NOW
Pull together parents of today and educate your sons
Show them it’s ok to cry and to feel emotions
Show them love show them compassion
Show them it is OK to love freely and without violence
For tomorrow they will be the lovers of wives
and the Fathers of their children
They will form the pattern for future generations
that will become the parents of tomorrow
break the pattern and save our world

Remember
The sins of the Parents fall on the Child

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There are people

There are people
that claims the street as their own
and stand
at parking places on the sidewalk
and do no work
but to look after cars.

If you park there
and ignore them
and do not
want to use their services
you immediately
become a racist in their eyes

and they will make a scene,
threaten to damage your car,
or make sure that it’s stolen
or so they tell you
since they believe
that you owe them something.

Some spray soapy water
without invitation
on the front window
of your car
when you stop
at a traffic light
and wipe it off
demanding a price.

I wonder why the education
is still lacking
since they have already
got their liberation

and just as odd
these people are ignored
by their compatriots in government
as if they do not exist,
while the country
falls slowly
but surely to pieces.

There are people
that claims the possessions
of others as their own
and at night
prowl around in the streets
shooting, stabbing
and robbing
and estranging people
from their cars.

l’Envoi
Still I wonder where
the problem lies
and would really like
both of my cars back

and I do not know
about white people
that sneak around
in black neighbourhoods at night,
hijack cars,
brake windows
and demand possessions
with loaded guns.

All that they do,
is try to make a living
or hurry away in their leaving.

{Reference: “First liberation, then education.” Political slogan of the ruling party.]

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Their Own Expense

Their flaws are now exposed.
And they are fighting tooth and nail,
To keep them camouflaged.
And the oddest thing about that is...
They have become enraged,
At their own expense!
Or a growing lack of common sense,
That has become expensive...
To hide convincingly,
So it seems!

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For Those Observing

Easily manipulated,
We.
People who suspect truth,
And receive deceit...
Gleefully!

Attacked by desires hyped on TV.
Believing in the spice of variety.
With the dismissal of devotion,
Patience and/or loyalty.

We are just not into it at all.
Not in these days,
When disrespect is the rage.
And being crazed,
Is the epidemic no one seems to fear.
That is clear...
For those observing.
And keeping recommendations,
In their own survival kits!

Easily manipulated,
We.
People who suspect truth,
And receive deceit...
Gleefully!

People have become entertained,
By their own demise.
And victimize those who attempt to stop them.
As if cocained!

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That Many Their Own Praises

I do not wish to control people I've never hit my wife
And I too have my struggles my struggles in life
But like the pope or the monarch I breathe the same air
And 'tis true hope can be found at the pit of despair.

I did not ask you to tell me of how marvellous you are
Of your recent job promotion and of your brand new car
And your two weeks holiday in a resort by the sea
With your beautiful wife and your young family.

I feel glad to hear that for yourself you've done well
But for a commentary of your achievements I did not ask you to tell
Me of since I do not have success stories of my own to relate
But then suppose those who work hard at it their own success do create.

And I am not one to begrudge you your success
If in your life it brings you some happiness
Yet in an age of self promotion it does seem a sad thing
That many their own praises feel compelled to sing.

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Deserving To Be Touted

Deserving to be touted?
Some are.
And have become legends,
In their own right!
And without doubt.
Although some may deny,
A wish they could figure it all out.

Others believe a taking of praise,
Is something easily given to them...
Without experiencing,
A stress that strains emotional drought.
But those who have obtained a fame,
Aren't the ones to toss it about.

Usually those deserving to be touted,
Are mystified themselves.
And would like to know specifically,
What they've done unlike anyone else?
Especially those chosen to receive attention.

'What have you done,
That is different from what I do? '

~I have no clue.
Maybe it is my stubbornness,
To remain true to myself...
With nothing else to prove.~

'But you are moody.
Sometimes anti-social.
And you are moody with a giving,
Of much attitude.'

