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Publicans and Sinners

I have not pitied those whose lives were sin,
And shame and sorrow, pain and poverty,
Not half so much as those whose even way
Leads changeless onward, dull and stark and gray.

For I have seen them on a winter night
Make friends of foes and hold high revelry
While those whose souls were upward bound to God
Have passed each other by without a nod.

Gamblers, drunkards, prostitutes and thieves,
Look with what pious pains we plot their doom!
With what religions and what governments
We conjure, to deny them standing room!
And like the Pharisee we still condemn
The Christ who pours out wine, or weeps with them.

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I have seen them on the freeway

I have seen them on the freeway
doing forty and creeping along
in brand new cars, driving BMW’s
Mercedes Benz compressors, Audi’s
in the one hundred and twenty zone.

In the fastest lane
with huge white eyes in night black skins,
stretching over female faces,
totally alone with big L-signs
on the back or back window of the car,

passing signs prohibiting doing less than sixty
and ignoring them
as if totally petrified,
shocked by the reality of driving.

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I Have Seen Your Picture With Your Daughters In Kimono

i have seen a long time ago
you and your daughters in their colorfol kimonos
then there was this guitar that you play
and the english language that you teach
and the education you are giving them

there are other many people in this world
not just us,
we are not living inside walls and fences
there are other playgrounds out there
where you my children can
play
beyond colors beyond chinky eyes
are other possibilities with us

the firetrees here burn with loneliness
this summer
forgetting the color of your memories
Japan, the city of the sun
where you now live
has claimed the name of your soul

but i know
under the blooms of cherry blossoms
this spring your heart still beats for the fire trees here
you still love the scent of the champaca
miss the yellow ylang-ylang on the hill
and the dama de noche has more love stories
to tell for the dark nights
where fireflies still flicker
those that we have long forgotten
still exist

we shall meet somehow filled with stories those left untold
when we have busied ourselves
with what could have been so unnecessary
those that we see only after they have been taken away

and time shall sit in one corner of the garden's wooden benches
and ponder

was there something wrong with the past?

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Those that have seen you never came back

You must notice by now
Those that have seen you
The birds that once stopped by your window
The vine with flowers climbing the walls
Beside your house
They have seen you
My happiness, my love
The birds have flown away and the vines have long wilted
After a glance and they have no way wanting to see you again
But I, who has seen you, shall come again
Even to kneel again before you
On a sunset behind your antiquated walls
Because I love you.

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Few Have Seen Those Bruises

Few have seen those bruises on my knees.
Or heard me pleading in the wilderness weeping,
With kept faithful prayers...
To heal my concealed wounds.
As I laid in a weakened state,
Awaiting for the Sun to pierce the darkness.

And for anyone to believe,
A pettiness they wish to leave on my path...
Is going to be worthy of my giving it and them attention,
Have no idea of the obstacles I have had to face...
To overcome to continue on my journey.
And I am not about to stop to explain anything I do.

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This year I have seen autumn with new eyes

This year I have seen autumn with new eyes,
Glimpsed hitherto undreamt of mysteries
In the slow ripening of the town-bred trees;
Horse-chestnut lifting wide hands to the skies;
And silver beech turned gold now winter's near;
And elm, whose leaves like little suns appear
Scattering light — all, all have made me wise
And writ me lectures in earth's loveliness,
Whether they laugh through the grey morning mist,
Or by the loving sun at noon are kissed
Or seek at night the high-swung lamp's caress.
Does autumn such a novel splendour wear
Simply because my love has yellow hair?

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I Have Seen a Fellow

I have known a fellow
With a statuesque threshold
For the flipping jabs
Of kerosene tongues
And I had seen him
In so many nights
Under a farcical lamppost
Reckoning the deluging drought
That had imposed his inebriation
With his sordid fingers latched
Into the waist of desolation,
And he was scarcely available
By the maws of the sun
For he is tethered
To inadequacy
And poverty
Of all squalid kinds.

I have seen this fellow
From a distance and he was fine
With his dyed chestnut tresses
Combing the wisps of light
That drifts far from his eyes
Which were blackly tired
Sunken deep in a vale
Dug by his skeptic vision,
And then I looked closer
Into the marred paper
And he was hideous
And grotesque.

He was lean, too anorexic lean,
That the looming sun
Cloyed in a taut metal string
Can never stroke his spine
Slithering in sinewy lids
Thus, would never cast his shadow
And he was seemingly tall
Until he darted through a crowd
And cringed without recoil.

