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I Lost My Mobile Phone

I've awoken in a terrible state,
I think I'm going to die,
My life is almost over,
As I breathe my one last sigh.

I'm really hurting deep inside
That's why I find it odd,
If one can suffer in this way,
There can't possibly be a God.

It happened as I was driving,
I ran into a pole,
I'd just completely lost the plot,
This is going to take it's toll.

How could my fellow human beings?
Treat me with such disdain,
How can they stand there laughing?
When they know I'm in so much pain.

Like blood my body needs it,
It's as important as my heart,
Without it I know I will die,
We just cannot be apart.

As I'm now losing consciousness,
I feel like such a fool,
Though I did ignore the warning signs,
How could life be so cruel?

There is no point in carrying on,
I've given up the ghost,
I'll just go quietly on my way,
As they play my one last post.

I must have upset someone high,
To suffer this affliction,
The reality with my illness is,
It's based on fact not fiction.

I'm going to see my psychiatrist now,
This will be my one last session,
After all I've been put through,
I'm suffering from depression.

But I don't care what you lot think,
I know I've passed life's test,
When I finally meet my maker,
I can say I tried my best.

Paradise must be a massive place,
There must be a lot of choice,
Us humans love to gossip,
I love the sound of my own voice.

How did our parents ever survive?
Even for a two-minute walk,
Being away from family and friends,
Without being able to talk.

I know what you're all thinking now,
For me you're feeling sad,
Definitely not I hear you say,
We think you're barking mad.

In saying that I'm worried now,
If Heaven's the ultimate creation,
How the Hell will I survive?
Do they have any communication?

Well this is it I'm on my way,
I have taken my final breath
Not knowing if I'll be allowed to speak,
Is a fate far worse than death.

My epitaph I want you to write,
On my lovely granite stone,
Is, I didn't die from illness,

‘' I Lost My Mobile Phone ‘'

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Byron

Canto the Eighth

I
Oh blood and thunder! and oh blood and wounds!
These are but vulgar oaths, as you may deem,
Too gentle reader! and most shocking sounds:
And so they are; yet thus is Glory's dream
Unriddled, and as my true Muse expounds
At present such things, since they are her theme,
So be they her inspirers! Call them Mars,
Bellona, what you will -- they mean but wars.

II
All was prepared -- the fire, the sword, the men
To wield them in their terrible array.
The army, like a lion from his den,
March'd forth with nerve and sinews bent to slay, --
A human Hydra, issuing from its fen
To breathe destruction on its winding way,
Whose heads were heroes, which cut off in vain
Immediately in others grew again.

III
History can only take things in the gross;
But could we know them in detail, perchance
In balancing the profit and the loss,
War's merit it by no means might enhance,
To waste so much gold for a little dross,
As hath been done, mere conquest to advance.
The drying up a single tear has more
Of honest fame, than shedding seas of gore.

IV
And why? -- because it brings self-approbation;
Whereas the other, after all its glare,
Shouts, bridges, arches, pensions from a nation,
Which (it may be) has not much left to spare,
A higher title, or a loftier station,
Though they may make Corruption gape or stare,
Yet, in the end, except in Freedom's battles,
Are nothing but a child of Murder's rattles.

V
And such they are -- and such they will be found:
Not so Leonidas and Washington,
Whose every battle-field is holy ground,
Which breathes of nations saved, not worlds undone.
How sweetly on the ear such echoes sound!
While the mere victor's may appal or stun
The servile and the vain, such names will be
A watchword till the future shall be free.

VI
The night was dark, and the thick mist allow'd
Nought to be seen save the artillery's flame,
Which arch'd the horizon like a fiery cloud,
And in the Danube's waters shone the same --
A mirror'd hell! the volleying roar, and loud
Long booming of each peal on peal, o'ercame
The ear far more than thunder; for Heaven's flashes
Spare, or smite rarely -- man's make millions ashes!

VII
The column order'd on the assault scarce pass'd
Beyond the Russian batteries a few toises,
When up the bristling Moslem rose at last,
Answering the Christian thunders with like voices:
Then one vast fire, air, earth, and stream embraced,
Which rock'd as 't were beneath the mighty noises;
While the whole rampart blazed like Etna, when
The restless Titan hiccups in his den.

VIII
And one enormous shout of "Allah!" rose
In the same moment, loud as even the roar
Of war's most mortal engines, to their foes
Hurling defiance: city, stream, and shore
Resounded "Allah!" and the clouds which close
With thick'ning canopy the conflict o'er,
Vibrate to the Eternal name. Hark! through
All sounds it pierceth "Allah! Allah Hu!"

IX
The columns were in movement one and all,
But of the portion which attack'd by water,
Thicker than leaves the lives began to fall,
Though led by Arseniew, that great son of slaughter,
As brave as ever faced both bomb and ball.
"Carnage" (so Wordsworth tells you) "is God's daughter:"
If he speak truth, she is Christ's sister, and
Just now behaved as in the Holy Land.

X
The Prince de Ligne was wounded in the knee;
Count Chapeau-Bras, too, had a ball between
His cap and head, which proves the head to be
Aristocratic as was ever seen,
Because it then received no injury
More than the cap; in fact, the ball could mean
No harm unto a right legitimate head:
"Ashes to ashes" -- why not lead to lead?

XI
Also the General Markow, Brigadier,
Insisting on removal of the Prince
Amidst some groaning thousands dying near, --
All common fellows, who might writhe and wince,
And shriek for water into a deaf ear, --
The General Markow, who could thus evince
His sympathy for rank, by the same token,
To teach him greater, had his own leg broken.

XII
Three hundred cannon threw up their emetic,
And thirty thousand muskets flung their pills
Like hail, to make a bloody diuretic.
Mortality! thou hast thy monthly bills;
Thy plagues, thy famines, thy physicians, yet tick,
Like the death-watch, within our ears the ills
Past, present, and to come; -- but all may yield
To the true portrait of one battle-field;

XIII
There the still varying pangs, which multiply
Until their very number makes men hard
By the infinities of agony,
Which meet the gaze whate'er it may regard --
The groan, the roll in dust, the all-white eye
Turn'd back within its socket, -- these reward
Your rank and file by thousands, while the rest
May win perhaps a riband at the breast!

XIV
Yet I love glory; -- glory's a great thing: --
Think what it is to be in your old age
Maintain'd at the expense of your good king:
A moderate pension shakes full many a sage,
And heroes are but made for bards to sing,
Which is still better; thus in verse to wage
Your wars eternally, besides enjoying
Half-pay for life, make mankind worth destroying.

XV
The troops, already disembark'd, push'd on
To take a battery on the right; the others,
Who landed lower down, their landing done,
Had set to work as briskly as their brothers:
Being grenadiers, they mounted one by one,
Cheerful as children climb the breasts of mothers,
O'er the entrenchment and the palisade,
Quite orderly, as if upon parade.

XVI
And this was admirable; for so hot
The fire was, that were red Vesuvius loaded,
Besides its lava, with all sorts of shot
And shells or hells, it could not more have goaded.
Of officers a third fell on the spot,
A thing which victory by no means boded
To gentlemen engaged in the assault:
Hounds, when the huntsman tumbles, are at fault.

XVII
But here I leave the general concern,
To track our hero on his path of fame:
He must his laurels separately earn;
For fifty thousand heroes, name by name,
Though all deserving equally to turn
A couplet, or an elegy to claim,
Would form a lengthy lexicon of glory,
And what is worse still, a much longer story:

XVIII
And therefore we must give the greater number
To the Gazette -- which doubtless fairly dealt
By the deceased, who lie in famous slumber
In ditches, fields, or wheresoe'er they felt
Their clay for the last time their souls encumber; --
Thrice happy he whose name has been well spelt
In the despatch: I knew a man whose loss
Was printed Grove, although his name was Grose.

XIX
Juan and Johnson join'd a certain corps,
And fought away with might and main, not knowing
The way which they had never trod before,
And still less guessing where they might be going;
But on they march'd, dead bodies trampling o'er,
Firing, and thrusting, slashing, sweating, glowing,
But fighting thoughtlessly enough to win,
To their two selves, one whole bright bulletin.

XX
Thus on they wallow'd in the bloody mire
Of dead and dying thousands, -- sometimes gaining
A yard or two of ground, which brought them nigher
To some odd angle for which all were straining;
At other times, repulsed by the close fire,
Which really pour'd as if all hell were raining
Instead of heaven, they stumbled backwards o'er
A wounded comrade, sprawling in his gore.

XXI
Though 't was Don Juan's first of fields, and though
The nightly muster and the silent march
In the chill dark, when courage does not glow
So much as under a triumphal arch,
Perhaps might make him shiver, yawn, or throw
A glance on the dull clouds (as thick as starch,
Which stiffen'd heaven) as if he wish'd for day; --
Yet for all this he did not run away.

XXII
Indeed he could not. But what if he had?
There have been and are heroes who begun
With something not much better, or as bad:
Frederic the Great from Molwitz deign'd to run,
For the first and last time; for, like a pad,
Or hawk, or bride, most mortals after one
Warm bout are broken into their new tricks,
And fight like fiends for pay or politics.

XXIII
He was what Erin calls, in her sublime
Old Erse or Irish, or it may be Punic
(The antiquarians who can settle time,
Which settles all things, Roman, Greek, or Runic,
Swear that Pat's language sprung from the same clime
With Hannibal, and wears the Tyrian tunic
Of Dido's alphabet; and this is rational
As any other notion, and not national); --

XXIV
But Juan was quite "a broth of a boy,"
A thing of impulse and a child of song;
Now swimming in the sentiment of joy,
Or the sensation (if that phrase seem wrong),
And afterward, if he must needs destroy,
In such good company as always throng
To battles, sieges, and that kind of pleasure,
No less delighted to employ his leisure;

XXV
But always without malice: if he warr'd
Or loved, it was with what we call "the best
Intentions," which form all mankind's trump card,
To be produced when brought up to the test.
The statesman, hero, harlot, lawyer -- ward
Off each attack, when people are in quest
Of their designs, by saying they meant well;
'T is pity "that such meaning should pave hell."

XXVI
I almost lately have begun to doubt
Whether hell's pavement -- if it be so paved --
Must not have latterly been quite worn out,
Not by the numbers good intent hath saved,
But by the mass who go below without
Those ancient good intentions, which once shaved
And smooth'd the brimstone of that street of hell
Which bears the greatest likeness to Pall Mall.

XXVII
Juan, by some strange chance, which oft divides
Warrior from warrior in their grim career,
Like chastest wives from constant husbands' sides
Just at the close of the first bridal year,
By one of those odd turns of Fortune's tides,
Was on a sudden rather puzzled here,
When, after a good deal of heavy firing,
He found himself alone, and friends retiring.

XXVIII
I don't know how the thing occurr'd -- it might
Be that the greater part were kill'd or wounded,
And that the rest had faced unto the right
About; a circumstance which has confounded
Caesar himself, who, in the very sight
Of his whole army, which so much abounded
In courage, was obliged to snatch a shield,
And rally back his Romans to the field.

XXIX
Juan, who had no shield to snatch, and was
No Caesar, but a fine young lad, who fought
He knew not why, arriving at this pass,
Stopp'd for a minute, as perhaps he ought
For a much longer time; then, like an as
(Start not, kind reader; since great Homer thought
This simile enough for Ajax, Juan
Perhaps may find it better than a new one) --

XXX
Then, like an ass, he went upon his way,
And, what was stranger, never look'd behind;
But seeing, flashing forward, like the day
Over the hills, a fire enough to blind
Those who dislike to look upon a fray,
He stumbled on, to try if he could find
A path, to add his own slight arm and forces
To corps, the greater part of which were corses.