~I agree.
But...
I don't know why you are questioning me.
Like you I am a witness to all of this too! ~

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Can you sleep when the wind blows

Can you sleep when the wind blows
Can you ignore the cyclone as it tears
Away the house of your moaning neighbor
Maybe some have become refugees in their
Own country can you laugh and say you're
Sorry and refuse to give them sanctuary?
The wind is blowing exceedingly hard out there
Because we have abandoned Prudence
Because we have got rid of Temperance
Because we lack Courage and our Faith is weak
The wind is bringing death and destruction
To us because we have murdered Justice
The wind is hunting us down because we don't
Trust our public representatives
The terrible destructive wind torpedoes our flimsy
Structures because we are the enemies of Love
Can you sleep when the wind blows my brother
Can you snore away in nightmarish contentment
When you know the hobos will be feasting on nothing
As the wild out of control storm crashes through
The weak fortifications of those who sleep under
The cheap blanket of the stars as the terrified
Neglected villagers hammer on the doors of the less
Affected rich who send them away?
Can you have faith in the less fortunate and show
The world that you have a real human heart unlike
The many who have lumps of fat where their human
Hearts are supposed be?

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Sleep With Silence

Whole world may be sleeping with dead silence
The minds at rest with no more worries hence
Next day may bring new hopes to their life
World may find new horizons and witness no more strife

Whole year has passed with enough of blood shed
Millions have starved and met death while unfed
Many dictators have fallen victims to their own folly
People have rejoiced in the streets and enjoyed wholly

How many lost their lives in safeguarding our lives?
Countless and still not certain how many more may fear to relive?
Nothing can be achieved by merely expressing grave concern
The tragedy may knock your door one by one or in turn

We don’t know yet how the hell like life is enjoyed
How their dear ones are lost and houses destroyed
Who has wiped their tears and consoled the souls?
Life may return to normal as it may slowly crawl

It is painful to know the exact theory
Why at all so much cruelty and misery?
At what cost we are going to have upper hand?
Can we not have contentment and change in our trend?

I am no one to comment on it as have not suffered
Not gone out of hide outs and help offered
Yet I bleed with thousand of my fellow brethrens
It is grave matter and invites our deepest concerns

Aid in the form of wheat or material may help to some extent
But have we no reason to feel shame on humanity aspect and regret
That can we stoop so below and play with the precious lives?
Disregard for what our god fathers have left behind to preserve and believe?

I sincerely hope some thoughts may be given
You may think by giving some money it may be forgiven
It may grow with hidden hatred and ask for revenge
How then can we pray for and ask for the change?

Time is yet not gone out of hand
It is not necessary to find foe and friend
Let us make and build beautiful end
Where at place of time we feel it necessary to mend