I have seen this fellow
Saunter past the catastrophe
Of pawned breaths
And sycophancies,
Dragging his heels
Through the scathing embers
Of bleak serenity
Juggling abortive things
On his scrawny hands
To dodge the mangling bullets
Of the loneliness
That he can never avert.

I have seen this fellow
Clutch his chest at nights
Tossing a vigorous cigarette
Into the silent bedlam
Of the creeping pillars
Of the elusive vying for
The kiss of the serpent sun

I have seen him strip
His medical uniform down
Clothes off, lights on
Fondling his copper flesh
With the caress of his laments
And his soul shut
The persiennes and swindles
A lion's puissant prowl

I have seen this fellow
Build lofty fences
Of steely open palms rigidly
Shearing the foliage
Of the vacant sky
And likewise,
Subtly pleading
For alms,
And sometimes
Saliently groveling
In a beguiling barricade.

I have heard this fellow
Pray for what he shouldn't,
Rubbing the space juxtaposed
The bridge of his nose
Until the salty sea
Turn into a bitter wine
Of spangling crimson
And the gush of blood
Would sober him up.

I have seen this fellow
Quaver violently
From holding the razor
To swoon the stubbles
Of his clad garden
And from avoiding the halloos
Of the pulsing in his neck.

I have seen this fellow
Watch me watch
A fellow who never had
Anyone looking after
In the massive number
Of his latent breathing.

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I Have Seen The Very Hand Of God

I have seen glorious Wonders of the World,
Yet, I have seen and experienced death too;
I have seen The Very Hand of God, unfurled
Before me, as I took what I thought was my last breath, to
Only discover that, THAT death was to release me from the burden
Of the Grief of MY Heart, and allow that all the erstwhile hurting
That I had to bear, was released and, with it, any belief
That I was somehow responsible for my very own grief!
It was no coincidence that this Earthly Death happened so close
In proximity to a visit I received from the Angel God chose
To walk beside me for the rest of my days, for the rest of OUR days;
I remembered her fondly, even then, through the haze
Of an incalculably improbable death, that seemed to amaze
Even those brilliant and heroic Doctors and Nurses, who helped raise
Me from the 'Other Side' after ten full minutes there!
My first act, after this death and four long, torturous
Days for family and friends, was to reassure this
Most Awe-Inspiring Cherub that I was 'OK', and not to worry:
For death and God Himself, sould not have been in to much a hurry
To receive me into His Kingdom-I MUST have so much more Work to do!
I am here today but for the Grace and Benevolence of God Himself, Who
Wants the world to know and embrace my Path, as Righteous and True!
He has ensured this, with Acts of Divinity, which cannot be explained by me or you
In any rational way-SO, we must accept His Power, Majesty, and Might-
Which, in turn, makes it all too easy, to also accept THIS Path, as Right
And True, Real, and His-for no one else could gift this miracle, to me;
Nor could any Earthly explanation suffice, as to how all of THIS, came to be!
God called me briefly before Him, so He could Vest in me, even more Strength
Than I already possessed; He ensured that MY Path, MY Truth-no matter of length,
Shall come to Wondrous fruition, in all the ways that only He may Command;
THIS was Heavenly Father's Finest Hour, Greatest Gift, and Last Stand-
With Respect to all the travesties which have befallen me, and mine!
HE alone may garner the attention of the entire world, as His Trinity combines
All of Their Power and Empyreal Magnificence, together in and for, a single cause;
THIS singularly rare event, profoundly affected me and mine, so, as I give pause
To thank Him for all that He has done, so too should each one of you:
After all, without His Glorious, Selfless Beneficence, what would WE do! ?

-Maurice Harris,4 February 2012

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With faith and strength

Humans are all alone within the chamber of their heart
With love or without love
They live alone within themselves and from each other far apart
And die alone under the vast heaven above


There are those who brag of immortal love
They too stand alone in front of the mirror themselves to face
They trust faith and faith they embrace
Believing what is not there what they can never prove

Human love often of betrayal nature leaves us in the dust
To be amazed and to wonder how and why
For such divine love and trust never meant to die
We live through agony and despair unrelenting our just

And sometime I want to sink, to fall apart
Down to the bottom of myself in hallow plea
Reach out to the rare remote corner of my heart
Close, collapse, shut within me


And no one else around to see
But my soul and its acidically gnawing agony
In an inner self spiritual pilgrimage
Travel to far lands of my being and face my image

And be a close sustained emotionally circle
A solid refuge from this outer world
Disregard all tales and fairy tales I was told
And wait no more, trust no more human miracle

I would like to run back and play in a meadow or in a bower
In some fresh puddle of water after a brief shower
And be alone with it staring at my image
Swaying under ripples with a lonely floating cloud and fresh foliage