XXXI
Perceiving then no more the commandant
Of his own corps, nor even the corps, which had
Quite disappear'd -- the gods know howl (I can't
Account for every thing which may look bad
In history; but we at least may grant
It was not marvellous that a mere lad,
In search of glory, should look on before,
Nor care a pinch of snuff about his corps): --

XXXII
Perceiving nor commander nor commanded,
And left at large, like a young heir, to make
His way to -- where he knew not -- single handed;
As travellers follow over bog and brake
An "ignis fatuus;" or as sailors stranded
Unto the nearest hut themselves betake;
So Juan, following honour and his nose,
Rush'd where the thickest fire announced most foes.

XXXIII
He knew not where he was, nor greatly cared,
For he was dizzy, busy, and his veins
Fill'd as with lightning -- for his spirit shared
The hour, as is the case with lively brains;
And where the hottest fire was seen and heard,
And the loud cannon peal'd his hoarsest strains,
He rush'd, while earth and air were sadly shaken
By thy humane discovery, Friar Bacon!

XXXIV
And as he rush'd along, it came to pass he
Fell in with what was late the second column,
Under the orders of the General Lascy,
But now reduced, as is a bulky volume
Into an elegant extract (much less massy)
Of heroism, and took his place with solemn
Air 'midst the rest, who kept their valiant faces
And levell'd weapons still against the glacis.

XXXV
Just at this crisis up came Johnson too,
Who had "retreated," as the phrase is when
Men run away much rather than go through
Destruction's jaws into the devil's den;
But Johnson was a clever fellow, who
Knew when and how "to cut and come again,"
And never ran away, except when running
Was nothing but a valorous kind of cunning.

XXXVI
And so, when all his corps were dead or dying,
Except Don Juan, a mere novice, whose
More virgin valour never dreamt of flying
From ignorance of danger, which indues
Its votaries, like innocence relying
On its own strength, with careless nerves and thews, --
Johnson retired a little, just to rally
Those who catch cold in "shadows of Death's valley."

XXXVII
And there, a little shelter'd from the shot,
Which rain'd from bastion, battery, parapet,
Rampart, wall, casement, house, -- for there was not
In this extensive city, sore beset
By Christian soldiery, a single spot
Which did not combat like the devil, as yet,
He found a number of Chasseurs, all scatter'd
By the resistance of the chase they batter'd.

XXXVIII
And these he call'd on; and, what's strange, they came
Unto his call, unlike "the spirits from
The vasty deep," to whom you may exclaim,
Says Hotspur, long ere they will leave their home.
Their reasons were uncertainty, or shame
At shrinking from a bullet or a bomb,
And that odd impulse, which in wars or creeds
Makes men, like cattle, follow him who leads.

XXXIX
By Jove! he was a noble fellow, Johnson,
And though his name, than Ajax or Achilles,
Sounds less harmonious, underneath the sun soon
We shall not see his likeness: he could kill his
Man quite as quietly as blows the monsoon
Her steady breath (which some months the same still is):
Seldom he varied feature, hue, or muscle,
And could be very busy without bustle;

XL
And therefore, when he ran away, he did so
Upon reflection, knowing that behind
He would find others who would fain be rid so
Of idle apprehensions, which like wind
Trouble heroic stomachs. Though their lids so
Oft are soon closed, all heroes are not blind,
But when they light upon immediate death,
Retire a little, merely to take breath.

XLI
But Johnson only ran off, to return
With many other warriors, as we said,
Unto that rather somewhat misty bourn,
Which Hamlet tells us is a pass of dread.
To Jack howe'er this gave but slight concern:
His soul (like galvanism upon the dead)
Acted upon the living as on wire,
And led them back into the heaviest fire.

XLII
Egad! they found the second time what they
The first time thought quite terrible enough
To fly from, malgré all which people say
Of glory, and all that immortal stuff
Which fills a regiment (besides their pay,
That daily shilling which makes warriors tough) --
They found on their return the self-same welcome,
Which made some think, and others know, a hell come.

XLIII
They fell as thick as harvests beneath hail,
Grass before scythes, or corn below the sickle,
Proving that trite old truth, that life's as frail
As any other boon for which men stickle.
The Turkish batteries thrash'd them like a flail,
Or a good boxer, into a sad pickle
Putting the very bravest, who were knock'd
Upon the head, before their guns were cock'd.

XLIV
The Turks, behind the traverses and flanks
Of the next bastion, fired away like devils,
And swept, as gales sweep foam away, whole ranks:
However, Heaven knows how, the Fate who levels
Towns, nations, worlds, in her revolving pranks,
So order'd it, amidst these sulphury revels,
That Johnson and some few who had not scamper'd,
Reach'd the interior "talus" of the rampart.

XLV
First one or two, then five, six, and a dozen,
Came mounting quickly up, for it was now
All neck or nothing, as, like pitch or rosin,
Flame was shower'd forth above, as well 's below,
So that you scarce could say who best had chosen,
The gentlemen that were the first to show
Their martial faces on the parapet,
Or those who thought it brave to wait as yet.

XLVI
But those who scaled, found out that their advance
Was favour'd by an accident or blunder:
The Greek or Turkish Cohorn's ignorance
Had palisado'd in a way you'd wonder
To see in forts of Netherlands or France
(Though these to our Gibraltar must knock under) --
Right in the middle of the parapet
Just named, these palisades were primly set:

XLVII
So that on either side some nine or ten
Paces were left, whereon you could contrive
To march; a great convenience to our men,
At least to all those who were left alive,
Who thus could form a line and fight again;
And that which farther aided them to strive
Was, that they could kick down the palisades,
Which scarcely rose much higher than grass blades.

XLVIII
Among the first, -- I will not say the first,
For such precedence upon such occasions
Will oftentimes make deadly quarrels burst
Out between friends as well as allied nations:
The Briton must be bold who really durst
Put to such trial John Bull's partial patience,
As say that Wellington at Waterloo
Was beaten -- though the Prussians say so too; --

XLIX
And that if Blucher, Bulow, Gneisenau,
And God knows who besides in "au" and "ow,"
Had not come up in time to cast an awe
Into the hearts of those who fought till now
As tigers combat with an empty craw,
The Duke of Wellington had ceased to show
His orders, also to receive his pensions,
Which are the heaviest that our history mentions.

L
But never mind; -- "God save the King!" and Kings!
For if he don't, I doubt if men will longer --
I think I hear a little bird, who sings
The people by and by will be the stronger:
The veriest jade will wince whose harness wrings
So much into the raw as quite to wrong her
Beyond the rules of posting, -- and the mob
At last fall sick of imitating Job.

LI
At first it grumbles, then it swears, and then,
Like David, flings smooth pebbles 'gainst a giant;
At last it takes to weapons such as men
Snatch when despair makes human hearts less pliant.
Then comes "the tug of war;" -- 't will come again,
I rather doubt; and I would fain say "fie on 't,"
If I had not perceived that revolution
Alone can save the earth from hell's pollution.

LII
But to continue: -- I say not the first,
But of the first, our little friend Don Juan
Walk'd o'er the walls of Ismail, as if nursed
Amidst such scenes -- though this was quite a new one
To him, and I should hope to most. The thirst
Of glory, which so pierces through and through one,
Pervaded him -- although a generous creature,
As warm in heart as feminine in feature.

LIII
And here he was -- who upon woman's breast,
Even from a child, felt like a child; howe'er
The man in all the rest might be confest,
To him it was Elysium to be there;
And he could even withstand that awkward test
Which Rousseau points out to the dubious fair,
"Observe your lover when he leaves your arms;"
But Juan never left them, while they had charms,

LIV
Unless compell'd by fate, or wave, or wind,
Or near relations, who are much the same.
But here he was! -- where each tie that can bind
Humanity must yield to steel and flame:
And he whose very body was all mind,
Flung here by fate or circumstance, which tame
The loftiest, hurried by the time and place,
Dash'd on like a spurr'd blood-horse in a race.

LV
So was his blood stirr'd while he found resistance,
As is the hunter's at the five-bar gate,
Or double post and rail, where the existence
Of Britain's youth depends upon their weight,
The lightest being the safest: at a distance
He hated cruelty, as all men hate
Blood, until heated -- and even then his own
At times would curdle o'er some heavy groan.

LVI
The General Lascy, who had been hard press'd,
Seeing arrive an aid so opportune
As were some hundred youngsters all abreast,
Who came as if just dropp'd down from the moon,
To Juan, who was nearest him, address'd
His thanks, and hopes to take the city soon,
Not reckoning him to be a "base Bezonian"
(As Pistol calls it), but a young Livonian.

LVII
Juan, to whom he spoke in German, knew
As much of German as of Sanscrit, and
In answer made an inclination to
The general who held him in command;
For seeing one with ribands, black and blue,
Stars, medals, and a bloody sword in hand,
Addressing him in tones which seem'd to thank,
He recognised an officer of rank.

LVIII
Short speeches pass between two men who speak
No common language; and besides, in time
Of war and taking towns, when many a shriek
Rings o'er the dialogue, and many a crime
Is perpetrated ere a word can break
Upon the ear, and sounds of horror chime
In like church-bells, with sigh, howl, groan, yell, prayer,
There cannot be much conversation there.

LIX
And therefore all we have related in
Two long octaves, pass'd in a little minute;
But in the same small minute, every sin
Contrived to get itself comprised within it.
The very cannon, deafen'd by the din,
Grew dumb, for you might almost hear a linnet,
As soon as thunder, 'midst the general noise
Of human nature's agonising voice!

LX
The town was enter'd. Oh eternity! --
"God made the country and man made the town,"
So Cowper says -- and I begin to be
Of his opinion, when I see cast down
Rome, Babylon, Tyre, Carthage, Nineveh,
All walls men know, and many never known;
And pondering on the present and the past,
To deem the woods shall be our home at last

LXI
Of all men, saving Sylla the man-slayer,
Who passes for in life and death most lucky,
Of the great names which in our faces stare,
The General Boon, back-woodsman of Kentucky,
Was happiest amongst mortals anywhere;
For killing nothing but a bear or buck, he
Enjoy'd the lonely, vigorous, harmless days
Of his old age in wilds of deepest maze.

LXII
Crime came not near him -- she is not the child
Of solitude; Health shrank not from him -- for
Her home is in the rarely trodden wild,
Where if men seek her not, and death be more
Their choice than life, forgive them, as beguiled
By habit to what their own hearts abhor --
In cities caged. The present case in point I
Cite is, that Boon lived hunting up to ninety;

LXIII
And what's still stranger, left behind a name
For which men vainly decimate the throng,
Not only famous, but of that good fame,
Without which glory's but a tavern song --
Simple, serene, the antipodes of shame,
Which hate nor envy e'er could tinge with wrong;
An active hermit, even in age the child
Of Nature, or the man of Ross run wild.

LXIV
'T is true he shrank from men even of his nation,
When they built up unto his darling trees, --
He moved some hundred miles off, for a station
Where there were fewer houses and more ease;
The inconvenience of civilisation
Is, that you neither can be pleased nor please;
But where he met the individual man,
He show'd himself as kind as mortal can.