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Patrick White

Everybody Knows Why The Children Are Hungry

Everybody knows why the children are hungry.
Everybody knows why the poor give up dreaming
and the rich can't sleep without surveillance.
Everybody knows why this young girl can't read
and the Taliban throw acid in her face.
Everybody knows why this young boy
at twelve years old
feels about as heroic as a statistic
and looks at the future as if
he were already a has-been.
Everybody knows why there's a rifle in his hand.
Everybody knows why
there are people washed up
on the streets of our cities
as if a great ship of state had gone down
like a garbage barge off the coast of New Jersey.
Everybody knows why
women are being sexually colonized
in the Democratic Republic of the mineral-rich Congo.
Everybody knows their atrocities
like serial killers and baseball cards.
You read a lot of existentialism
that prefers existence to essence
but you still find it hard to picture the abyss
that defines being as a special case of nothingness:
look into a dead child's eyes
look into a dead child's mind
look at what she cherished about life
like a cosmology all of her own
a myth of origin
a reason for stars
rejected by the metaphysics of the flies
that gather like punctuation marks all over her eyes.
Everybody knows
why the truth is veiled in spider-webs
that are maintained like political systems
who let the few who know how to spin silk out of their ass
eat everyone.
New eyes for old lamps
here comes this year's candidates
like autumn to the ballot-box
like worms to a windfall of apples
to improve the lives of illegal immigrants
by privatizing concentration camps.
Everybody wants to stick their thumb in plum pudding
and say what a good boy am I
and everybody forgets who they stole it from
and everybody regrets that they didn't get caught
in time to do it all over again
as they address themselves like greed
to a nation of gluttons
about what to do about the hungry
at the back door of the world
living on the leftovers
of liposuction clinics for the rich.
Three quarters of the world's resources on your plate
taken out of other people's mouths
and their children washing your table-cloth
to get the worst of the blood stains out
and you wonder why
you're threatened by the fact
that people are hungry
and all they can see in your indifference
is their destiny.
Hate manipulates
the economics of fate
and the harvest moon is eclipsed
by the shadow of your dinner plate
all over the world tonight
as you go to bed full and happy
you're rich enough to have values
that can be bought and sold
in a free market.
Hell's reserved a table
in the dark corner
of an exotic place for you
that serves just those
who were exalted
by great all-consuming souls
that knew how to keep faith with a menu
that had children with cannibal soup on it.
And if hell doesn't exist anymore
because so many atrocities have put it to shame
and peace is just another black hole
in the eye of an approaching hurricane
then may your soul be subjected
to the same vicious clarity
that cooked the books
like bestsellers in heaven
that always had a happy ending
like a tax return on charity.
The Holy Ghost was first
a Greek lawyer
a paraclete
an advocatus
someone who would speak up for you
who would intercede on your behalf
after you died
and went before
Rhadamanthus Anubis God or provincial court
to see if there was a feather's-weight of good in you.
Now the Holy Ghost is a campaign manager
for a Christo-Fascist rightwing conservative think tank
with the i.q. of a snakepit
running for the office of God
by denoucing charity
as a socio-economic liberal fraud
and a green policy in Eden
as the beginnings of a police state
that will take away your right
to be psychopathically delusional about clarity.
Granny Smith Macintosh or Golden Delicious
Satan invited Eve
to take a big bite out of the apple
just for a little variety
but the neocon Nazis have taken it
a step further than that
and stuffed themselves
like maggots
into the vicious crabapples
they've stewed under the crust
of their North American piety
like a taste of downhome cooking you can trust.
But trust me
they're lick-spittle ass vacuums
that will be spit out
like something nature abhors.
Everybody knows why the children are hungry.
There are people in the world
whose values are the apple cores
of a trickle-down economy
that begrudges the poor even that.
Everybody knows that the game is fixed
and elections are Mexican pinatas
beaten to a pulp at the ballot box
to keep foreigners out of our customs
like the roots of strange lands out of our food.
Everybody knows
why the world is a dangerous place
and the only thing our children can do
is stick needles in their arms
to stay out of harm's way.
Everybody knows why the old
are left to die alone without dignity
in a world where experience
is a kind of psychological abuse
and wisdom the chronic ambiguity of a victim.
I see a war.
Between those
who have nothing to lose
and the darlings of superfluity
who live off the rest of everything
that belongs to everyone else.
Nasty guerrilla gunboat wars
like blood clots in the collective unconscious
ignited by true believers
on both sides of the fence
with the spontaneity
of improvised explosive devices
and the apocalyptic insights of fanatical drones.
More bang for the buck.
More corporate spin
for those who don't give a damn.
Everybody knows why the planet feels
like a sexually assaulted woman
with no shelters or restraining orders
to hear her appeals for help.
We shut our mouths like doors.
We close our eyes like windows.
We stuff our ears with loud music
to keep from hearing
how she screams our names out loud
as if there were still some heroes left
among all her shameless children
that weren't legendary
for their sins of omission.
The planet is one body.
The planet is one mind.
If your little toe gets gangrene like Somalia