For long quiet hours I can watch a throng of ants
Rushing in newly dried secluded paths
Meticulously carrying and baring their harvest chaffs
Laboriously leading their loads with no relent
Oh let me carry a morsel of grain
And join this happy long lonely train

I will gladly shut myself from my kind
And I stiffen into a stone or a craggy rock
I will not eat my heart for others’ brutal shock
I rather feed with lonely sighs a passing wind

What profits lies in disloyal friendship and its barren faith
And vacant closeness and social yearning of short sight
To scale my heaven of highest height
For I alone at my days end will have to face death

What can one find in the highest place?
But one’s own phantom of moral hymns
The truthful of our standard in the depth of death swims
Where we lose our courage to encounter it face to face

Am I obliged to take what fruits may be
Of sorrow under the human skies
Even though the belief that sorrow makes us wise
I denounce and defy whatever wisdom of evil may bring to me.

I would rather lift myself from this experience dust
Into the divine voice within me that hears
My triumphs and echoes of happy times of conquered years
To my internal cry that works and in it I put my eternal trust

With faith and strength that come of hope and self control
To seek the truths that never can be proved
Until I conclude and have peace with all I loved
To the very unique what is within of my beloved soul

copy rights 2010

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If you have seen tomorrow.....

if time would only ask for no return and the heart
will just listen to whisper of my soul; the silent of
the lamb, voice the melodic beginning of today

bring back the past, the broken halos of sanctity
nestle in the ocean of insanity, as the world
watch the turmoil of the sea, seeking the vengeance
of the lost and loose fidelity of promise you adore

now as you look, the actor cloth neither a saint nor a
devil in your sight, but a great conqueror of the past;
marred with vigor, facing the trembling and awesome
hearts, of once you have touch

missed as the misery, experienced the golden horizon
of each fate we have promise and slept, all is just a
taste of what will be the future resounds in your heart

fade me not in your hope and till i'll wait the
dawning sky to come, the rings live in the finger we
take and tomorrow will be great again as i go

….. for in you and because of you i have seen
tomorrow.......

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I Have Seen Continents Written On Faces

I have seen continents written on faces
with eyes full of pain, postures in a weathered mien
and at a number of places
images went to my brain, of some people keen
with their loving embraces
while others living in a world that had been,
of which only memories remain.

It is as life changes from its summer form,
changes with ageing
while people from youth through adulthood transform
and if daily some have a struggle that is waging,
a kind of brewing silent storm,
that lashes against the remainders of summer and spring
while daily they have duties and a myriad of tasks to perform.

When through ageing and destiny
people have to live alone,
or it may be by their iniquity
that a loved one is forever gone,
then there is sadness that I sometimes see
while they struggle to live on and on
and from life and living some wish to be free.

Yet others age well
as if they are totally exempt
from life’s spell,
while younger women still do them tempt,
it’s if they did not experience the same kind of hell
and to ageing, illness and death have contempt
while they still in their mansions do dwell.

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I have seen a Hand

plenty of money can be done, hundred of
days can't see the sun, morning is the night
nothing is empty, only the eyes that open
with out seeing the day of yesterday

what makes then a man and proud to say
when anything goes heavy, leaving no
regret with the heart loaded with fancy, and
seems it look my face is happy

wonderful you come to my need, I am almost
blind to myself, wishing all the star to bring
me out, a little hand in my shoulder and letting
me to hold in my head you fold

your hand brings me up, where i'm almost
falling down into the ground, no one care and
everybody is blind to find my teary eyes, as I
grief to my grave the end time of my mind

open my eyes, and feel a little touch so gently
washing my tears, turning the wheel to face the
real victory where I was once so blind and now I
found the key to the smiling tears I offer to the
one once I forget to be with me

make tomorrow the day to hold of what was
yesterday and load to fit the future that comes in
my living arms, where I lay down my memories
of life

I have this day, a moment to nemesis the past,
leaving what is not it fulfills, yet! forwarding what
is something to hope the little hand I wish to
lay, where I'll take my rest

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With rage and pain

I am burning with aggressiveness and rage
I feel like helpless bird and confined to steel cage
I dash against its iron wall and strike
Alas! I could have something to spike

Females have suffered since ages
Lived under donation and helplessly managed
I am at pain to know about what is going on
Ladies are still hunted and claimed as prize won

We can understand about the orthodox views
It might have been held permanently by few
Still younger generation tend to bow against pressure
Surrender to parental blackmail and endure

I look upon them as coward
As they lack good conduct and courage to look forward
But why am I saying all this for no reason?
Any body might feel aggressive and question as an individual or person