LXV
He was not all alone: around him grew
A sylvan tribe of children of the chase,
Whose young, unwaken'd world was ever new,
Nor sword nor sorrow yet had left a trace
On her unwrinkled brow, nor could you view
A frown on Nature's or on human face;
The free-born forest found and kept them free,
And fresh as is a torrent or a tree.

LXVI
And tall, and strong, and swift of foot were they,
Beyond the dwarfing city's pale abortions,
Because their thoughts had never been the prey
Of care or gain: the green woods were their portions;
No sinking spirits told them they grew grey,
No fashion made them apes of her distortions;
Simple they were, not savage; and their rifles,
Though very true, were not yet used for trifles.

LXVII
Motion was in their days, rest in their slumbers,
And cheerfulness the handmaid of their toil;
Nor yet too many nor too few their numbers;
Corruption could not make their hearts her soil;
The lust which stings, the splendour which encumbers,
With the free foresters divide no spoil;
Serene, not sullen, were the solitudes
Of this unsighing people of the woods.

LXVIII
So much for Nature: -- by way of variety,
Now back to thy great joys, Civilisation!
And the sweet consequence of large society,
War, pestilence, the despot's desolation,
The kingly scourge, the lust of notoriety,
The millions slain by soldiers for their ration,
The scenes like Catherine's boudoir at threescore,
With Ismail's storm to soften it the more.

LXIX
The town was enter'd: first one column made
Its sanguinary way good -- then another;
The reeking bayonet and the flashing blade
Clash'd 'gainst the scimitar, and babe and mother
With distant shrieks were heard Heaven to upbraid:
Still closer sulphury clouds began to smother
The breath of morn and man, where foot by foot
The madden'd Turks their city still dispute.

LXX
Koutousow, he who afterward beat back
(With some assistance from the frost and snow)
Napoleon on his bold and bloody track,
It happen'd was himself beat back just now;
He was a jolly fellow, and could crack
His jest alike in face of friend or foe,
Though life, and death, and victory were at stake;
But here it seem'd his jokes had ceased to take:

LXXI
For having thrown himself into a ditch,
Follow'd in haste by various grenadiers,
Whose blood the puddle greatly did enrich,
He climb'd to where the parapet appears;
But there his project reach'd its utmost pitch
('Mongst other deaths the General Ribaupierre's
Was much regretted), for the Moslem men
Threw them all down into the ditch again.

LXXII
And had it not been for some stray troops landing
They knew not where, being carried by the stream
To some spot, where they lost their understanding,
And wander'd up and down as in a dream,
Until they reach'd, as daybreak was expanding,
That which a portal to their eyes did seem, --
The great and gay Koutousow might have lain
Where three parts of his column yet remain.

LXXIII
And scrambling round the rampart, these same troops,
After the taking of the "Cavalier,"
Just as Koutousow's most "forlorn" of "hopes"
Took like chameleons some slight tinge of fear,
Open'd the gate call'd "Kilia," to the groups
Of baffled heroes, who stood shyly near,
Sliding knee-deep in lately frozen mud,
Now thaw'd into a marsh of human blood.

LXXIV
The Kozacks, or, if so you please, Cossacques
(I don't much pique myself upon orthography,
So that I do not grossly err in facts,
Statistics, tactics, politics, and geography) --
Having been used to serve on horses' backs,
And no great dilettanti in topography
Of fortresses, but fighting where it pleases
Their chiefs to order, -- were all cut to pieces.

LXXV
Their column, though the Turkish batteries thunder'd
Upon them, ne'ertheless had reach'd the rampart,
And naturally thought they could have plunder'd
The city, without being farther hamper'd;
But as it happens to brave men, they blunder'd --
The Turks at first pretended to have scamper'd,
Only to draw them 'twixt two bastion corners,
From whence they sallied on those Christian scorners.

LXXVI
Then being taken by the tail -- a taking
Fatal to bishops as to soldiers -- these
Cossacques were all cut off as day was breaking,
And found their lives were let at a short lease --
But perish'd without shivering or shaking,
Leaving as ladders their heap'd carcasses,
O'er which Lieutenant-Colonel Yesouskoi
March'd with the brave battalion of Polouzki: --

LXXVII
This valiant man kill'd all the Turks he met,
But could not eat them, being in his turn
Slain by some Mussulmans, who would not yet,
Without resistance, see their city burn.
The walls were won, but 't was an even bet
Which of the armies would have cause to mourn:
'T was blow for blow, disputing inch by inch,
For one would not retreat, nor t' other flinch.

LXXVIII
Another column also suffer'd much: --
And here we may remark with the historian,
You should but give few cartridges to such
Troops as are meant to march with greatest glory on:
When matters must be carried by the touch
Of the bright bayonet, and they all should hurry on,
They sometimes, with a hankering for existence,
Keep merely firing at a foolish distance.

LXXIX
A junction of the General Meknop's men
(Without the General, who had fallen some time
Before, being badly seconded just then)
Was made at length with those who dared to climb
The death-disgorging rampart once again;
And though the Turk's resistance was sublime,
They took the bastion, which the Seraskier
Defended at a price extremely dear.

LXXX
Juan and Johnson, and some volunteers,
Among the foremost, offer'd him good quarter,
A word which little suits with Seraskiers,
Or at least suited not this valiant Tartar.
He died, deserving well his country's tears,
A savage sort of military martyr.
An English naval officer, who wish'd
To make him prisoner, was also dish'd:

LXXXI
For all the answer to his proposition
Was from a pistol-shot that laid him dead;
On which the rest, without more intermission,
Began to lay about with steel and lead --
The pious metals most in requisition
On such occasions: not a single head
Was spared; -- three thousand Moslems perish'd here,
And sixteen bayonets pierced the Seraskier.

LXXXII
The city's taken -- only part by part --
And death is drunk with gore: there's not a street
Where fights not to the last some desperate heart
For those for whom it soon shall cease to beat.
Here War forgot his own destructive art
In more destroying Nature; and the heat
Of carnage, like the Nile's sun-sodden slime,
Engender'd monstrous shapes of every crime.

LXXXIII
A Russian officer, in martial tread
Over a heap of bodies, felt his heel
Seized fast, as if 't were by the serpent's head
Whose fangs Eve taught her human seed to feel:
In vain he kick'd, and swore, and writhed, and bled,
And howl'd for help as wolves do for a meal --
The teeth still kept their gratifying hold,
As do the subtle snakes described of old.

LXXXIV
A dying Moslem, who had felt the foot
Of a foe o'er him, snatch'd at it, and bit
The very tendon which is most acute
(That which some ancient Muse or modern wit
Named after thee, Achilles), and quite through 't
He made the teeth meet, nor relinquish'd it
Even with his life -- for (but they lie) 't is said
To the live leg still clung the sever'd head.

LXXXV
However this may be, 't is pretty sure
The Russian officer for life was lamed,
For the Turk's teeth stuck faster than a skewer,
And left him 'midst the invalid and maim'd:
The regimental surgeon could not cure
His patient, and perhaps was to be blamed
More than the head of the inveterate foe,
Which was cut off, and scarce even then let go.

LXXXVI
But then the fact's a fact -- and 't is the part
Of a true poet to escape from fiction
Whene'er he can; for there is little art
In leaving verse more free from the restriction
Of truth than prose, unless to suit the mart
For what is sometimes called poetic diction,
And that outrageous appetite for lies
Which Satan angles with for souls, like flies.

LXXXVII
The city's taken, but not render'd! -- No!
There's not a Moslem that hath yielded sword:
The blood may gush out, as the Danube's flow
Rolls by the city wall; but deed nor word
Acknowledge aught of dread of death or foe:
In vain the yell of victory is roar'd
By the advancing Muscovite -- the groan
Of the last foe is echoed by his own.

LXXXVIII
The bayonet pierces and the sabre cleaves,
And human lives are lavish'd everywhere,
As the year closing whirls the scarlet leaves
When the stripp'd forest bows to the bleak air,
And groans; and thus the peopled city grieves,
Shorn of its best and loveliest, and left bare;
But still it falls in vast and awful splinters,
As oaks blown down with all their thousand winters.

LXXXIX
It is an awful topic -- but 't is not
My cue for any time to be terrific:
For checker'd as is seen our human lot
With good, and bad, and worse, alike prolific
Of melancholy merriment, to quote
Too much of one sort would be soporific; --
Without, or with, offence to friends or foes,
I sketch your world exactly as it goes.

XC
And one good action in the midst of crimes
Is "quite refreshing," in the affected phrase
Of these ambrosial, Pharisaic times,
With all their pretty milk-and-water ways,
And may serve therefore to bedew these rhymes,
A little scorch'd at present with the blaze
Of conquest and its consequences, which
Make epic poesy so rare and rich.

XCI
Upon a taken bastion, where there lay
Thousands of slaughter'd men, a yet warm group
Of murder'd women, who had found their way
To this vain refuge, made the good heart droop
And shudder; -- while, as beautiful as May,
A female child of ten years tried to stoop
And hide her little palpitating breast
Amidst the bodies lull'd in bloody rest.

XCII
Two villainous Cossacques pursued the child
With flashing eyes and weapons: match'd with them,
The rudest brute that roams Siberia's wild
Has feelings pure and polish'd as a gem, --
The bear is civilised, the wolf is mild;
And whom for this at last must we condemn?
Their natures? or their sovereigns, who employ
All arts to teach their subjects to destroy?

XCIII
Their sabres glitter'd o'er her little head,
Whence her fair hair rose twining with affright,
Her hidden face was plunged amidst the dead:
When Juan caught a glimpse of this sad sight,
I shall not say exactly what he said,
Because it might not solace "ears polite;"
But what he did, was to lay on their backs,
The readiest way of reasoning with Cossacques.

XCIV
One's hip he slash'd, and split the other's shoulder,
And drove them with their brutal yells to seek
If there might be chirurgeons who could solder
The wounds they richly merited, and shriek
Their baffled rage and pain; while waxing colder
As he turn'd o'er each pale and gory cheek,
Don Juan raised his little captive from
The heap a moment more had made her tomb.

XCV
And she was chill as they, and on her face
A slender streak of blood announced how near
Her fate had been to that of all her race;
For the same blow which laid her mother here
Had scarr'd her brow, and left its crimson trace,
As the last link with all she had held dear;
But else unhurt, she open'd her large eyes,
And gazed on Juan with a wild surprise.

XCVI
Just at this instant, while their eyes were fix'd
Upon each other, with dilated glance,
In Juan's look, pain, pleasure, hope, fear, mix'd
With joy to save, and dread of some mischance
Unto his protégée; while hers, transfix'd
With infant terrors, glared as from a trance,
A pure, transparent, pale, yet radiant face,
Like to a lighted alabaster vase; --

XCVII
Up came John Johnson (I will not say "Jack,"
For that were vulgar, cold, and commonplace
On great occasions, such as an attack
On cities, as hath been the present case):
Up Johnson came, with hundreds at his back,
Exclaiming; -- "Juan! Juan! On, boy! brace
Your arm, and I'll bet Moscow to a dollar
That you and I will win St. George's collar.

XCVIII
"The Seraskier is knock'd upon the head,
But the stone bastion still remains, wherein
The old Pacha sits among some hundreds dead,
Smoking his pipe quite calmly 'midst the din
Of our artillery and his own: 't is said
Our kill'd, already piled up to the chin,
Lie round the battery; but still it batters,
And grape in volleys, like a vineyard, scatters.