and you do nothing about it
given time for the disease to progress
California will go blind
and Tokyo go into cardiac arrest.
If a child loses an eye
that's one less star in the sky
for the lost to find their way back by.
If a student is killed for an idea
by the Neanderthals of creationism
standing up for a time-honoured ice-age
against the proponents of global warming
that's proof that humans
were created in the image of God
like a missing link in the brain drain of evolution
that never flushes the think-tank
after it's done its business
like other species that have gone extinct
abusing their own awareness.
But I've got a way out of the argument.
It isn't evolution or creationism
that governs the direction of events
among all living things on the planet.
It's eliminationism.
Murder in the name of self-defense.
Genocide in the name of purifying the race.
Theft in the name of giving back.
Lying as a way of upholding the truth.
Rape as a way of making love.
Iron pyrite as the standard of the Golden Rule.
Do unto others before they do unto you.
Jesus overthrew the benches
of the money-lenders in the temple.
The Vatican's got a bank.
Wisdom as the think-tank of the fool.
When the meaning of life is insignificant
so is its lack of meaning too.
Compassion as heartfelt as a foreign policy.
Desecration as the true aesthetic of celebrity.
Horror takes a short-cut to fame
and leaves the long way home to the hero.
War as a way of imposing peace.
Starvation poverty disease clean water air and arable land
beaten like old ploughs
into the new weapons
of a corporate arsenal.
Nike owns the rain in Bolivia
and Coca Cola's
the corporate Magna Carta of Belize.
You're the nobody everybody's watching
like the someone they should be afraid of
who's watching you.
Profligate variety the vacillating substitute for choice.
The bride wore black at the wedding
to celebrate her marriage to an oilslick
like moonlight that landed a big eclipse
and the mutant sex life of a polluted fish.
There's honey in the orchards that broke their vows
and money in doing what you hate
for the best of reasons.
One half the world is grass.
The other half is grazers.
There are children who suckle
at their dead mothers' breasts
like Hathor the cosmic cash-cow
when she crashed on Wall Street
like a fall in the price of meat.
The promised land of milk and honey
is a profit margin on the edge of the sea
looking for big returns on its spiritual dividends.
The ends don't justify the means anymore.
The means are the ends.
Like the children
that are dynastically slaughtered
to keep Herod from having bad dreams
about the birth-rate of immaculate Palestinian virgins.
Lord won't you send me an M-16.
My friends all have Mausers
and AK-47s.
The conspiracy theorists
of the justifiably paranoid
look at a tree
and see an underground arboreal organization.
The crazy try to keep the mad from going insane.
Everyone's dining with Claudius on poison mushrooms.
Nero waits in the wings
like the Elvis Presley of emperors
and sings of all the things
he's going to do to the Christians
with a blast from the past
and a little number
he took from the beast
that rose to six six six on the charts
for drowning their children
and drinking the blood of a god
who rose from the dead on the third day
like Marianne Faithful making a comeback.
And everybody knows why the children are hungry.
Everybody knows the big bad wolves
caught up to their toes
and blew their house down
and ate them like little piggies.
Everybody knows where the cradle crashed
and how many millions of children there were on board
when the wind blew the treetops out like candles.
But everybody plays dumb and mute and stupid
and says they're still looking for the black box
to determine what caused the tragedy
and possibly in the future
make sure that it won't probably happen again.
Everybody knows there are maggots in Armani suits
pimped out like butterflies
to misrepresent themselves to the people
in the voice of an experienced apple
who knows how to make the hard choices
when it gets down to taking a bite out of the budget.
Corruption always persecutes virtue
for falling into fiscal arrears
when it should have known
like any good snakeoil salesman
it just couldn't keep up
with the luxurious lifestyle of its tears.
Mirrors within mirrors within mirrors
and not one them bright enough
to reflect the dark truth
of why children just hundreds of miles away
from a supermarket and a health plan
look like the fossils of pterodactyls
in the last stages of late Triassic starvation.
All skin and bones
with big eyes like bat kites
tangled in the powerlines
of the economic spider grid of a world
that separates the flies
the gods kill for sport
from the bureaucrats and politicians
that deny any knowledge of their crimes
in a marsupial court
where everyone else
is in everyone else's pocket.
Wanton boys pull the wings off the fly.
The fly kills them with germs.
Everybody knows why their heart squirms
when they shake out the garbage can
like a cornucopia full of worms
that have grown fat and chubby as commas
on the flesh of illiterate children
that didn't live long enough
to learn to count the dead
without using their fingers and toes.
The tooth fairy's turned into a terrorist
that puts homemade explosives
under the pillows of stone
the children lay their heads down on
shaking in their deathbeds
to scream in their dreams about things
that were better left unsaid.
Everybody knows why the damage to our children
is always a collateral
and never a capital offense.
A prosthetic footnote to a roadside bomb.
A small pale blossom of a face
in the cosmic expanse
of an adult-sized tomb
that casts monstrous shadows
on the walls of the room
she sleeps alone in
without any sign from heaven
that anyone knows she's dead.
All her lucky stars
swept like tragic dust under the bed
where she's hiding
from everyone who knows why
and doesn't come looking.

