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Manali - the Land of Gods

I always wondered why this place,
was called the land of Gods.
With harsh cold and mountain folds,
With loneliness and uneven moulds,
Without comforts and anything mod,
I didnýt know why it was called the Gods.

When I got the opportunity,
I decided to see,
Whether what I had heard was truth or hearsay.
Although I find it difficult to climb,
I agreed to join this treacherous mime.

When I arrived at the camp site,
I was dumbstruck and beholden with the sight,
Which stood before my very eyes.
Snow covered mountains, gushing streams, and the beautiful sunrise. And as I saw the various moods,
Of nature and it's various goods,
I slowly started to understand,
Why it is called the Land of God,
Despite the lack of anything mod.

Because the grass here is green,
And not the brown with which the cities teem.
Because the water here is pure,
And does not require a testing gear.
Because the birds here are free,
And not caged-in, as we see.
This land which lacks anything mod,
Is called the Land of Gods.

Because the mountains here reach up to heaven,
And are not like the Sahyadris all paven.
Because the wind here spreads fragrance,
Not dust, smoke, and other jargon.
Because the flowers here naturally bloom,
And are not forced to grow in pots to face their doom.
That's why this land which lacks anything mod,
Is called the Land of Gods.

Because the lakes here are blue,
And do not stink with the city stew.
Because the people here are simple,
And do not show off false smiles and dimples.
Because everything here is pure and natural,
This land which lacks anything mod,
Is called the Land of Gods.

Because the sun sets over a spectacular horizon,
And does not have to hide behind concrete prisons.
Because the jungles here are full of trees,
Where all components of nature mingle free.
Because at night we can see the stars,
which are not blocked out by the city lights spread afar.
That's why this land which lacks anything mod,
Is called the Land of Gods.

Seeing the Jogini waterfall,
And the Lammergeyer rock tall,
Listening about the Bhrugu Lake,
And the pleasure the effort gives and takes,
I came to know why this land which lacks anything mod,
Is called the Land of Gods.

And as I go on thinking,
In the spare moments lurking,
Where silently beside the stream,
Or by the tent rim,
I realize the reason,
Why this land which lacks anything mod,
Is called the Land of Gods.

And now the time has come for me,
To go back to my own city.
I yearn for this paradise,
Away from the city life.
Because this nature and me,
Share a similar spree,
For life and all it's blooms,
Adjusting to its glooms,
Now I see, why this land which lacks anything mod,
Is called the Land of Gods.

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Victor Hugo

The Cemetary Of Eylau

This to my elder brothers, schoolboys gay,
Was told by Uncle Louis on a day;
He bid me play, with tender voice and bland,
Thinking me still too young to understand.
Howe'er, I listened, and his tale was this:—
'A battle? Bah!—and know you what it is?
A deal of smoke. You rise at dawn, and late
You go to bed. Here's one that I'll relate:
The battle is called Eylau. As I wot,
I then was captain, and the Cross had got;
Yes, I was captain,—after all, in war
Man but a shadow is, and does not score;
But ne'er mind me. Eylau, you understand,
Is part of Prussia,—water, wood, and land,
Ice, winter everywhere, and rain, and snow.

'Well, we were camped a ruined wall below,
And round the ancient belfry tombs appear.
Bénigssens' tactics were, first to come near,
Then fly. The Emperor such arts disdains,
And the snow whitened over all the plains.
Spy-glass in hand, Napoleon passed our way;
The guard declared, 'To-morrow is the day.'
Old men and women fled in troops confused
With children. I looked on the graves and mused.
The night-fires lit, and colonel bending o'er,
Cried, 'Hugo!' Here!' 'How many men?' 'Six score.'
'Well, your entire company take round,
And there get killed.' 'Where?' 'In the burial-ground.'
I answered, 'Apter place you could not find.'
I had my flask; we drank; an icy wind
Blew. He said, 'Captain, death is close at hand.
Life's pleasant—'tis a thing you understand;
But none dies better than your jolly blade:
I give my heart, but sell my skin,' he said.
'Let's woman toast!—your post's the worst of all.'
(Our colonel oft a merry jest let fall.)
He adds, 'The foe from ditch and wall keep back;
Stay, there, 'tis rather open to attack.
This graveyard of the battle is the key;
Keep it.' 'We will.' 'Some straw will handy be.'
'We've none.' 'Sleep on the ground. Now tell me this:
Your drummer, is he brave?' 'As Barra is!'
'Good! Let him blindly, madly sound the charge:
Noise must be great when numbers are not large.
D'ye hear, you little scamp, what you are bid?'
'Yes, Captain,' said the grinning child, half hid
In snow and rime. The colonel then went on:
'The battle will be fought with guns alone;
I myself like cold steel, and hate the way
In which the dastard shells are made to slay.
Valiant the sword,—the shell's a traitor. Well,
The emperor sees to that. Naught more to tell,
And so, good-bye. The post you will not leave,
Nor budge a foot, till six to-morrow eve.'
The colonel left. I cried, 'Right turn!' and thence
We soon all entered in that narrow fence;
Grass walled around, a church amid the sod;
In gloom, and o'er the graves, the Blessed God.