XCIX
"Then up with me!" -- But Juan answer'd, "Look
Upon this child -- I saved her -- must not leave
Her life to chance; but point me out some nook
Of safety, where she less may shrink and grieve,
And I am with you." -- Whereon Johnson took
A glance around -- and shrugg'd -- and twitch'd his sleeve
And black silk neckcloth -- and replied, "You're right;
Poor thing! what's to be done? I'm puzzled quite."

C
Said Juan: "Whatsoever is to be
Done, I'll not quit her till she seems secure
Of present life a good deal more than we."
Quoth Johnson: "Neither will I quite ensure;
But at the least you may die gloriously."
Juan replied: "At least I will endure
Whate'er is to be borne -- but not resign
This child, who is parentless, and therefore mine."

CI
Johnson said: "Juan, we've no time to lose;
The child's a pretty child -- a very pretty --
I never saw such eyes -- but hark! now choose
Between your fame and feelings, pride and pity; --
Hark! how the roar increases! -- no excuse
Will serve when there is plunder in a city; --
I should be loth to march without you, but,
By God! we'll be too late for the first cut."

CII
But Juan was immovable; until
Johnson, who really loved him in his way,
Pick'd out amongst his followers with some skill
Such as he thought the least given up to prey;
And swearing if the infant came to ill
That they should all be shot on the next day;
But if she were deliver'd safe and sound,
They should at least have fifty rubles round,

CIII
And all allowances besides of plunder
In fair proportion with their comrades; -- then
Juan consented to march on through thunder,
Which thinn'd at every step their ranks of men:
And yet the rest rush'd eagerly -- no wonder,
For they were heated by the hope of gain,
A thing which happens everywhere each day --
No hero trusteth wholly to half pay.

CIV
And such is victory, and such is man!
At least nine tenths of what we call so; -- God
May have another name for half we scan
As human beings, or his ways are odd.
But to our subject: a brave Tartar khan --
Or "sultan," as the author (to whose nod
In prose I bend my humble verse) doth call
This chieftain -- somehow would not yield at all:

CV
But flank'd by five brave sons (such is polygamy,
That she spawns warriors by the score, where none
Are prosecuted for that false crime bigamy),
He never would believe the city won
While courage clung but to a single twig. -- Am I
Describing Priam's, Peleus', or Jove's son?
Neither -- but a good, plain, old, temperate man,
Who fought with his five children in the van.

CVI
To take him was the point. The truly brave,
When they behold the brave oppress'd with odds,
Are touch'd with a desire to shield and save; --
A mixture of wild beasts and demigods
Are they -- now furious as the sweeping wave,
Now moved with pity: even as sometimes nods
The rugged tree unto the summer wind,
Compassion breathes along the savage mind.

CVII
But he would not be taken, and replied
To all the propositions of surrender
By mowing Christians down on every side,
As obstinate as Swedish Charles at Bender.
His five brave boys no less the foe defied;
Whereon the Russian pathos grew less tender,
As being a virtue, like terrestrial patience,
Apt to wear out on trifling provocations.

CVIII
And spite of Johnson and of Juan, who
Expended all their Eastern phraseology
In begging him, for God's sake, just to show
So much less fight as might form an apology
For them in saving such a desperate foe --
He hew'd away, like doctors of theology
When they dispute with sceptics; and with curses
Struck at his friends, as babies beat their nurses.

CIX
Nay, he had wounded, though but slightly, both
Juan and Johnson; whereupon they fell,
The first with sighs, the second with an oath,
Upon his angry sultanship, pell-mell,
And all around were grown exceeding wroth
At such a pertinacious infidel,
And pour'd upon him and his sons like rain,
Which they resisted like a sandy plain

CX
That drinks and still is dry. At last they perish'd --
His second son was levell'd by a shot;
His third was sabred; and the fourth, most cherish'd
Of all the five, on bayonets met his lot;
The fifth, who, by a Christian mother nourish'd,
Had been neglected, ill-used, and what not,
Because deform'd, yet died all game and bottom,
To save a sire who blush'd that he begot him.

CXI
The eldest was a true and tameless Tartar,
As great a scorner of the Nazarene
As ever Mahomet pick'd out for a martyr,
Who only saw the black-eyed girls in green,
Who make the beds of those who won't take quarter
On earth, in Paradise; and when once seen,
Those houris, like all other pretty creatures,
Do just whate'er they please, by dint of features.

CXII
And what they pleased to do with the young khan
In heaven I know not, nor pretend to guess;
But doubtless they prefer a fine young man
To tough old heroes, and can do no less;
And that's the cause no doubt why, if we scan
A field of battle's ghastly wilderness,
For one rough, weather-beaten, veteran body,
You'll find ten thousand handsome coxcombs bloody.

CXIII
Your houris also have a natural pleasure
In lopping off your lately married men,
Before the bridal hours have danced their measure
And the sad, second moon grows dim again,
Or dull repentance hath had dreary leisure
To wish him back a bachelor now and then.
And thus your houri (it may be) disputes
Of these brief blossoms the immediate fruits.

CXIV
Thus the young khan, with houris in his sight,
Thought not upon the charms of four young brides,
But bravely rush'd on his first heavenly night.
In short, howe'er our better faith derides,
These black-eyed virgins make the Moslems fight,
As though there were one heaven and none besides, --
Whereas, if all be true we hear of heaven
And hell, there must at least be six or seven.

CXV
So fully flash'd the phantom on his eyes,
That when the very lance was in his heart,
He shouted "Allah!" and saw Paradise
With all its veil of mystery drawn apart,
And bright eternity without disguise
On his soul, like a ceaseless sunrise, dart: --
With prophets, houris, angels, saints, descried
In one voluptuous blaze, -- and then he died,

CXVI
But with a heavenly rapture on his face.
The good old khan, who long had ceased to see
Houris, or aught except his florid race
Who grew like cedars round him gloriously --
When he beheld his latest hero grace
The earth, which he became like a fell'd tree,
Paused for a moment, from the fight, and cast
A glance on that slain son, his first and last.

CXVII
The soldiers, who beheld him drop his point,
Stopp'd as if once more willing to concede
Quarter, in case he bade them not "aroynt!"
As he before had done. He did not heed
Their pause nor signs: his heart was out of joint,
And shook (till now unshaken) like a reed,
As he look'd down upon his children gone,
And felt -- though done with life -- he was alone

CXVIII
But 't was a transient tremor; -- with a spring
Upon the Russian steel his breast he flung,
As carelessly as hurls the moth her wing
Against the light wherein she dies: he clung
Closer, that all the deadlier they might wring,
Unto the bayonets which had pierced his young;
And throwing back a dim look on his sons,
In one wide wound pour'd forth his soul at once.

CXIX
'T is strange enough -- the rough, tough soldiers, who
Spared neither sex nor age in their career
Of carnage, when this old man was pierced through,
And lay before them with his children near,
Touch'd by the heroism of him they slew,
Were melted for a moment: though no tear
Flow'd from their bloodshot eyes, all red with strife,
They honour'd such determined scorn of life.

CXX
But the stone bastion still kept up its fire,
Where the chief pacha calmly held his post:
Some twenty times he made the Russ retire,
And baffled the assaults of all their host;
At length he condescended to inquire
If yet the city's rest were won or lost;
And being told the latter, sent a bey
To answer Ribas' summons to give way.

CXXI
In the mean time, cross-legg'd, with great sang-froid,
Among the scorching ruins he sat smoking
Tobacco on a little carpet; -- Troy
Saw nothing like the scene around: -- yet looking
With martial stoicism, nought seem'd to annoy
His stern philosophy; but gently stroking
His beard, he puff'd his pipe's ambrosial gales,
As if he had three lives, as well as tails.

CXXII
The town was taken -- whether he might yield
Himself or bastion, little matter'd now:
His stubborn valour was no future shield.
Ismail's no more! The crescent's silver bow
Sunk, and the crimson cross glared o'er the field,
But red with no redeeming gore: the glow
Of burning streets, like moonlight on the water,
Was imaged back in blood, the sea of slaughter.

CXXIII
All that the mind would shrink from of excesses;
All that the body perpetrates of bad;
All that we read, hear, dream, of man's distresses;
All that the devil would do if run stark mad;
All that defies the worst which pen expresses;
All by which hell is peopled, or as sad
As hell -- mere mortals who their power abuse --
Was here (as heretofore and since) let loose.

CXXIV
If here and there some transient trait of pity
Was shown, and some more noble heart broke through
Its bloody bond, and saved perhaps some pretty
Child, or an agéd, helpless man or two --
What's this in one annihilated city,
Where thousand loves, and ties, and duties grew?
Cockneys of London! Muscadins of Paris!
Just ponder what a pious pastime war is.

CXXV
Think how the joys of reading a Gazette
Are purchased by all agonies and crimes:
Or if these do not move you, don't forget
Such doom may be your own in aftertimes.
Meantime the Taxes, Castlereagh, and Debt,
Are hints as good as sermons, or as rhymes.
Read your own hearts and Ireland's present story,
Then feed her famine fat with Wellesley's glory.

CXXVI
But still there is unto a patriot nation,
Which loves so well its country and its king,
A subject of sublimest exultation --
Bear it, ye Muses, on your brightest wing!
Howe'er the mighty locust, Desolation,
Strip your green fields, and to your harvests cling,
Gaunt famine never shall approach the throne --
Though Ireland starve, great George weighs twenty stone.

CXXVII
But let me put an end unto my theme:
There was an end of Ismail -- hapless town!
Far flash'd her burning towers o'er Danube's stream,
And redly ran his blushing waters down.
The horrid war-whoop and the shriller scream
Rose still; but fainter were the thunders grown:
Of forty thousand who had mann'd the wall,
Some hundreds breathed -- the rest were silent all!

CXXVIII
In one thing ne'ertheless 't is fit to praise
The Russian army upon this occasion,
A virtue much in fashion now-a-days,
And therefore worthy of commemoration:
The topic's tender, so shall be my phrase --
Perhaps the season's chill, and their long station
In winter's depth, or want of rest and victual,
Had made them chaste; -- they ravish'd very little.

CXXIX
Much did they slay, more plunder, and no less
Might here and there occur some violation
In the other line; -- but not to such excess
As when the French, that dissipated nation,
Take towns by storm: no causes can I guess,
Except cold weather and commiseration;
But all the ladies, save some twenty score,
Were almost as much virgins as before.

CXXX
Some odd mistakes, too, happen'd in the dark,
Which show'd a want of lanterns, or of taste --
Indeed the smoke was such they scarce could mark
Their friends from foes, -- besides such things from haste
Occur, though rarely, when there is a spark
Of light to save the venerably chaste:
But six old damsels, each of seventy years,
Were all deflower'd by different grenadiers.

CXXXI
But on the whole their continence was great;
So that some disappointment there ensued
To those who had felt the inconvenient state
Of "single blessedness," and thought it good
(Since it was not their fault, but only fate,
To bear these crosses) for each waning prude
To make a Roman sort of Sabine wedding,
Without the expense and the suspense of bedding.

CXXXII
Some voices of the buxom middle-aged
Were also heard to wonder in the din
(Widows of forty were these birds long caged)
"Wherefore the ravishing did not begin!"
But while the thirst for gore and plunder raged,
There was small leisure for superfluous sin;
But whether they escaped or no, lies hid
In darkness -- I can only hope they did.