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Samuel Butler

An Heroic Epistle of Hudibras To His Lady

I who was once as great as Caesar,
Am now reduc'd to Nebuchadnezzar;
And from as fam'd a conqueror
As ever took degree in war,
Or did his exercise in battle,
By you turn'd out to grass with cattle:
For since I am deny'd access
To all my earthly happiness
Am fallen from the paradise
Of your good graces, and fair eyes;
Lost to the world, and you, I'm sent
To everlasting banishment;
Where all the hopes I had t' have won
Your heart, b'ing dash'd, will break my own.

Yet if you were not so severe
To pass your doom before you hear,
You'd find, upon my just defence,
How much y' have wrong'd my innocence.
That once I made a vow to you,
Which yet is unperformed, 'tis true:
But not because it is unpaid,
'Tis violated, though delay'd;
Or, if it were, it is no fau't,
So heinous as you'd have it thought;
To undergo the loss of ears,
Like vulgar hackney perjurers
For there's a diff'rence in the case,
Between the noble and the base,
Who always are observ'd t' have done't
Upon as different an account:
The one for great and weighty cause,
To salve in honour ugly flaws;
For none are like to do it sooner
Than those who are nicest of their honour:
The other, for base gain and pay,
Forswear, and perjure by the day;
And make th' exposing and retailing
Their souls and consciences a calling.

It is no scandal, nor aspersion,
Upon a great and noble person,
To say he nat'rally abhorr'd
Th' old-fashion'd trick, To keep his word;
Though 'tis perfidiousness and shame
In meaner men to do the same:
For to be able to forget,
Is found more useful to the great,
Than gout, or deafness, or bad eyes,
To make 'em pass for wond'rous wise.
But though the law on perjurers
Inflicts the forfeiture of ears,
It is not just that does exempt
The guilty, and punish th' innocent;
To make the ears repair the wrong
Committed by th' ungovern'd tongue;
And when one member is forsworn,
Another to be cropt or torn.
And if you shou'd, as you design,
By course of law, recover mine,
You're like, if you consider right,
To gain but little honour by't.
For he that for his lady's sake
Lays down his life or limbs at stake,
Does not so much deserve her favour,
As he that pawns his soul to have her,
This y' have acknowledg'd I have done,
Although you now disdain to own;
But sentence what you rather ought
T' esteem good service than a fau't.
Besides, oaths are not bound to bear
That literal sense the words infer,
But, by the practice of the age,
Are to be judg'd how far th' engage;
And, where the sense by custom's checkt,
Are found void, and of none effect.
For no man takes or keeps a vow
But just as he sees others do;
Nor are th' oblig'd to be so brittle,
As not to yield and bow a little:
For as best-temper'd blades are found,
Before they break, to bend quite round,
So truest oaths are still most tough,
And though they bow, are breaking proof.
Then wherefore should they not b' allow'd
In love a greater latitude?
For as the law of arms approves
All ways to conquest, so should love's;
And not be ty'd to true or false,
But make that justest that prevails
For how can that which is above
All empire, high and mighty love,
Submit its great prerogative
To any other power alive?
Shall love, that to no crown gives place,
Become the subject of a case?
The fundamental law of nature,
Be over-rul'd by those made after?
Commit the censure of its cause
To any but its own great laws?
Love, that's the world's preservative,
That keeps all souls of things alive;
Controuls the mighty pow'r of fate,
And gives mankind a longer date;
The life of nature, that restores
As fast as time and death devours;
To whose free-gift the world does owe,
Not only earth, but heaven too;
For love's the only trade that's driven,
The interest of state in heav'n,
Which nothing but the soul of man
Is capable to entertain.
For what can earth produce, but love
To represent the joys above?
Or who but lovers can converse,
Like angels, by e the eye-discourse?
Address and compliment by vision;
Make love and court by intuition?
And burn in amorous flames as fierce
As those celestial ministers?
Then how can any thing offend,
In order to so great an end?
Or heav'n itself a sin f resent,
That for its own supply was meant?
That merits, in a kind mistake,
A pardon for th' offence's sake.
Or if it did not, but the cause
Were left to th' injury at laws,
What tyranny can disapprove
There should be equity in love;
For laws that are inanimate,
And feel no sense of love or hate,
That have no passion of their own,
Nor pity to be wrought upon,
Are only proper to inflict
Revenge on criminals as strict
But to have power to forgive,
Is empire and prerogative;
And 'tis in crowns a nobler gem
To grant a pardon than condemn.
Then since so few do what they ought,
'Tis great t' indulge a well-meant fau't.
For why should he who made address,
All humble ways, without success,
And met with nothing, in return,
But insolence, affronts, and scorn,
Not strive by wit to countermine,
And bravely carry his design?
He who was us'd so unlike a soldier,
Blown up with philters of love-powder?
And after letting blood, and purging,
Condemn'd to voluntary scourging;
Alarm'd with many a horrid fright,
And claw'd by goblins in the night;
Insulted on, revil'd, and jeer'd,
With rude invasion of his beard;
And when your sex was foully scandal'd,
As foully by the rabble handled;
Attack'd by despicable foes,
And drub'd with mean and vulgar blows;
And, after all, to be debarr'd
So much as standing on his guard;
When horses, being spurr'd and prick'd,
Have leave to kick for being kick'd?