'A sombre yard, with many a snowy plate,
Looked somewhat like the sea. We crenolate
The wall. I order all things, and decide
The ambulance shall 'neath the cross abide.
'We'll sup, then rest,' I said. Snow lay about;
Our clothes mere rags. 'Tis very fine, no doubt,
But still unpleasant when the weather's bad.
I made my pillow of a grave, and had
My feet benumbed,—my boots had lost their sole;
And captain soon and soldier, cheek by jowl,
No longer stirred, each sleeping o'er a corse.
So soldiers sleep; they neither know remorse,
Pity, nor fear,—not being in command;
And frozen by the snow, or burnt by sand,
They sleep. Besides, fighting keen joy supplies.
I said, 'Good-night,' and then I shut my eyes.
War has no time for pantomimes inept.
It snowed; the sky was sullen, and we slept.
Some tools we found, and made a mighty flame;
My drummer poked it up, and to me came,
To cast the reckoning as best he can.
Sons a great soldier was the little man!
The crucifix looked like a gibbet vast;
The snow still fell; the fire died out at last.
For how long time it was we slumbered so,
I say, the devil take me if I know!
Soundly we slept. In sleep is death rehears'd
'Tis good in war. I was right cold at first,
Then dreamt, and fancied many a skeleton
And spectre that great epaulets had on.
Slowly, though I upon my pillow lay,
I had a feeling as of coming day;
My lids, though closed, a sense of radiance found.
Sudden, through sleep a deep and sullen sound
Roused me,—'twas like a cannon's distant roar.
I woke, and something white was gathered o'er
My eyes. The snow, with soft and gentle fall,
During the silent night had wrapped us all
In shrouds. I start, and shake the snow away.
A bullet coming, whence I cannot say,
Awoke me quite. I bid it pass at large,
And cried, 'Drummer, get up, and sound the charge!'

'Then six score heads (as isles from ocean) all
Rose from the snow; the sergeant sounds the call.
The dawn then rose, red and with joyance glad,
As 'twere a bloody mouth with smiling clad.
My thoughts ran to my mother, and the wind
Seemed whispering to me, 'Oft in war we find
That with the rise of day death too doth rise.'
I mused; at first around all quiet lies,
Those cannon-shots only as signals were:
Before the ball, at times, some bars we hear,
Some prelude dancing with unmeaning strains.
The night had clogged the blood within our veins,
But coming battle made it hotly course.
The army 'gainst us came in all its force.
We held the key. A handful were my men,
On whom the shells, like woodman's axe, were then
About to rage. I wished myself elsewhere.
My men to skirmish, by the wall with care
I placed, who confidence and solace found
In hoped promotion, bought by grievous wound:
In war you confront death to clutch at fame.
My young lieutenant, from St. Cyr, who came,
Said to me, 'Morn, how sweet a thing I think!
How charming the sun's rays! The snow is pink;
Captain, all laughs, and shines. How fresh the air;
How white the fields; how peaceful, pure, and fair!'
I answered, 'Soon 'twill all to horror change.'
My thought were of the Rhine, the Alpine range,
The Adige, and our dreadful wars of yore.