CXXXIII
Suwarrow now was conqueror -- a match
For Timour or for Zinghis in his trade.
While mosques and streets, beneath his eyes, like thatch
Blazed, and the cannon's roar was scarce allay'd,
With bloody hands he wrote his first despatch;
And here exactly follows what he said: --
"Glory to God and to the Empress!" (Powers
Eternal! such names mingled!) "Ismail's ours."

CXXXIV
Methinks these are the most tremendous words,
Since "Mene, Mene, Tekel," and "Upharsin,"
Which hands or pens have ever traced of swords.
Heaven help me! I'm but little of a parson:
What Daniel read was short-hand of the Lord's,
Severe, sublime; the prophet wrote no farce on
The fate of nations; -- but this Russ so witty
Could rhyme, like Nero, o'er a burning city.

CXXXV
He wrote this Polar melody, and set it,
Duly accompanied by shrieks and groans,
Which few will sing, I trust, but none forget it --
For I will teach, if possible, the stones
To rise against earth's tyrants. Never let it
Be said that we still truckle unto thrones; --
But ye -- our children's children! think how we
Show'd what things were before the world was free!

CXXXVI
That hour is not for us, but 't is for you:
And as, in the great joy of your millennium,
You hardly will believe such things were true
As now occur, I thought that I would pen you 'em;
But may their very memory perish too! --
Yet if perchance remember'd, still disdain you 'em
More than you scorn the savages of yore,
Who painted their bare limbs, but not with gore.

CXXXVII
And when you hear historians talk of thrones,
And those that sate upon them, let it be
As we now gaze upon the mammoth's bones,
"And wonder what old world such things could see,
Or hieroglyphics on Egyptian stones,
The pleasant riddles of futurity --
Guessing at what shall happily be hid,
As the real purpose of a pyramid.

CXXXVIII
Reader! I have kept my word, -- at least so far
As the first Canto promised. You have now
Had sketches of love, tempest, travel, war --
All very accurate, you must allow,
And epic, if plain truth should prove no bar;
For I have drawn much less with a long bow
Than my forerunners. Carelessly I sing,
But Phoebus lends me now and then a string,

CXXXIX
With which I still can harp, and carp, and fiddle.
What farther hath befallen or may befall
The hero of this grand poetic riddle,
I by and by may tell you, if at all:
But now I choose to break off in the middle,
Worn out with battering Ismail's stubborn wall,
While Juan is sent off with the despatch,
For which all Petersburgh is on the watch.

CXL
This special honour was conferr'd, because
He had behaved with courage and humanity --
Which last men like, when they have time to pause
From their ferocities produced by vanity.
His little captive gain'd him some applause
For saving her amidst the wild insanity
Of carnage, -- and I think he was more glad in her
Safety, than his new order of St. Vladimir.

CXLI
The Moslem orphan went with her protector,
For she was homeless, houseless, helpless; all
Her friends, like the sad family of Hector,
Had perish'd in the field or by the wall:
Her very place of birth was but a spectre
Of what it had been; there the Muezzin's cal
To prayer was heard no more! -- and Juan wept,
And made a vow to shield her, which he kept.

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An Abc Of Inner Peace

inner peace: a to z (© Raj Arumugam, September 2008)

Inner peace is effortless, as its always there within.
One just has to see it.

And once one truly sees this inner peace – not with words or just
intellectually, but actually see this inner peace within – it is ones, always;
no one takes away that

Nothing and no evil and no violent force or even the most difficult
of circumstances in ones life can remove that inner peace that one
sees within; but let one see this not as a word, or as a phrase
but as an actuality.

Feel that peace, see that inner peace and let it radiate always – for it is
the harmony within each and it is always ones own.


A


Let amity be your constant companion….Be at peace with all beings, equally at peace with those near and those far, and thus walk hand in hand with amity as in a bounteous garden…





B


Be mindful of your blessings always…To be alive, to breathe in fresh air;
and to be with the family and the companionship of good fellow-human
beings; and the kindness of strangers; and the creatures of this world
and the flowers that bloom, and to have a place in this marvelous planet
of ours….all these too are blessings….

There is a life of the body in the domain of the physical, and
the legitimate needs of the body are just as important as
ones inner needs

C


Think critically….even while we love and are at peace with the world,
do not forget to think critically for oneself so that one is not the fool
of the cunning…and thus thinking for oneself carefully and critically
one keeps ones time and energy and ones own mind….


Do your own thinking; allowing others to do your thinking for you
is to systematically lose one's will to live life to its fullest...


Freshness comes when one discards clichés in word, thought and
deed – and with freshness comes vigor, steadiness and wisdom….


Though one may mature and grow in intellect, let the child be in
you always. For each moment in which one ceases to be a child,
one is but walking dead.


D


Death is only part of a process in our lives….it is but another phase
as is ones birth….
Witness the wonder of this process and constant change, and
marvel at it as one marvels at sunset and sunrise – and thus is there
no agony or ecstasy but quiet and cool contemplation of birth, our day to day
living and death….the whole of which is life...

Die to each moment; die to each memory and die to each event
and each day - and thus is there constant renewal and the ever new,
and so one sees for oneself there is truly no fear in death.




E


…equanimity is priceless...there is no need for wildness in joy or agony;
as the tides come and go so do our mental states, and all that we consider
bad or good….like the rise of the moon, or the coming of the stars
and the going of the stars are our emotions and our lives and our happiness
and sorrows….see them for what they are and equanimity dwells shining
within one always….





F


The free mind is the greatest blessing….Be free of conditioning and
be free of propaganda; be free of identity and of the group, and one is truly
free; be free of the past in all its forms as it arises in the mind as
remembrance of hurts and wrongs, and be free of the future as it arises
as constant planning and anticipation and unnecessary tension….

But what is the free mind? One is not free who allows it be defined
for one.

Be free of anyone who will teach you: there is no relative
freedom – only complete freedom…
During ones meeting or interaction with another beingany being,
human or creature - be mindful of the question: Am I fair to this being?


And after ones meeting or interaction with another beingany being,
human or creature - be mindful of the question: Have I been fair to this being?



G



There is grace in your heart, in your mind and in your very being…delve deep within and see it - let it glow, and that grace will show in the smoothness of your very movement and speech; and that grace will flow in your manner, and that grace will fill your life and each moment with peace, charm and joy….

God? I have no use for God as I have no use for clichés.


H


Neglect no aspect of your beingfor each aspect of your being is necessary and good.


Find for yourself all dimensions of your beingsee what happens and what you need in each dimension…be moderate and sufficient in each dimension, and there will be no tension there in any of your dimensions of your being, and thus harmony is yours….


I


Insight is when you can see beyond words and the intellect…as when one feels the presence of love and wisdom...let your insight and your intuition live and flourish – for to suppress it is to deny yourself wisdom and inner light…


Words are useless and mislead in the inner life and therefore it is in the light of insight and intuition that one has direct seeing of what actually is….

J


Rejoice in the joys of others...rejoice in the happiness of others…rejoice in
your own joy…find the joy within yourself and the joy in the world…



Be fair and justnot so that one may be loved by others or so one may escape punishment or so one may enter heaven, but be just for its own intrinsic beauty.





K


There is a kingdom within that is not by any other but oneself….there is chaos there if one rules unwisely, and there is joy and harmony if one enters
in wisdom….peace and harmony radiate there in that kingdom of your
own wisdom, and not by the power or grace or authority or wisdom of
others…No being, however mighty and however supernatural, can effect
order in thereThe kingdom is only of oneself and yet in oneness…

Enter therefore your own kingdom wisely, enter in your own wisdom…




L


All that there is in the world is love….All the many and countless words
and revelations and traditions and systems are all but love….


All the world’s Holy Books and Revelations and Sermons are useless – there is only love


The love in which there is conflict or tension, the love in which one
seeks to own or possess or to carve out a territory or group or personal
identity or salvation or gain or protection – that is not love

The love that includes all and that excludes none, the love that knows
no hate or violence or tension or expectation or punishment
or reward – that is love….


We have allowed the idea and myth of God to replace the reality
of Love: forget about God for the only reality is Love


We are liars…we are drugged by lies and
addicted to lies…but while it is easy to see the lies told to one or the
lies one tells others, it is more difficult to see the lies one tells oneself…

M


Be mindful of the moment….be mindful of ones breathof the breath as one exhales, as one inhales…be mindful of the emotion or thought that arises, that lives and that subsides…

....with no censure, no judgment, no labels, no memory-making and cherishing of experiences…be mindful too of walking or of sitting; be mindful of each act and thought…


And so does one live the moment and so thought and time - the past and future - lose their tyrannical hold on the mind…



N


Be mindful too of the nuances of the words we utter and use; be mindful of the nuances of ones speech and actions and ones silence and ones inaction…






O


Observe with no imprint…observe with no judgment or residue…observe what actually is

observing a tree


You see the tree….see what is; see it as it is, not with all of one's conditioning…you look…one does not form a judgment and an attachment and a craving for a repetition of this event - but just observe with no labels…no naming…one sees what is there before one without a name, for the name is the past…just observe what is

observing the mind

One observes what isone observes ones mind, oneself - not as what authority says one is, but as one actually sees oneself; direct and straight seeing oneself…

One sees oneself without the conditioning and with no prejudice; one sees what actually is

One observes the activities of the mind…one sees the emotion or thought that arises, as it lives and as it subsides…one does not name the emotion or thought, for to do so is to bring in conditioning which is the tyranny of thought; one does not label it and one does not feel guilt or like or dislike…one merely observes what actually is

One who observes ones mind knows oneself – not oneself as some abstract and superhuman eternal entity, but as one is….Not second-hand - but directly, for oneself...

Not as what tradition or scriptures or science or reports tell us what we are – but as one actually observes and as one sees what is

How can one know anything without knowing oneself? Of what use is your knowing of all that you know without self-knowledge as you actually are, and not according to some theory or report or ideology?




P


There are things and events you have control ofand how you pace these that are within your control determines how much peace and quiet there is in your heart


Know then the rhythm at which your mind moves and pace the events you
have control of at this rhythm…



For things one has no control of, ones wisdom will bring a harmony between one and what faces one

..inner peace is never lost; its always there just below the apparent surface of discord. One simply dives deep enough to see this peace that pervades and that never leaves one, though one may be distracted by insistent diversions…


Q


It may seem ones life is a quest and one searches and searches - and yet in that moment of awareness, of full attention, one sees there is no search, there is no arriving – for it is always there, it is always here and now


There is no such thing as a quest; there is no such thing as a search…





R


Rest well….one forgets in ones hurry that simple rest can revitalize and bring freshness…


S

Speak gently, speak quietly; speak words that soothe and heal, and with no intent to hurt. Speak words that bring amity, calm and peace and not words that promote division, anarchy and discord.




T


Thought may be the remembrance of cultures and technology that move societies forward, but thought can be mostly of the past that is a burden…

Be free of the past then and make no memory of it; for the past restricts and narrows and confines, and not making a memory of it is freedom….

U


The world’s systems and hierarchy and Revelations aspire to drag everyone into uniformity and mediocrity…
To lead or to follow is to be mediocre – and the mediocre cannot allow independence…


This world of set formulas and systems despises free inquiry and wants to see each one of us the same in mind and habit and thought: it demands we crawl into its traditions and prescribed or revealed creed, and to fit into what it teaches is the way to be


The world says this is the way things are and expects one to conform or to break…

Know what you are, know yourself - or the world subtly but swiftly transforms you into itself…


See what actually is rather than going the set ways of what one likes it to be or what should or ought to be or what is described to be …Discard all authority and see for yourself what actually is


V


Let there be vigor in all things one does; let there be vigor in thought, in
ones inquiry, in ones speech and in ones works and deeds.