Or why should you, whose mother-wits
Are furnish'd with all perquisites,
That with your breeding-teeth begin,
And nursing babies, that lie in,
B' allow'd to put all tricks upon
Our cully sex, and we use none?
We, who have nothing but frail vows
Against your stratagems t' oppose;
Or oaths more feeble than your own,
By which we are no less put down?
You wound, like g Parthians, while you fly,
And kill with a retreating eye:
Retire the more, the more we press
To draw us into ambushes.
As pirates all false colours wear
T' intrap th' unwary mariner,
So women, to surprise us, spread
The borrow'd flags of white and red;
Display 'em thicker on their cheeks
Than their old grandmothers, the Picts;
And raise more devils with their looks,
Than conjurer's less subtle books;
Lay trains of amorous intrigues,
In tow'rs, and curls, and perriwigs,
With greater art and cunning rear'd,
Than h PHILIP NYE's thanksgiving beard,
Prepost'rously t' entice, and gain
Those to adore 'em they disdain;
And only draw 'em in, to clog
With idle names a catalogue.

A lover is, the more he's brave,
T' his mistress but the more a slave;
And whatsoever she commands,
Becomes a favour from her hands;
Which he's obliged t' obey, and must,
Whether it be unjust or just.
Then when he is compell'd by her
T' adventures he would else forbear,
Who with his honour can withstand,
Since force is greater than command?
And when necessity's obey'd,
Nothing can be unjust or bad
And therefore when the mighty pow'rs
Of love, our great ally and yours,
Join'd forces not to be withstood
By frail enamour'd flesh and blood,
All I have done, unjust or ill,
Was in obedience to your will;
And all the blame that can be due,
Falls to your cruelty and you.
Nor are those scandals I confest,
Against my will and interest,
More than is daily done of course
By all men, when they're under force;
When some upon the rack confess
What th' hangman and their prompters please;
But are no sooner out of pain,
Than they deny it all again.
But when the Devil turns confessor,
Truth is a crime he takes no pleasure
To hear, or pardon, like the founder
Of liars, whom they all claim under
And therefore, when I told him none,
I think it was the wiser done.
Nor am I without precedent,
The first that on th' adventure went
All mankind ever did of course,
And daily dues the same, or worse.
For what romance can show a lover,
That had a lady to recover,
And did not steer a nearer course,
To fall a-board on his amours?
And what at first was held a crime,
Has turn'd to honourable in time.