'The battle burst: six hundred throats and more,
Enormous, belching forth the fire that fills
Their mouths, together clamoured from the hills;
All the whole plain one smoking gulf was seen.
My drummer beat the charge with fury keen.
With cannons mixed the trumpets proudly sound,
And the shells rained upon our burial ground
As if they wished to kill the very grave;
The rooks desert the tower theirs lives to save.
I recollect a shell burst in the earth,
And the corpse, started, rose form out his berth,
As if man's racket woke him in the tomb.
Then the fog hid the sunshine. Ball and bomb
Produced a noise dread, inconceivable.
Berthier, Prince of the Empire, Vice-Constable,
Charged on our right a Hanoverian corps
With thirty squadrons. These you saw no more,
Save the thickest, darkest mist, starred o'er by shell,
So wholly had the strife and battle fell
Within that tragic mist been lost to view.
A cloud fallen on the earth spread round and grew
From smoke which myriad cannons vomited.
Children, 'twas under this the armies bled.
Soft as the down floated the snow that night.
Good faith! we killed each other as we might:
We did our best. The dark and ruins through,
I saw my men like shadows come and go,—
Ghosts, like espaliers, which on walls you range.
The field brought to me musings deep and strange,—
Phantoms above, and the still dead below.
Some blazing cottages at distance glow.
The fog, through which was heard the mountain horn,
E'en thicker than before was towards us borne.
We now saw nothing but our burial ground;
We had the wall at mid-day for our bound.

As by a great black hand, so by the night
We were enclosed, and all things fade from sight.
Our church some seagirt rock appeared to be.
The bullets through the fog too closely see:
They keep us company, crushed the church roof
And shattered the stone cross, and gave us proof
That we were not alone on that dread plain.
We hungered, but no soup at hand,—'tis vain
To look for food in such a place. And worse,
The hail of balls fell with redoubled force.
Bullets are awkward. Down they rain a-pelt;
Only what falls, and is unpleasant felt,
Are grains of flame, not sprinklings of a shower.
We were like men whose eyes are bandaged o'er.
All fell to pieces 'neath the shells,—the trees,
The church, the tower; and I found decrease
The shadows which I saw around the place.
From time to time one fell. 'Death kills apace,'
A sergeant says, like wolf ta'en in a net;
And as his sight the tombs snow-covered met,
'Why place us where already is complete
The tale of guests?'—Man's lot is like to wheat,
Thus to be mowed, and not the scythe to see.
Some shadows yet in the gloom living be;
The scamp, my drummer, still his might employed.

We fired above the wall, now nigh destroyed.
Children, you have a garden: shot and ball
Rained on us, guardians of that fatal wall,
As you drench flowers with your water pot,
'Till six o'clock you must not leave the spot,'
This order all my thoughts were fixed upon.—
The lightnings flash 'mid feathers of the swan;
And 'mid the dark, the bullets' flaming track
Were all my eyes could see. 'Let us attack!'
The sergeant cried. 'Whom?—for I no one see.'
'I hear their voice, they trumpet bray,' said he,
'Let us rush forth! Shot, shell, upon us rain;
Death spits upon us here,' 'Let us remain.'
I add, 'The battle's brunt by us is borne.
We hold the key.' 'My patience well-nigh worn.'
The sergeant said.—Black were the fields, the sky,
But though full night, the evening was not nigh.
'Till six o'clock,' low to myself I said.
'By Jove! few better chances can be had
To advance,' said my lieutenant; when a ball
Carried him off. I felt no hope at all
Of winning. Victory is an arrant jade.
A pallid glare, which through the fog was made,
Vaguely lit up the graveyard; but afar
Was naught distinct, save that we needed air
To concentrate upon our heads the bombs.
The emperor placed us there among the tombs,
Alone, riddled with shot, which we returned;
But what he did with us we ne'er discerned.
We were the target midmost in that fight;
And to hold good, and battle on till night,
Till six o'clock to live the hours through,
Meanwhile to kill, was what we had to do.
Fierce, powder-blackened, shot we as we might,
And took but time our cartridges to bite;
Without a word our soldiers fought and died.
'Sergeant, d'ye see the foe retreat?' I cried.
'No.' 'What, then?' 'Naught.' 'Nor I.' 'A deluge?' 'Yes,
Of fire.' 'See you our men?' 'No, but I guess
From how the volleys sound, we're forty good,'
Cried a brave grumbler, who beside me stood.
(He'd won his stripes.) 'At most you'll thirty find.'
And all was snow and night; the piercing wind
Blew; and while shivering, we the rain-drops track,
A gulf of while spots 'gainst abyss of black.
Howe'er, the battle seemed becoming worse;
A kingdom perished 'neath an empire's force.
Behind the veil you guessed some dread event,
As lions upon mutual slaughter bent.
'Twas like the ancient giants' fabled war;
You heard discharges pealing near and far,
The crash of ruins,—the outskirts of the town
Of Eylau set on fire and burning down.
The drums their dreadful music now surpass,
Six hundred cannon make the unceasing bass.