The most inspired moment in ones life is when vision unfolds
naturally within; dullness comes of conditioning and beliefs that are
the companions of complacent inquiry.




W


There is no treasure like the treasure of wisdom for with wisdom one sees
the unmediated truth of life and the radiant truth of lasting joy in all circumstances.


Wide is the world and yet we seek to cut it and to confine it
and to create borders; wide is the mind and yet many seek
to constrict it and to set up boundaries and to restrict its space.





X



Avoid extremes in all matters – for it is it is the wisdom of moderation that universally promotes balance, health, happiness and calm.




Y


In ones intellect let there be maturity and completeness and the wisdom of ages; but in ones inquiry into life let there be vigor and newness and perennial youth.







Z

There are no confined zones in true love: love knows no boundaries and love knows no borders – the wide universe is the very home of love.



That inner peace radiates in the stars and in the trees and in the grass; that inner peace radiates in the creatures of the earth and in all living things and in the very air…That inner peace pervades all beings, all life and all existence.

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Extracts From Leon. An Unfinished Poem

IT is a summer evening, calm and fair,
A warm, yet freshening glow is in the air;
Along its bank, the cool stream wanders slow,
Like parting friends that linger as they go.
The willows, as its waters meekly glide,
Bend their dishevelled tresses to the tide,
And seem to give it, with a moaning sigh,
A farewell touch of tearful sympathy.
Each dusky copse is clad in darkest green:
A blackening mass, just edged with silver sheen
From yon clear moon, who in her glassy face
Seems to reflect the risings of the place.
For on her still, pale orb, the eye may see
Dim spots of shadowy brown, like distant tree
Or far-off hillocks on a moonlight lea.

The stars have lit in heaven their lamps of gold,
The viewless dew falls lightly on the wold,
The gentle air, that softly sweeps the leaves,
A strain of faint, unearthly music weaves;
As when the harp of heaven remotely plays,
Or cygnet's wail - or song of sorrowing fays
That float amid the moonshine glimmerings pale,
On wings of woven air in some enchanted vale.

It is an eve that drops a heavenly balm,
To lull the feelings to a sober calm,
To bid wild passion's fiery flush depart;
And smooth the troubled waters of the heart;
To give a tranquil fixedness to grief,
A cherished gloom, that wishes not relief.

Torn is that heart, and bitter are its throes,
That cannot feel on such a night, repose;
And yet one breast there is that breathes this air,
An eye that wanders o'er the prospect fair,
That sees yon placid moon, and the pure sky
Of mild, unclouded blue; and still that eye
Is thrown in restless vacancy around,
Or cast, in gloomy trance, on the cold ground;
And still, that breast with maddening passion burns,
And hatred, love, and sorrow, rule by turns.

A lovely figure! and in happier hour,
When pleasure laugh'd abroad from hall and bower,
The general eye had deem'd her smiling face
The brightest jewel in the courtly place:
So glossy is her hair's ensabled wreath,
So glowing warm the eye that burns beneath
With so much graceful sweetness of address,
And such a form of rounded slenderness;
Ah! where is he on whom these beauties shine,
But deems a spotless soul inhabits such a shrine?

And yet a keen observer might espy
Strange passions lurking in her deep black eye,
And in the lines of her fine lip, a soul
That in its every feeling spurned control.
They passed unnoted - who will stop to trace
A sullying spot on beauty's sparkling face?
And no one deemed, amid her glances sweet,
Hers was a bosom of impetuous heat;
A heart too wildly in its joys elate,
Formed but to madly love - or madly hate;
A spirit of strong throbs, and steadfast will;
To doat, detest, to die for, or to kill;
Which, like the Arab chief, would fiercely dare
To stab the heart she might no longer share;
And yet so tender, if he loved again,
Would die to save his breast one moment's pain.

But he who cast his gaze upon her now,
And read the traces written on her brow,
Had scarce believed hers was that form of light
That beamed like fabled wonder on the sight;
Her raven hair hung down in loosen'd tress
Before her wan cheek's pallid ghastliness;
And, thro' its thick locks, showed the deadly white,
Like marble glimpses of a tomb, at night.
In fixed and horrid musings now she stands,
Her eyes now bent to earth, and her cold hands,
Prest to her heart, now wildly thrown on high,
They wander o'er her brow - and now a sigh
Breaks deep and full - and, more composedly,
She half exclaims - 'No! no! - it cannot be;
'He loves not, never loved - not even when
'He pressed my wedded hand - I knew it then;
'And yet - fool that I was - I saw he strove
'In vain to kindle pity into love.
'But Florence! she so loved - a sister too!
'My earliest, dearest playmate - one who grew
'Upon my very heart - to rend it so!
'His falsehood I could bear - but hers! ah! no.
'She is not false - I feel she loves me yet,
'And if my boding bosom could forget
'Its wild imaginings, with what sweet pain
'I'd clasp my Florence to my breast again.'
With that came many a thought of days gone by,
Remembered joys of mirthful infancy;
And youth's gay frolic, and the short-lived flow
Of showering tears, in childhood's fleeting wo,
And life's maturer friendship - and the sense
Of heart-warm, open, fearless confidence;
All these came thronging with a tender call,
And her own Florence mingled with them all.
And softened feelings rose amid her pain,
While from her eyes, the clouds, melted in gentle rain.

A hectic pleasure flushed her faded face;
It fled - and deeper paleness took its place;
Then a cold shudder thrill'd her - and, at last,
Her lip a smile of bitter sarcasm cast,
As if she scorned herself, that she could be
A moment lulled by that sweet sophistry;
For in that little minute memory's sting
Gave word and look, sigh, gesture - every thing,
To bid these dear delusive phantoms fly,
And fix her fears in dreadful certainty.

It traced the very progress of their love,
From the first meeting in the locust grove;
When from the chase Leon came bounding there,
Backing his courser with a noble air;
His brown cheek flushed with healthful exercise,
And his warm spirits leaping in his eyes;
It told how lovely looked her sister then,
To long-lost friends, and home just come again;
How on her cheek the tears of meeting lay,
That tear which only feeling hearts can pay;
While the quick pleasure glistened in her eye,
Like clouds and sunshine in an April sky;
And then it told, as their acquaintance grew,
How close the unseen bonds of union drew
Their souls together, and how pleased they were
The same blythe pastimes and delights to share;
How the same chord in each at once would strike,
Their taste, their wishes, and their joys alike.

All this was innocent, but soon there came
Blushes and starts of consciousness and shame;
That, when she entered, upon either cheek
The hasty blood in guilty red would speak
Of something that should not be known - and still
Sighs half suppressed seemed struggling with the will.

It told how oft at eve was Leon gone
In moody wandering to the wood alone;
And in the night, how many a broken dream
Of bliss, or terror, seemed to shake his frame.
How Florence too, in long abstracted fit
Of soul-wrapt musing, for whole hours would sit;
Nor even the power of music, friend, or book,
Could chase her deep forgetfulness of look;
And how, when questioned - with an indrawn sigh,
In vague and far-off phrase, she made reply,
And smiled and struggled to be gay and free,
And then relapsed in dreaming reverie.
How when of Leon she was forced to speak,
Unbidden crimson mantled in her cheek;
And when he entered, how her eye would swim,
And strive to look on every one but him;
Yet, by unconscious fascination led,
In quick short glance each moment tow'rds him fled.
How he, too, seemed to shun her speech and gaze,
And yet he always lingered where she was;
Though nothing in his aspect or his air
Told that he knew she was in presence there;
But an appearance of constrained distress,
And a dull tongue of moveless silentness,
And a down drooping eye of gloom and sadness,
Oh! how unlike his former face of gladness.
''Tis plain! too plain! and I am lost,' she cried;
And in that thought her last good feeling died.

That thought of hopeless sorrow seemed to dart
A thousand stings at once into her heart;
But a strong effort quelled it, and she gave
The next to hatred, vengeance, and the grave.
Her face was calmly stern, and but a glare
Within her eyes - there was no feature there
That told what lashing fiends her inmates were;
Within - there was no thought to bid her swerve
From her intent - but every strained nerve
Was settled and bent up with terrible force,
To some deep deed, far, far beyond remorse;
No glimpse of mercy's light her purpose crost,
Love, nature, pity, in its depths were lost;
Or lent an added fury to the ire
That seared her soul with unconsuming fire;
All that was dear in the wide earth was gone,
She loved but two, and these she doted on
With passionate ardour - and the close strong press
Of woman's heart-cored, clinging tenderness;
These links were torn, and now she stood alone,
Bereft of all, her husband, sister - gone!

Ah! who can tell that ne'er has known such fate,
What wild and dreadful strength it gives to hate?
What had she left? Revenge! Revenge! was there;
He crushed remorse and wrestled down despair:
Held his red torch to memory's page, and threw
A bloody stain on every line she drew;
She felt dark pleasure with her frenzy blend,
And hugged him to her heart, and called him friend.

When sorrowing clouds the face of heaven deform,
And hope's bright star sets darkly in the storm,
Around us ghastly shapes and phantoms swim,
And all beyond is formless, vague, and dim,
Or life's cold barren path before us lies,
A wild and weary waste of tears and sighs;
From the lorn heart each sweetening solace gone,
Abandoned, friendless, withered, lost, and lone;
And when with keener pangs we bleed to know
That hands beloved have struck the deepest blow;
That friends we deemed most true, and held most dear,
Have stretched the pall of death o'er pleasure's bier;
Repaid our trusting faith with serpent guile,
Cursed with a kiss, and stabbed beneath a smile;
What then remains for souls of tender mould?
One last and silent refuge, calm and cold -
A resting place for misery's gentle slave;
Hearts break but once, no wrongs can reach the grave.

Rest ye, mild spirits of afflicted worth!
Sweet is your slumber in the quiet earth;
And soon the voice of heaven shall bid you rise
To meet rewarding smiles in yonder skies.
But where, for solace, shall the bosom turn
For death too strong - for tears - too proudly stern?
When shall the lulling dews of peace descend
On hearts that cannot break and will not bend?
Ah! never, never - they are doomed to feel
Pains that no balm of heaven or earth can heal;
To live in groans, and yield their parting breath
Without a joy in life - or hope in death.
Yet, for a while, one living hope remains,
That nerves each fibre and the soul sustains;
One desperate hope, whose agonizing throes
Are bitterer far than all the worst of woes;
A hope of crime and horrors, wild and strange
As demon thoughts - that hope is thine, Revenge!

'Twas this that gave, oh! Ellinor, to thee
A strength to bear thy matchless misery:
Though the hot blood ran boiling in her brain,
And rolled a tide of fire through every vein,
Though many a rushing voice of blighted bliss
Struck on her mental ears, like adders' hiss;
That hope gave gloomy fierceness to her eye,
Dash'd down the tear, repress'd the unloading sigh;
Fixed her wan quivering lip, and steeled her breast
To crush the hearts that robbed her own of rest.