To what a height did i infant ROME,
By ravishing of women, come
When men upon their spouses seiz'd,
And freely marry'd where they pleas'd,
They ne'er forswore themselves, nor ly'd.
Nor, in the mind they were in, dy'd;
Nor took the pains t' address and sue,
Nor play'd the masquerade to woo;
Disdain'd to stay for friends' consents;
Nor juggled about settlements:
Did need no license, nor no priest,
Nor friends, nor kindred, to assist;
Nor lawyers, to join land and money
In th' holy state of matrimony,
Before they settled hands and hearts,
Till k alimony or death them parts:
Nor wou'd endure to stay until
Th' had got the very bride's good will;
But took a wise and shorter course
To win the ladies, downright force.
And justly made 'em prisoners then,
As they have often since, us men,
With acting plays, and dancing jigs,
The luckiest of all love's intrigues;
And when they had them at their pleasure,
Then talk'd of love and flames at leisure;
For after matrimony's over,
He that holds out but half a lover,
Deserves for ev'ry minute more
Than half a year of love before;
For which the dames in contemplation
Of that best way of application,
Prov'd nobler wives than e'er was known,
By suit or treaty to be won;
And such as all posterity
Cou'd never equal nor come nigh.

For women first were made for men,
Not men for them. - It follows, then,
That men have right to ev'ry one,
And they no freedom of their own
And therefore men have pow'r to chuse,
But they no charter to refuse.
Hence 'tis apparent, that what course
Soe'er we take to your amours,
Though by the indirectest way,
'Tis no injustice, nor foul play;
And that you ought to take that course,
As we take you, for better or worse;
And gratefully submit to those
Who you, before another, chose.
For why should ev'ry savage beast
Exceed his great lord's interest?
Have freer pow'r than he in grace,
And nature, o'er the creature has?
Because the laws he since has made
Have cut off all the pow'r he had;
Retrench'd the absolute dominion
That nature gave him over women;
When all his pow'r will not extend
One law of nature to suspend;
And but to offer to repeal
The smallest clause, is to rebel.
This, if men rightly understood
Their privilege, they wou'd make good;
And not, like sots, permit their wives
T' encroach on their prerogatives;
For which sin they deserve to be
Kept, as they are, in slavery:
And this some precious Gifted Teachers,
Unrev'rently reputed leachers,
And disobey'd in making love,
Have vow'd to all the world to prove,
And make ye suffer, as you ought,
For that uncharitable fau't.
But I forget myself, and rove
Beyond th' instructions of my love.

Forgive me (Fair) and only blame
Th' extravagancy of my flame,
Since 'tis too much at once to show
Excess of love and temper too.
All I have said that's bad and true,
Was never meant to aim at you,
Who have so sov'reign a controul
O'er that poor slave of yours, my soul,
That, rather than to forfeit you,
Has ventur'd loss of heaven too:
Both with an equal pow'r possest,
To render all that serve you blest:
But none like him, who's destin'd either
To have, or lose you, both together.
And if you'll but this fault release
(For so it must be, since you please)
I'll pay down all that vow, and more,
Which you commanded, and I swore,
And expiate upon my skin
Th' arrears in full of all my sin.
For 'tis but just that I should pay
Th' accruing penance for delay,
Which shall be done, until it move
Your equal pity and your love.

The Knight, perusing this Epistle,
Believ'd h' had brought her to his whistle;
And read it like a jocund lover,
With great applause t' himself, twice over;
Subscrib'd his name, but at a fit
And humble distance to his wit;
And dated it with wond'rous art,
Giv'n from the bottom of his heart;
Then seal'd it with his Coat of Love,
A smoaking faggot - and above,
Upon a scroll - I burn, and weep;
And near it - For her Ladyship;
Of all her sex most excellent,
These to her gentle hands present.
Then gave it to his faithful Squire,
With lessons how t' observe and eye her.

She first consider'd which was better,
To send it back, or burn the letter.
But guessing that it might import,
Though nothing else, at least her sport,
She open'd it, and read it out,
With many a smile and leering flout:
Resolv'd to answer it in kind,
And thus perform'd what she design'd.

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In The Darkness

In the darkness
Waiting for the day to be begin
Perfectly alert and awake
I write these lines
That have no message
Except their own existence.