'We killed each other; nothing yet was known
By France, that hour her greatest stake was thrown.
Was the good God on high against or for?
How dark! I pulled my watch out o'er and o'er.
At times the silent field gave forth a cry,—
Some fallen body writhed in agony;
Fast, one by one shot down, we met our doom;
Death-rattles filled the vast sepulchral gloom.
Kings have their soldiers as you have your toys.
I raised my sword, and shouting, 'Courage, boys!'
I waved it o'er my head. Strife now I wage,
Intoxicated, deaf, with so much rage;
Blow following blow by shot and shell were dealt.
Sudden, my arm—my right arm—hung. I felt
My sword drop to my feet upon the sward:
My arm was broken. I picked up my sword
With the other hand, and, 'Friends,' I gaily cried,
'To get this broken too is not denied.'
Then I began to laugh,—a useful whim;
For soldiers are not pleased to lose a lim,
And when their chief is wounded, rather glad.
How fled the time? One only hand I had,—
That my sword needed, whatsoe'er betide;
The other, drenched in blood, hung by my side.
I could no longer get my watch. When, lo!
My drummer stopped. 'Knave, are you frightened?' 'No;
I'm hungry,' said the child. Just then the plain
Seemed rocked and shaken, and was filled amain
With such a cry as up to heaven rose.
I felt myself grow weak,—the whole man goes
From out a wound. A broken arm, it drains.
To talk with some one when you're faint, sustains.
My sergeant spoke to me. At hazard, 'Yea,'
I cried; I did not want to faint away.

'Sudden the noise left off; the night less black.
'Victory!' they shout. I shouted 'Victory!' back;
And then some lights approaching us, I see.
Bleeding, upon one hand and either knee
I crawled, and cried, 'How do we stand?' and then
I added, 'All rise up, and count, my men.'
'Here!' said the sergeant. 'Here!' my scamp replied.
The colonel, sword in hand, stood by my side.
'Tell me by whom the victory was gained.'
'By you,' he said. The snow with blood was stained.
'Hugo, that's you; for 'tis your voice,' said he.
'Yes.' 'And how many are living?' 'Three.'

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A Place Called Eden

There was a paradise that ruled long ago.
Quiet.
Peaceful.
More beautiful than the human eye can ever perceive;
untainted by humans,
this Place called Eden.

This Garden was eternal, life-giving,
as perfect as the Heavens brought to Earth.
But along came Man,
swept in with a storm,
hiding the sun.
A pummeling rain flattened the flowers
and lightning licked at trees, destroying
this Place called Eden.

The clouds finally parted.
The sun peaked out fearfully, looking down
at Man, who stood alone.
Who felt himself powerful.
Betrayal drowned the Garden.
Mad smiled at his feat:
He had taken over with sin,
this Place called Eden.

Man cursed himself,
Perfection was lost, Misery
had taken over Man as Nature
healed itself for its revenge on the Destroyer.
Man learned self-loathing
and the true power of
this Place called Eden.

Death came to Earth. It punished Man fiercer
than Nature had: any man close
to finding the lost Land
was taken from Earth,
and Man was never to find it again,
this Place called Eden.

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A Place Called

place called “home” is to feel homely,
Gods creation standing by to look so lovely,
May be she is with all her elegance,
Everything for sure and no pretence,

Gently spoken words I hear,
Sounds like music in my ear,
Shivering cold run in spine,
As if showing drunken state caused by wine,

Mild walk around give melancholy voice,
She is with me not becasuse of her choice,
Always standing by and rendering advice,
Suggesting the ways with utmost care to improvise,

Bowing head with all weight on my solder and lean,
Air to suggest fragrance and house almost neat and clean
Life is so suggestive and perfect” does that mean?
It seems half battle is over with clear perfect win,

Home loses significance if she is not there?
Without her no refuge and to go nowhere,
Ideal place i shome to step in with peace of mind,
Smiling at door to receive with gesture kind

All care is taken of with ease and no tension,
Home in perfect condition and look as Manson,
No clash of views even with slight reason,
All days alike whether season or no season,

With arrival of spring, flowers boom,
All happiness in home and I always zoom,
housing of toys all in single room,
joy and only joy with trace of gloom,

“Home” is an end of universe,
Does not come as surprise and need to rehearse,
It is place where even HE may prefer to stay,
Heaven here, hell here, we need only to create the way

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A place called hell

Some one reminded me of a place called hell
Lonely place where every one is doing well
All let loose strange stories around
No basis whatsoever or any images are found