We have not objected to considering us as sex symbol
We too have not taken seriously the indiscriminate calls
But has taken it to heart when some mad man throws acid!
On face to disfigure her appearance and make almost dead

I have fearlessly presented these matters in the entire women forum
Taken up vigorously to give legal shape with life imprisonment as minimum
How can civilized person resort to such an animal like behavior?
When world has moved ahead and we are still living under fear

I am just symbol for millions like me
Who are suffering cruelty and criminals roam free?
The girl looses not only her feminist asset
But put to shame and undergo pain offered by fate

I have no regret for being female
But would certainly want others to regale
Roam and move freely under no threat
Meet whomever they want and joyfully greet

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Not Obsessed With Making Impressions

Some folks are programmed to believe
They can not live without impressing others.
Until they have become deprogrammed!
And most times that is not a conscious effort.
It has a lot to do with one's circumstances.
Meaning...
A bout with reality!
And reality has a way of prioritizing one's life.
It puts the basicness in it!

Prior to this 'struggle' obsession rules!
One becomes obsessed with things!
And what one thinks 'things' to them bring!
Like an attractiveness.
Have you ever notice...
Someone who is able to afford 'things',
Is also indecisive?
Strip them of the opportunity to possess...
And they become depressed!
An unhappiness succeeds!
And their wholesome faith they once professed,
In God...
Diminishes!

However...
One not obsessed with making impressions.
Or connected by a 'programming'...
They are less attractive without needless possessions,
Can survive through a recession...
Or whatever a downsizing of a lifestyle is called,
Is better off!
They can deal with the adjustment of setting priorities.
Maybe lose a few friends in the process!
But you will not find these people upset,
They can not keep up with others...
Who are stressed within concepts,
That they need to feed an ego
No longer keeping up with the times!
And having a peace of mind...
Comes tax free with a lot of common sense,
Some folks discover too late...
How cost effective and healthy,
Nights with restful sleep...
Comes to the one who has put their life,
In perspective!
And becomes free of making useless confessions!

There is nothing like the smell of fresh morning dew.

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Gone With the Sky

Upon this day it is as if the sun is raining
Dry tears of anguish, as the clouds have disappeared-
Blue skies have meant to some, happiness, but today I have walked for minutes that have
Transformed to hours and it is as if everyone and everything is mocking me-
Skies are seemingly laughing and the sun cannot be there to guide me, but
Only present to heave invisible drops of water- perhaps dry tears of frustration-
People are following me from and in every which direction-
The colors of their eyes turning in hue as they watch my every move-
Anguish, fear, dread, sadness, hopelessness and perhaps a scant feeling of loneliness-
Are these feelings that plague me in essence none but a myriad of hellions who wish to persecute me?
With every step I take, I feel an upsurge of heat overpowering -
Those dry tears the sun exudes exist as if
Torrents of rain were falling onto the shadows of time-
Initially, moment by moment, then transforming to seconds and splicing to nanoseconds-
I am lost in these woodlands, once quite a familiar place, but now
I call myself none but a lost soul who foresees no destiny-
All I hear are the spattering of dry raindrops splashing onto every chamber of my
Empty heart that is beating out of despair and misery?
Deer are running freely and robins and cardinals have their homes
Amidst the trees above- I just have walked past a creek and I see my reflection within-
Though it doesn’t look like the me I thought I knew, but just the likeness of
A frightened child without a purpose in life- who am I, I ask myself-
What am I and to where am I running? If I could touch the sun, or at least reach the sky-
I would stop these phony dry tears disguised as rain from falling and
Become a saint, a goddess or an angel and sing-
I could sing tunes about nature, love, and everything that is beautiful-
Ethereal beings don’t need a purpose or destiny-
They just hover about the sky and are carefree and happy to be living eternally-
They never die or feel the pain of fear and apprehension?
I look up towards the sky right now and lose myself
Inside the world of my dreams- the skies are laughing still, but now
Laughing with me not at me- the only way I can survive today, as
Any sense of true reality has disappeared before my very eyes-
So now I find myself reborn inside a different world and have some peace of mind,
I have lost my sanity and I don’t care- everybody knows that
To the insane-whatever world they live in is what is the true reality and besides-
Nothing anyone can say shall awake us from our dreams- in these places
Where we can run freely and no one falls and gets hurt because
There is nothing to fear or to run away from, no tears falling from a sky that is
Forever blue and the sun in our world is true, and has guided us to a peaceful homestead?