She wound her way within a heavy shade
Of arching boughs, in broad-spread leaves arrayed;
Which, clustering close and thick, shut out the light,
And tinged with black the shadowy robe of night;
Save here and there a melancholy spark
Of flickering moonshine glimmered through the dark,
Cheerless and dim, as when upon a pall,
Through suffering tears, the looks of sorrow fall;
But opening farther on, on either side
A wider space the severing trees divide;
And longer gleams upon the pathway meet,
And the soft grass is wet beneath her feet.
And now emerging from the darksome shade,
She pressed the silken carpet of the glade.
Beyond the green, within its western close,
A little vine-hung, leafy arbor rose,
Where the pale lustre of the moony flood
Dimm'd the vermillion'd woodbine's scarlet bud;
And glancing through the foliage fluttering round,
In tiny circles gemm'd the freckled ground.
Beside the porch, beneath the friendly screen
Of two tall trees, a mossy bank was seen;
And all around, amid the silvery dew,
The wild-wood pansy rear'd her petals blue;
And gold cups and the meadow cowslip red,
Upon the evening air their odours shed.

Unheeded all the grove's deep gloom had been,
Unseen the moonlight brightness of the green;
In vain the stream's blue burnish met her eye,
Lovely its wave, but pass'd unnoticed by:
The airs of heaven had breath'd around her brow
Their cooling sighs - she felt them not - but now
That lonely bower appeared, and with a start
Convulsive shudders thrill'd her throbbing heart.
For there, in days, alas! for ever gone,
When love's young torch with beams of rapture shone,
When she had felt her heart's impassioned swell,
And almost deem'd her Leon loved as well;
There had she sat, beneath the evening skies,
Felt his warm kiss and heard his murmur'd sighs;
Hung on his breast, caressing and carest,
Her husband smiled, and Ellinor was blest.

And when his injured country's rights to shield,
Blazed his red banner on the battle field,
There had she lingered in the shadows dim,
And sat till morning watch and thought of him;
And wept to think that she might not be there,
His toils, his dangers, and his wounds to share.
And when the foe had bowed beneath his brand,
And to his home he led his conquering band,
There she first caught his long-expected face,
And sprung to smile and weep in his embrace.

These scenes of bliss across her memory fled,
Like lights that haunt the chambers of the dead,
She saw the bower, and read the image there
Of joys that had been, and of woes that were;
She clench'd her hand in agony, and cast
A glance of tears upon it as she past,
A look of weeping sorrow - 'twas the last!
She check'd the gush of feeling, turned her face,
And faster sped along her hurried pace.

No longer now from Leon's lips were heard
The sigh of bliss - the rapture breathing word;
No longer now upon his features dwelt
The glance that sweetly thrills - the looks that melt;
No speaking gaze of fond attachment told,
But all was dull and gloomy, sad and cold.
Yet he was kind, or laboured to be kind,
And strove to hide the workings of his mind;
And cloak'd his heart, to soothe his wife's distress,
Under a mask of tender gentleness.
It was in vain - for ah! how light and frail
To love's keen eye is falsehood's gilded veil.
Sweet winning words may for a time beguile,
Professions lull, and oaths deceive a while;
But soon the heart, in vague suspicion tost,
Must feel a void unfilled, a something lost;
Something scarce heeded, and unprized till gone,
Felt while unseen, and, tho' unnoticed, known:
A hidden witchery, a nameless charm,
Too fine for actions and for words too warm;
That passing all the worthless forms of art,
Eludes the sense, and only woos the heart:
A hallowed spell, by fond affection wove,
The mute, but matchless eloquence of love!

* * * *

Oh! there were times, when to my heart there came
All that the soul can feel, or fancy frame;
The summer party in the open air,
When sunny eyes and cordial hearts were there;
Where light came sparkling thro' the greenwood eaves,
Like mirthful eyes that laugh upon the leaves;
Where every bush and tree in all the scene,
In wind-kiss'd wavings shake their wings of green,
And all the objects round about dispense
Reviving freshness to the awakened sense;
The golden corslet of the humble bee,
The antic kid that frolics round the lea;
Or purple lance-flies circling round the place,
On their light shards of green, an airy race;
Or squirrel glancing from the nut-wood shade
An arch black eye, half pleas'd and half afraid;
Or bird quick darting through the foliage dim,
Or perched and twittering on the tendril slim;
Or poised in ether sailing slowly on,
With plumes that change and glisten in the sun,
Like rainbows fading into mist - and then,
On the bright cloud renewed and changed again;
Or soaring upward, while his full sweet throat
Pours clear and strong a pleasure-speaking note;
And sings in nature's language wild and free,
His song of praise for light and liberty.

And when within, with poetry and song,
Music and books led the glad hours along;
Worlds of the visioned minstrel, fancy-wove,
Tales of old time, of chivalry and love;
Or converse calm, or wit-shafts sprinkled round,
Like beams from gems, too light and fine to wound;
With spirits sparkling as the morning's sun,
Light as the dancing wave he smiles upon,
Like his own course - alas! too soon to know
Bright suns may set in storms, and gay hearts sink in wo.

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Love Needs A Heart

(by lowell george, valerie carter & jackson browne)
Maybe the hardest thing Ive ever done
Was to walk away from you
Leaving behind the life that wed begun
I split myself in two
Proud and alone, cold as a stone
Rolling down that hill into the night
I could see the surprise and the hurt in your eyes
From behind each flashing city light
Love needs a heart and I need to find
If loves needs a heart like mine
Love wont come near me, she dont even hear me
She walks past my vacancy sign
Love needs a heart, trusting and blind
I wish that heart was mine
Proud and alone, cold as a stone
Im afraid to believe the things I feel
I can cry with the best I can laugh with the rest
But Im never sure when its real
And it may be the hardest thing Ive ever done
But apart from all that I hope to find
Wheres the heart thats been looking for mine?
I hope it finds me in time
Love needs a heart and I need to find
If love needs a heart like mine

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In The Tiredness Of Life

The survival stage of being,
Living day by day travel in,
Travel out in division of life.

Fatigue, weary, pain,
Inside whole being;

Struggle, adversity, experiences,
Trouble, are great suffering.

The eyes feel every drops of pain,
The heart and mind combine with
Breath fade away,

To carry the cross by the way
Experience in any kind event journey,
What it is all about inside life?

all things made by choice, permission
Of God to happen, to polish the wholeness
Of being, to understand the deepest
Important of life existence,
To know the duties of life in the
lives of one individual.

The pain struggle is the source
Of a beautiful life, we cannot
experience God glory without adversity,
Though its hurting deep down inside
Outside being.

God rule, reveal his power;
Receive him in heart in the annoying soul.

In the tiredness of life, revival;
We see rainbow glistering all over,
holding God hands to the perfect
Place of peace.

The prosperity of being,
The reality of life destination.

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Your Sweet Body Needs Mine

Watch my naked body and be enticed,
Bath with me and be loved;
For your sweet body needs mine.

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9/11: 120 Months Later (9/11: 10 Years Later)

There are catastrophic events in your life,
Which do not bring immediate reactions and tears;
Even though your heart is engulfed in fears,
Chaos, anger, sadness, anxiety, and uneasiness.

Losing friends, relatives, children and wife
Bring such a cocktail of eerie emotions;
You are inundated in a raging flood of confusions,
Nightmares, pain, suffering and awkwardness.

The dreadful events of 9/11 brought such devastating feelings
Of wanting to cry for the rest of ones time on earth,
And to fight to avenge the victims, our fellow human beings;
At the same time, your soul is sinking in the infernal surf.

The devils of hell of 9/11 were worthless animals,
Who failed to annihilate our humanity, our universe,
And the freedom we enjoy. Those nefarious criminals,
Despite the heavy casualties, made us stronger and athirst,
To vanquish evils with our wills and mighty arsenals.

9/11 will remain with us until our memories fade away.
We will NEVER forget; with the help of God, they will pay
Miserably for killing countless innocents and bystanders,
And costing so much in sacrifice, sufferings and dollars.
9/11 will remain with us until God takes our last breathe away.

We shall overcome is not a cliché; it is a reality,
In today’s world, where our future remains uncertain.
Life is a constant battle to survive and to alleviate our pain.
The enemies are elusive, vicious, stealthy and stilly;
With the grace of God, Good People ALWAYS win.

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Disaster Will Be Beckoning Soon

December 21st Two Thousand and Twelve,
We will see the Earths demise,
Into Mayan history we must now delve,
As it's to us their prediction applies.

Astrology and myth were prevalent then,
Very much the same as now,
For power and greed they had a yen,
My God they paid for it and how.

Lavish buildings and luxuries for some,
Built and paid for by the lower class,
The privileged ate steak and the worker the crumb,
This system was nothing but crass.

Fellow Human Beings being treated like dirt,
By the rich who were but a few,
Discarded when ill like a worn out shirt,
Like today it's nothing that's new.

On class distinction their culture was based,
This concept was doomed to fail,
Greed and corruption had to be faced,
Eventually it had to derail.

Their prediction's a warning not an ominous sign,
Our planet will come to and end,
If we heed the comparisons we'll all be fine,
Life's not about how much we can spend.

Already the publishers are out in force,
Telling us we're all going to die,
To them it's a money-making resource,
Truth is the whole thing is a lie.

When it doesn't happen what will they say,
Will they admit they got it all wrong,
Give refunds to those who gave up their pay,
No your naivety they'll try to prolong.

Worlds end predictions come and they go,
To date everyone of them's failed,
When it finally happens I doubt if we'll know,
At least the doom merchants will finally be curtailed.

Like the Mayan hierarchy they are morally corrupt,
They are up to their eyeballs in debt,
The capitalist volcano is about to erupt,
These parasites are our biggest threat.

Like the Mayan rulers they've no self- control,
Life to them is spend, spend, spend,
What we're left with is a bottomless hole,
This year it must come to an end.

Unless we heed what the Mayans said,
Our world will be torn apart,
Civilisation will surely lie dead,
The corrupt will have torn it apart.

All cultures on Earth will feel the pain,
Not one of us will be immune,
If from greed and corruption the rich don't refrain,

‘' Disaster Will Be Beckoning Soon ‘'

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To Know It Is To Feel It To See It To Believe

You've done one thing wrong.
You have pretended too long,
With a wasting of my time.
And I have found,
You no longer amuse me.

Honesty is 'in'!
Whatever that is that you do,
Is out of my life and I have found...
There is only one way to deal with truth.
To know it is to feel it to see it to believe.

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I Know You Do Not Feel Anything In Some Of My Lines

i accept my defeat in knowing you
i get the shake of your left hand
as you keep the other
safe and sound in your pocket
i can sense the hesitation
in your tongue that utters
some doublespeaks again

in your 'how do you do? '
I will always respond with 'i am fine'
but deep within this brief
exchange of lines i know you do not
feel anything anymore in the last two
lines that i utter

i hint that what you like most is
'goodbye, i am leaving'
and you do not show any sign
of holding my arms
your right hand is still in your
pocket playing with the coin
that you toss:
it's the tail this time
and i lose

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A Marriage And Life Of Human Beings!

Till the marriage time they don't know;
Marriage strengthens their alliance in life;
Before that they have not even seen once!
This is life made for each other till the end;
What a life between two hearts in the world!
Many marriage functions we attend in lifetime;
They look to be a normal and usual thing;
But till the marriage alliance is fixed for sure
Nothing seems to be sure and keep on trying!
This is the same case with many parents here
And nothing can be visualised before that time!
Likewise marriages are fixed and conducted
For years together and families grow to big size
In the life of human beings as far as I have seen!