No one may argue in favor of a hell
Generally all may not favor it at all
In their opinion they all did well to be in heaven
Though they have no faint idea even

They have done nothing to find place in this place
They did all whatever they could do to malign the race
At final time they decided to donate some tip of wealth
They knew it well at end of the game with deterioration in health

Some one may go even further to advocate
In the memory of parents some good steps they will indicate
Raising of temple or some orphanage in their name
At least this will save them for some shame

They have all praise for departed soul
The soul had lived noble life with no mistakes or foul
The God only knew how noble and honest he was?
The end was imminent but this was only pause

The heaven has many exits and inlets
Only innocent and nobles are let
Rest all sent to very nice place called hell
There they will spend their life very well

So if some one is referring heaven we should take it for hell
All horrified stories are known to all but now no need to tell
Human ears are not used to hear unpleasant remarks
Though they praise dear ones with full marks

How the hell can be different from atmosphere?
Why the people get afraid with so much fear?
When it is known that only nice people with have entry?
Rest all will be waiting in sun without shed of the tree

Well it is generally accepted that there is another world
Where there is no foe or friend or hot and cold
Everything is same and no difficulty at all
Still untruth may block it like wall

I fearlessly taught and advocated about good or bad
There is nothing to be felt as pain, agony or remain sad
The end may be peaceful and all set to depart
There may be found two gates painted with art

It will remind us of our past
The life might have been over very fast
It was now turn to pack up and say good bye
Even though we had lived happily with very good try

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Where sexy meets demure in a place called trim

In the seat opposite in the underground
in the off-peak afternoon,
neat shoes, nice legs, skirt just the exact right length
where demure meets sexy in a place called trim;

well-chosen outfit; wasn’t her face
vaguely familiar in some other context?
Had we met, in Tahiti, Cuba, Necker Island,
or on some other sandy shore?
Met, yet not spoken? She offered me no clue..

Ah yes – for several years,
come January grey but promise of a summer sun,
the TV infomercials fill our screens
with this year’s new holiday destinations
for the single girl who’s demure to sexy,
late thirties, but still trim.. writing her own script
but with all the real life edited out..

How often had we seen her on a sunny beach,
her swimsuit just where sexy meets demure in trim,
about to enter a blue blue sea
with no-one else about
such the conventions of the travel film,
she too often in the shot…

or at the table, glowing in her evening outfit,
bronzed, relaxed; but still alone;
filling us in with details and the sights to see
over the lavish fruit cup on the table
before the smiling waiter brings the laden plate -
after the waterfall where we’d seen her laughing,
the market where she’d handled exotic fruit,
the boat ride, she in the stern, her hair blown back.. or
riding in safe open car through crowds of exotic natives?

did she choose her invisible cameraman on these trips?
Were they an item? Or did his compensation
begin with the local talent when he put his camera down?
Did she queue at airports, fluster over overcharging,
wait for days for thunderclouds to clear?
Arise dishevelled from an ill-advised fling with a local,
which remained unspoken as the background
to travel for the single girl?

Sitting there, ex-travel correspondent, professional,
dressed where sexy meets demure in trim,
the camera and the sound were off; she
did not meet my eyes; but if I’d had
a travel brochure with me, I could have played
a merry game with her across the way..
What a joyous disaster film her memories could have made,
what a chance the infomercials cannot take…