We want to be
Not only for ourselves
But for others -

We need our voices to be heard
Not only by our own dreaming
But by those who respond to our sounds-

You are with me as I write these lines
Whoever you are reading this
You are with me-

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Day of Celibate Rain

Day of celibate rain,
Stamping the tomfoolery of birds
To the line.
Maybe the last time I saw your eyes
Was in high school graduation-
You said goodbye,
And now the rains, they keep up what the
Customers should,
They dampen boxes and wet wood.
And I know your name
While the airplanes go leaping,
Leaping on the weathered planes;
But it is so lonely not having you here,
And the rain makes me realize just how absolutely
Good it is to be alone,
Without a son drafted from your silver
Womb,
Without a plumber for his tomb:
And I want to think of your eyes somewhere
In the curtains of this weather,
But your eyes are good and gone
And making their own celebrating where
No poinsettias can grow,
But where the tourisms grow so much that they’ve
Become fanciful with their own generations,
And where it doesn’t rain
It snows.

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Many Will Come to Know The Effectiveness

Many are realizing,
At their tremendous mental
And,
Physical expense
Realities maintained,
On the telling of lies
Becomes a weakened defense,
Against the power of truth.

Denials raised to stay committed,
To defy what is presented
Once truth begins to combat deceit.
Creates a massive turnaround of events,
The telling of lies can not defeat.

Many are realizing,
At their tremendous mental
And,
Physical expense
Realities maintained,
On the telling of lies
Becomes a weakened defense,
Against the power of truth.

And the evidence of that,
Does not need
A group of experienced archaeologists feeding,
Findings discovered.
In ancient dusted fields.

What is as it is observed,
No longer can deceit conceal.
There 'is' most definitely a reality.
One we all will come to touch, see and feel
As 'thee' truth upon us revealed,
Is unmistaken for its authenticity.

Choose to like it, ignore it or leave it alone.
Many will come to know the effectiveness of it.
And masquerading truth is not condoned.

'How did you know 'that'?
I was private and discreet.'

Truth is not like deceit to be hidden.
And those unaware of that,
Find themselves victims of their own entrapment.

'Where did you study this? '
You are pitiful.
You didn't know that did you?

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Terrible days ahead

Think of terrible days ahead
Before eyes can believe or you are dead
You may go with jute bag full of money
Return with small bag items of essential commodity

Days are not far off when you will have no time
To think about past, present or future sometimes
You would love to cry in one corner of home
Which was built once by you but no one will be ready to welcome

Love is on decline and affection already in vapor
Old people are neglected and have lost honor
In their own home they live like alien
No affinity or attachment or clear lien

You will find man kills man
Woman hates woman and so human to human
Race may become extinct if it continues same
We are solely responsible for it and to be blamed

The prices are sky rocketing
It is impact is in lime light and daily debating
Poor may suffer and middlemen may vanish
For them nothing will be left for fight to finish

Bread will be snatched from your lovely hand
Such will be dreadful scene and visible in trend
As life then will be proved as burden
The change may call all of sudden

I am not pessimist but indication is clear
One must think positive but with coming of fear
The situation is so much alarming
For the whole of mankind surely harming

Floods and earth quakes take heavy toll
Now cyclone creates stir with threatening call
Most of the parts are flooded with water
I fear the scene of universe may suddenly alter

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With children no longer the universally accepted reason for marriage, marriages are going to have to exist on their own merits.

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My Poems Have Become Disordered

MY POEMS HAVE BECOME DISORDERED

My poems have become disordered-
They have lost their logic-
I do not know how to control them-
They break off in the middle
and go on in differerent directions
and cannot be brought back together
into a proper ending-

My poems have become disordered
as my mind
as my life
as all I do these days-

perhaps one day I tell myself
it will all be together again-

But for now
I go one way
my poems go another
and something in me
goes somewhere else
neither I nor my poetry know-

So that we are now perhaps
at the end of a poem
which not long ago
quietly and sadly
was only just begun.

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Victims Of Lies

It's not unpatriotic,
To take a stand...
Against decaying issues
Affecting your fellowman!
Or raising a voice,
In nonconformist flair.
If more believed in justice shared...
Conflicts experienced now,
Would not exist!
Would not be there!
But indifference and greed,
Has freed a beast that seizes...
Rights once taken for granted,
Now all are inflicted with much that displeases!
And opportunities we all had,
Now dissolve before our eyes.
'What about 'us'? '
Are heard the shouts and cries.
By those of cold shoulders who now clearly see...
It's not me,
But even they...
Who have become victims of lies,
Released and processed freely!

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