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X'MAS MESSAGE 2012 - The Realities of Earthly Life

Life looks great
when our dreams, desires and accomplishments come through
on time, and as per our expectations.

Life turns dull, dreary and monotonous
when something exciting fails to happen,
and remain elusive for long.

Life becomes sad and worthless
when grief and woes often beset
our compromised earthly life.

Life seems worth living
when our hope and trust is in God alone
and God is with us!

THE GOD OF LIFE
GAVE US EACH OUR LIFE
AND HIS ONLY SON'S PRICELESS LIFE
UPON THE HOLY CROSS
TO REDEEM ALL MANKIND!

WHAT A LOVELY GOD
AND WHAT A WAY TO SHOW HIS LOVE
TO HUMAN BEINGS
HE MADE FROM JUST CLOD!

COPYRIGHT BY Dr John Celes 28-11-12

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Justice and Righteousness?

How can we speak of justice?
Mercy
Righteousness
How do we proclaim it aloud?
Speak up against the cruelty?

Lord can we cry out for mercy?
For those that die daily,
For the helpless children
Those sold into slavery
For abuse and violence

Mercy
Mercy
Mercy
What we need is your mercy

Justice
Fair treatment
Human dignity restored
Yes, thats what they need

Lord forgive us for our cruelty towards our brothers and sisters
Towards our fellow human beings

Forgive us for we are a corrupt city
An unjust society
A flawed nation

Forgive us when we mistreat the innocent
Mock the hungry and the destitute
And when we disregard the plight of the poor
And return home to our feasts and our comfy furniture

Show us how to walk in your light
How to live right,
Loving justice and mercy
And walking in humility everyday

Jesus we need your mercy
And if no one else will say this,
Then I will:
We need your cross and your salvation

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Wise and Wisdom

The nature of wisdom,
The nature of insight is such that
If you know that something is good and
You dont do it, you loose your insight.

If you want to develop wisdom and deep insight,
Put into practice as soon as possible what
You understand to be right thing to do.
If you do just this one thing I assure you that you
can develop your deep spiritual qualities.

Be more mindful, your mind will tell you;
The right thing to do.
No matter how much;
we know if we dont put it into practice,
what is the point of knowledge.

Learning a few things at a time, and
immediately putting them into practice.
That is the most important thing to do,
Dont wait for more knowledge.
Do what you know right now,
That will make you know more and more.

Wise person becomes wiser;
When they do what they know now and it will make it easier
For you to do the next thing.

Take small steps to improve ourselves every day,
Consistently and with determination,
It gets easier as you go on.
As long as you head in the right direction and
Keep going youll get there.

(adapted from A Map of the journey by Sayadaw U Jotika)

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The School Of Life

The place were much was learned; The School Of Life.

A far different place than papers, books, and homework.
The School of Life, is a never ending, when it comes to lessons.

In The School Of Life, I have learned, that not
all, is ever learned, or comprehended.

The School Of Life, often teaches one, some bitter and
disappointing lessons.

This school, reveals much in the way of surprises. Many
that of a happy nature and some, devastating.

Somehow, The School Of Life, teaches one, to keep going.
To try...try and try again. We learn that much is gained
through tenacity. We learn it matters not how many times
one is knocked down, for it is how many times we get
up, that is the test in this school.

We learn of mans inhumanity to man. We learn that in
helping our fellow human beings, there is much reward.

We learn, that The School Of Life, has no graduating day.
We learn, that we remain, an ongoing student of education.

The School Of Life, does have its rewards; a diploma of
knowledge, understanding and wisdom.

The School Of Life, better than any college in the world.
The School of Life, where knowledge is ones ticket to
anyplace in the world.

Learn ye well, for in The School Of Life, one does not
have the opportunity to repeat a grade.

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The School Of Life...

The place were much was learned; The School Of Life.

A far different place than papers, books, and homework.
The School of Life, is a never ending, when it comes to lessons.

In The School Of Life, I have learned, that not
all, is ever learned, or comprehended.

The School Of Life, often teaches one, some bitter and
disappointing lessons.

This school, reveals much in the way of surprises. Many
that of a happy nature and some, devastating.

Somehow, The School Of Life, teaches one, to keep going.
To try...try and try again. We learn that much is gained
through tenacity. We learn it matters not how many times
one is knocked down, for it is how many times we get
up, that is the test in this school.

We learn of mans inhumanity to man. We learn that in
helping our fellow human beings, there is much reward.

We learn, that The School Of Life, has no graduating day.
We learn, that we remain, an ongoing student of education.

The School Of Life, does have its rewards; a diploma of
knowledge, understanding and wisdom.

The School Of Life, better than any college in the world.
The School of Life, where knowledge is ones ticket to
anyplace in the world.

Learn ye well, for in The School Of Life, one does not
have the opportunity to repeat a grade.


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Ya, Allah

Ya, Allah, Almighty, supreme ruler of the world
Shower me with bless and take me to your fold
What do I know about your mighty and holy land?
I am here in palace or huts built on sand

I dont know whether it is ill gotten or by great efforts
But surely it is with me as safely reached to ports
I am unaware what to do with this much wealth
Oh almighty keep your grace on me with only health

I look towards sky with raised hands
Only rahem (pity) be shown toward an end
I need no empire, no money but simple grace
Reflection of your act brightening my face

I try to save self but may not be possible sometimes
Yet I loose no hopes and offer prayer all the times
I have great faith in the fellow human beings
So many of them poor, rich and some are kings

Why do I need them all in my life?
When life is full of pain and strife
I need your grace on all ignorant lives
Whether they believe in you or dont believe

I see smile in star’s twinkle
Life is like bubble when they smile little
What light and message I read in your world?
Peace is rare and relations are turn so much cold

Shower us O almighty with love and only peace
So we can pray a little with life at ease
We need to live more on this beautiful earth
Life has become cheap and no charge for asking death

We are ignorant and know nothing
You may have for us surely something
We have impure body with senseless soul
No penalty can remedy it even if we crawl

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As They Lay Me In The Ground

Every day brings me more pain,
I just pray there's no tomorrow,
My life is truly inhumane,
It's filled with grief and sorrow.

I used to be a normal guy,
Quite happy with my lot,
Family, friends no need to lie,
My life just couldn't be bought.

Then I thought, this can't be right,
There's more to life than this,
What I was missing was out of sight,
So I tried some cannabis.

It made me feel relaxed and cool,
Then I mixed it with some drink,
I never knew I could be so cruel,
But I refused to see the link.

I progressed on to stronger drugs,
They made me feel immune,
The warning signs are just for mugs,
I won't stop anytime soon.

I then lost my family and my friends,
How dare they interfere?
As into farce my life descends,
To me it's still unclear.

My legs are full of holes and sore,
I've no veins left to inject,
My body's rotten to the core,
Yet my fix I must collect.

I have no money to buy my kit,
No family from which I can steal,
I'd give my life for another hit,
I need cash for one more deal.

Addiction is an abject curse,
You imagine it gives you joy.
When you think things can't get worse,
Your spirit it will then destroy.

Your mind and body then give in,
You can no longer cope,
You're in a battle you can never win,
It's then you give up hope.

I've caused those close to me untold grief,
A fact I refused to see,
My leaving will bring them scant relief,
But I need to set myself free.

My will to live has disappeared,
At last my peace I've found,
The chaos in my life has cleared,

‘' As They Lay Me In The Ground ‘'

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A Tale of Bhimbetka

Bhim-bait-ka
Bheem sat on these rocks
the name is derived from
Sanskrit epic Mahabharata

largest collection of prehistoric art
discovered and explored
by Dr.V.S.Wakankar
a great archaeologist

from train he noticed caves
dotting the hills in distance
he cut through deep forest
climbed up to the caves

surrounded by northern fringe
of the Vindhyan ranges
lies 46 km south of Bhopal
in State of Madhya Pradesh

continuous habitation
from Early Stone Age
biggest repository
of Indian prehistoric art

one of earliest dwellings
of human beings
will take you back
to 35,000 years old history

prehistoric caves
fascinating paintings
to Paleolithic times
a cultural sequences

stone floors
hand-axes
hard quartz
tiny needles

cleavers, scrapers
stone hand mills
colored earth
called Ochre

a woman with a child
household chores
hunt documentation
raid during warfare

the Stone Age artists
painted their hopes, fears
weaving an enchantment
that still ensnares us

weather worn walls
over these caves
display great vitality
and narrative skill

experience the journey
back to Stone Age Man
move around gently
examine surroundings

each boulder
every overhanging rocks
speaks and describes
the magical history

rocky terrain
dense forest
craggy cliffs
over 600 rock shelters

vivid, panoramic detail
paintings in over 500 caves
depict the life and activity
prehistoric cave dwellers

hunting
dancing
music
horse riders

elephant riders
animals fighting
honey collection
bodies decoration

bison
tigers
lions
wild boar

antelopes
dogs
lizards
bulls

elephants
horses
crocodiles
rhin oceros

weapons
birds
musical instruments
pregnant women

burial
drinking
figures of Yakshas
men carrying dead animals

the tree gods
magical sky chariots
tunic like dresses
the existence of scripts

popular religious
ritual symbols
disguises, masking
household scenes

red
white
green
yellow

mixture of colors, soft red stone
manganese, hematite,
wooden coal, animal’s fat
extracts of leaves

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A Letter To Amira

It's 5am here and you are drunk on white Russian's asking me if I am broken?
Now's way too early for painful memories and sweet nostalgia,
Too early to think of lost friends and broken hearts.
When I was a child I used to hold my sister in my arms, protecting her from the psychological abuse of having two warring parents use our home as an epic battleground.
The first taste I had of loss was when my grandfather Antonis had died.
My parents broke his heart when they divorced and he spent the following year drinking bottles of whisky until his liver was scarred beyond recognition.
At seventeen I was so full of insecurities and bad memories I contemplated suicide so many times I'm surprised I ever reached eighteen.
I remember listening to insomnia when I really had insomnia when my friend fell from the rooftops to his death,
Or the sadness of Maria the angelic looking school teacher that didn't eat for six months and then discovered she had stomach cancer,
Or knowing that I once had a brother who shared my name and died before I was born my ex would swear that she spoke to him in her dreams,
Why would I even want to venture the recesses of my soul to bring these scars back up to the liquid surface of my mind?
Why should I show you that all human beings are vulnerable you must know this?
I remember the faces of all the girls that touched my heart there laughter and tears,
Each one still has a piece of my heart and I a piece of there's
Some merely travel with us in our memories others haunt us in our dreams.
What of my innocent Athena the victim of two parents who no longer loved one another.
Walking out on her that day the trauma of leaving makes all the other things pale in comparison.
We are estranged now if she were to see me her soft cotton brain would not even recall how I used to hold her on my belly and stroke her hair.
Then there was Athena my daughter's aunty who as a diabetic got gangrene in her leg and suffered the indignity of learning about her husband's infidelity,
The doctors amputated her limb and she screamed at night for morphine...I will not even tell you how this story ends because it is too grueling,

So what then Amira do you wish to bare your soul to me...I will not ask that of you because I know that you too are damaged,
It was the dark painful photograph of you and your eloquence that inspired me to contact you,
Perhaps you were a kindred soul reaching out to me,
Everything is connected in some strange way-Every action leads us down a path way that has a small surprise,
But you are the greatest surprise of all...a big booming explosive beautiful surprise!

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