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The Trail of Tears

You have the trail
but where are the tears?
No idea?
You are not that interested in tears
of those who had trodden the trail
from Georgia to Oklahoma
with little to eat or to clothe themselves
Might have seen hundreds and thousands of dead corpses
lying on the outskirts of the trail
with lice and bugs eating their flesh
The winter cold is so harsh
the blanket that they were wearing with bare feet
won't keep them warm
and What about the US army soldiers
once in a while raiding the folks
with a bundle of babies and little kids
they have to survive the long walks and the
cold and the starvation
to look for the place they can call home
for their homes were ripped by the white
government,
they still hold the hopes that they will regain
their land and home back
just like the Jews on exile to the Babylonia
for 70 long years they were away from home
lost their kings and princes and wishing only
to return home for those 70 years
What sins did these Indian tribes commit
to deserve this kind of treatment
giving away their lands and their homes
and on the road half fall dead
half of the half fell sick and
with no food to feed them
no water to cleanse them
but the endless walks bare footed?
O how painful it must have been only
to be a part of the American scene
Who cursed these people not God definitely
for they were good to the new comers with
their usual hospitality and generosity
but they were awaiting for the whites
to arrive in their land and make it blossom
with new civilization, and they knew when the whites
arrived these were the people they had been waiting for
centuries and they treated them nice and generously
but the result
The tribes must extinct and vanish for the whites
will take over their land as it was destined to
they killed numerous Indian babies
poisoned the water and plagued their blankets with germs
and disease viruses so the tribes could go dead
unnoticed and they did that with vehemence and
systematically.
That Andrew Jackson dude is now taking the tribal lands
and casts the inhabitants from those lands
to hit the road the trail the trail of tears
but where are the tears they shed on the trail?
Does anyone care?
Indian tribes still claim their sovereignty
and claim an independent nationhood
for the US government has not kept their words
and promises, no more of being cheated
and fooled, that is what these people decided to do
an independent nation Indian nation in the nation of the USA
That's quite pathetic because they still have to live on
government stipends and welfare money to the reservation
though the old Indian Bureau was putting most of the
goods and money coming to the tribes into their own pocket
Does anyone care what these people are doing and
how they are all along?
We see them on the Western movies keep dying
shot to death and fall from the horses they were riding on
Their bison were the main food channel but
the US government knew so well if the bison go away
the tribes will also vanish
Out of the tears and suffering of the Indian nations
came and rose the great nation THE United States of America
But no one pays much attention to how these
robbed people of their land and their cultures live
In the back of the mind of every Americans
history stays alive and we all know what happened
yet nobody says anything about them, no advocates want
work for these people the Mongols
the grand history of Genghis Khan and his conquer of the
entire world including Europe to make people tremble
with fear on hearing his name only
but the descendents of the Mongols are only
humiliated by the word 'Mongoloid' the retarded
with flat nose and flat facial structure
in Special Education,
No, the Mongols are not mongoloid the retarded
They were warriors and soldiers who roamed
the entire world Asian, Middle Eastern, European and Egyptian
in the olden days yeah, that was a long gone days
but the spirit of these warriors still remain
in every lands streams and hill sides of the
American landscape I could feel it when I was there
those places in USA were covered with the Spirits
that is inherent in every US citizens
though they didn't know it and still don't know it
but I could see it could feel it and
experienced
The legendary Mongol warrior spirit was embodied
in the American landscape and fields and mountains
and forests and animals and the people too.
These spirits help the nation US be strong mighty and wise
like the inhabitants the people of the USA.


4: 48 pm
(December 3,2012) Korea-Japan Time

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No Place To Land

Corporate suits and their mannequin men
Swear they have the plan
Less money comes, more money goes
We have no place to land

Business wantons and renegade deceivers
Pass laws from hand to hand
As steel, glass and concrete crumble
Leaving us with no place to land

Big business thrives on sordid affairs
Putting blinders on the average man
Courtesans of lies and great illusion
Abandon us, leaving no place to land

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A Place Called 'life

i feel so alone,
in this place call life.
i hear great things
and bad things.
which do i believe?
mostly the bad things.
times like this.
it seems so true.
just like how i'm here feeling blue.
nobody seem to listen.
nobody seem to care.
hiding becomes my only way out.
will that be all i do?
it so easy to act like i'm fine.
than people ask questions.
when i know they don't really care.
because i so alone in the place called life.
Copyright © 2009
10-14-08

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A Place Called the Matador

They started cooking food
A very long time ago
Creating a recipe because
They loved the Chile relleno so

Perfection the objective
Ingredients fresh and fine
To bring forth a creation
That nowhere they could find

So the spent many hours
Of every single day
Cooking the best product
In their very special way

Chili’s are most important
Ingredient of this food
Dough was mixed as well
Oh, it was extremely good

The Matador still remains
The food still as delicious
Devotion to the craft
That has become infamous

I had a chance to see for myself
Cooks who know the score
A product like no other
A place called the Matador!

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Where Are You Snow

Thus the year,
Where there are no,
White fluffy fields,
Of snow,
Where you,
Can run outside,
In the snow covered,
Mountains,
But this year,
There is no snow,
Why can't we go out,
To play in the snow,
No snow,
No white Christmas

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The Hand of Beauty

Beauty is a sunset or a rise
On a breath Taking day
And like snow covered mountains
With peaks where the clouds lay

Beauty is a seasonal poppy
Stranded on a road side
Presenting its definition
Unknowingly glowing with pride

Beauty is a rainy day
When a day is clear and bright
Lining the sky with colours
And bowing within your sight

Beauty is many of things
Some remain untold
But one I yet not mentioned
Is the one of the hand I hold

For this beauty is different
This beauty is so divine
And I promise to travel a journey
With this beautiful wife of mine

©Copyright Anna Andrews 2010

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The Day My Soul Flew Free

Undaunted by troublesome burdens
On a day when clouds darkened the sky
I unburdened my soul and let it fly
No earthly bondage was able to hold
My spirit was soaring and feeling bold

Behold all the beauty you're able to see
At the time of my travel the world was still free
Nor draught or destruction plagued the land
But a calm perfection catered by hand
God's unsoiled planet and all its land

Snow covered mountains and trees so tall
My heart felt like bursting taking in all
The rivers flowed flawless and unabashed
Silent forests and waterfalls splashed
Meadows and valleys in sunlight bathed

Upon my return my soul just wept
Seeing so many landmarks unkempt
The raw earth was hurting in terrible distress
Over many years there was no gain
And the earth whimpered in pain…

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Mussorie, the Hill Resort (India)

We collected cobbled stones on
the dried tributaries of the Ganges.
Our coach was then winding around the hills
towards the hill resort, Mussorie.
Suddenly we saw the sprinkled stars afar!
Aha! All the shapes we could form
from the gleaming lights of Dehradun.
The night was calm and chill
but we were agile at dawn.

Our eyes ransacked through the crevice
to see the snow-covered peaks.
Crystal streams were gushing down
and defied us to have a dip
in its nerve-chilling elixir.
I went deep and deep behind my friends
to put my head under its rush.
Oh, my lungs lost the air!
I retreated to make it airy.
The fall of Celsius caused chasms
in our feet and made us tumble on the hills.

It is a heaven for the roisterers
and a haven for the weak and old.
The roads on the slopes to the interiors
of the mighty Himalayas and its ice-caps
are sights lingering for ever.
---------

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Summer’s Delight

As the sun grins from the sky clear and silent,
Melts the snow covered mountains and sent,
To the hills, to the river, to the sea, thus enter,
Summer is here to act upon the idle of winter.

Once a beach that was dull without a quest,
The waves begun to unravel the frozen sand,
The pelicans’ greetings raised lenient guests,
This is the beauty; the grandeur of this land.

Like the monomania of baseball lovers hear,
Their triumphs from backyards to the parks,
Their roars, their applause, cheer after cheer
Are noises of summer, as it delightfully marks,

The calendar flipped once more on 4th of July,
Freedom is Reason! As smokes from the grill
Trekked up into the sky that we can still smell
Even fireworks bursting, yet no one can deny.

That the sun still grins from its colorful set,
And the night comes with a refreshing wind,
To count and pray life to last and upon to wit,
The joy of summer, it seems to have no end.

When diving and jumping into the pool splash,
The aroma of chlorine water, it couldn’t wash,
The fragrance of suntan lotion now in the mix,
Of Suns scent making Summer sweet as always.

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Valley Of Love

welcome to the valley of love
where there is love above, and love below
love, everywhere you go.

in this valley you will see, all of GODS creations
and see the truth in his revelations.
you will be taught the love of man for each other
and for all that the LORD has provided.
in the seas, the sky, the earth, and all its worth.

this love will fill every part of your being
this is what you'll be seeing.
your heart will feel like it's about to explode
and even fill your entire soul.

the love in your eyes, will even fill the darkness night
and turn everything into light.
anything and everything that you could imagine
love to be, will become your reality.

there will be no such things as sadness, or hate
just hearts full of faith.

take your partners hand and travel down the road
to this 'valley of love' where birds will sing up above.
and where sea creatures will jump out of the water
all in perfect order.
and the land creatures will run ahead.
to make you a warm comfortable bed.

this valley is not a dream, or just imagination
it is a beautiful desired sensation.
which fills your heart to capacity, and opens your eyes
so that you could see, all that is meant to be.

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Pablo Neruda

The Men

I'm Ramón González Barbagelata from anywhere,
from Cucuy, from Paraná, from Rio Turbio, from Oruro,
from Maracaibo, from Parral, from Ovalle, from Loconmilla,
I'm the poor devil from the poor Third World,
I'm the third-class passenger installed, good God!
in the lavish whiteness of snow-covered mountains,
concealed among orchids of subtle idiosyncrasy.

I've arrived at this famous year 20000, and what do I get?
With what do I scratch myself?� What do I have to do with
the three glorious zeros that flaunt themselves
over my very own zero, my own non-existence?
Pity that brave heart awaiting its call
or the man enfolded by warmer love,
nothing's left today except my flimsy skeleton,
my eyes unhinged, confronting the era's beginning.

The era's beginning: are these ruined shacks,
these poor schools, these people still in rags and tatters,
this cloddish insecurity of my poor families,
is all this the day? the century's beginning, the golden door?

Well, enough said, I, at least, discreet,
as in office, patched and pensive,
I proclaim the redundancy of the inaugural:
I've arrived here with all my baggage,
bad luck and worse jobs,
misery always waiting with open arms,
the mobilization of people piled up on top of each other,
and the manifold geography of hunger.

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Let It Be Christmas

Let it be Christmas everywhere
In the hearts of all people
Both near and afar
Christmas everywhere
Feel the love of the season where ever you are
On the small country roads
Lined with green mistletoe
Big city streets where a thousand lights glow
Let it be Christmas everywhere
Let heavenly music fill the air
Let every heart sing
Let every bell ring
The story of hope and joy and peace
And let it be Christmas everywhere
Let heavenly music fill the air
Let anger and fear and hate disappear
Let there be love that lasts through the year
And let it be Christmas, Christmas everywhere
Let it be Christmas everywhere
With the gold and the silver, the green and the red
Christmas everywhere
In the smiles of all children asleep in their beds
In the eyes of young babies
Their first fallen snow
The elderly's memories that never grow old
Let it be Christmas everywhere
Let heavenly music fill the air
Let every heart sing
Let every bell ring
The story of hope and joy and peace
And let it be Christmas everywhere
Let heavenly music fill the air
Let anger and fear and hate disappear
Let there be love that lasts through the year
And let it be Christmas, Christmas everywhere
Let it be Christmas everywhere
In the songs that we sing
And the gifts that we bring
Christmas everywhere
In what this day means
And what we believe
From the sandy white beaches
Where blue water rolls
Snow covered mountains and valleys below
Let it be Christmas everywhere
Let heavenly music fill the air
Let every heart sing
Let every bell ring
The story of hope and joy and peace
And let it b

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America, So Beautiful.

Why is America the beautiful,
So beautiful?
It's because of German Polkas, and beer.
It's because of Irish corned beef, and potatoes.
It's because of French wines, and escargot.
It's because of soul food, from the hood,
The kind you find in Big Momma's,
In Cathedral City California.
It's because of Mexican food,
And the Mariachi's that accompany it.
It's because of the Hawaiian Poi,
And the Alaskan, fish ice cream.
It's because of the Italian Operas,
And spaghetti and meat balls.
It's because of the English language,
Brought to America,
By the subjects of the king.
America is blue eyes,
America is green eyes,
America is black eyes,
America is brown eyes,
America is blond hair,
America is red hair,
America is black hair,
And my all time favorite,
America is brown hair.
America is Japanese sushi,
America is Chinese hot and spicy soup.
America is mountains,
Beautiful snow covered mountains,
Shining in the sun.
America is deserts,
Hot arid and unforgiving,
And filled with life.
America is forests,
That extend,
'From sea to shining sea.'
America is ingenuity,
Great minds, from all over the world,
Reach their great fruition,
In America.
Where they are free.
Why is America the beautiful,
So beautiful?
It's because America is a rainbow,
Red, white, black, yellow, brown,
And all the myriads of colors,
These main colors produce.
It's so cliche to say,
We are a melting pot.
I prefer to say, What the great Bill Murray said.
'We are a mongrel race.'
Yet nothing on God's green Earth,
Is more loyal, more faithful, more loving,
And more devoted,
Than the mongrel.
America the beautiful.

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Winter Feeling

Snow covered mountains,
with the feeling of Winter
cold air rushes past

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In the Speed of Time

Again the sun painted the sky blue, orange, gray;
Then through the castles of clouds a full moon shines,
With every earth’s breath let the wind chimes play,
While the birds dwell in their leafy shrines,

Below the horizon in the heat of this long thirsty summer,
Golden-green hays crept to the dawn of autumn,
While the big appetite of gnawing mammals kept waiting,
The chill of winter came in the very speed of time.

As each sunrise unveils the snow-covered mountains,
Patches of snow pursed in to icy-pocket of the river,
While the scents of wild flowers perfume the atmosphere,
The choir of birds now welcome the birth of spring.

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