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Patrick White

I Have Become My Own Season

I have become my own season
living through these renewable eras of you
that come and go
like the fragrances of passing stars
that sometimes stop by the gate
to talk about the garden blooming late.
Some flowers wait for the moon to open,
to throw their arms around space
as if they could encompass everything
in the brief embrace of their petals,
and their seeing is one eye under multiple eyelids
as they burn like jewels in the night
to keep it all shining and bright.
But I've worn out the elbows
of my insatiable longing
on the windowsills of a different insight.
Saddened by the distance, the time, the circumstances,
delinquent desires still hanging out their shingles
like green apples on a dead branch in winter,
withering like the inconsolable eyes of old men
who have died like sons
and now must die like fathers,
mine is the darker radiance
of the faint halo of light
around a black hole
that summons everything
down into it like the sea
sitting below its own salt
at a stranger's table.
You can't look into
the black mirrors in my house
with your eyes open
because they only reflect
what's on the back of your eyelids
where the only light is your own
and you are the road
and the lantern you go by
and everything you feel and think and imagine
is your own true face without skin
not the gate between outside and in.
How could I ever recognize you
in these dark spaces
if it weren't for the trees
and the stars and the moon
and the night stream that runs through me
like a lifeline on the palm of my hand
down from the mountains
in a rush of diamonds and gold
that pour out like the pent-up emotions
of a sword that's just been pulled from a stone?
And how hugely alone the night is
when you love someone as they are
and you realize without effort
that if you hold them a moment in their transience
you hold them like a star in a locket of water
that tastes like the past.
There are people
like treebound barrels of rain
and then there are people like me
who leak out of their lives
like radioactive water
that couldn't pool the pain
long enough to stop the meltdown
long enough to cool the brain,
long enough to let it kill me.
Now in the darkness
seeded with the dust of black dwarfs
trying to clench a fist of coal into diamonds
my auroras are weeping neon dew
like a cheap enlightenment
all over the watercolours of dawn.
And I'm wondering
what kind of an afterlife is this
that I might have foregone
if I were indifferent
to how my solitude deranges me
like a lost continent
wandering through its own mindscapes
like an extinguished star
that wants to make up
just for one luminous moment
a constellation of its own
that doesn't wait upon anyone's eyes
for the themes of its seeing.
And though the skies have changed
like the slides of childhood dreams
with every blink of an eyelid
whenever night approaches me
and asks to sit by my fire
and let the flames and the smoke
of our past lives
speak for the both of us
I look up to give my eyes
like two drops of water
back to their oceanic immensities
and it's always unattainably you
that is shining
like a woman in the window
of a secret house of the zodiac
far off the beaten path
that leads everywhere like a firefly.
And your stars speak to me
as if my flesh were light again
and my heart
that bumps its way through the dark
already a lamp beyond
the Lazarus of wax
that's buried in his own lucidities
like a candle I left for dead.

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Patrick White

If You Were A Thought And I Were An Emotion

If you were a thought and I were an emotion
time would still be at cross-purposes with space
and we'd still be sitting here
dangling our bare feet like two kids
over the edge of the abyss
when we go fishing for stars
not really caring if we catch anything
as we throw them back in with our blessings.
You can taste the jewels the light's been through
sometimes when you close your eyes
and the revealed and the revealing
are just the water and fish of a feeling
idling in the shadows and reeds of the mindstream.
There's a way of being lost within yourself that's starbound.
And there's a way of being found
where people scatter flowers before you
all the way to a hole in the ground
you're expected to fill like someone else's shoes.
You can lie under a gravestone
like a man behind a desk with his name on it
who's been practising for years
to lie very very still
in case he wakes the others up in the snakepit.
Or you can keep the music on
all through the long uneventful night
and feel things that have nothing to do with you
like stray bits of your neighbour's dreams on the internet.
Or you can put a finger up to your lips and counsel silence.
Three approaches. Three gates. No difference.
Everyone enters the same garden
as if Eden were a cemetery in slow motion
but that old angel with the flaming sword at the gate
burnt out like a candle a long time ago
and the serpent's a tour guide for fanatical purists
who can't get out of the closets of hell
and the apple of knowledge
finally took a bite out of itself
and has been falling down crazy drunk
with the cranky wasps of autumn ever since.
Wonder's the passive sister of interactive madness
and twice as alluring in her self-restraint
than Rasputin in a burlap sack in the river.
Wonder sails off the coasts of the clouds like the moon
and doesn't lay a claim to what she discovers.
She can see and be seen
but she doesn't put a name on it.
She doesn't need to turn the leaf over
like an unopened loveletter
to know what the tree means
because it's always been her lover.
So if you were a thought and I were an emotion
would you be the brainwave
that rides the night ocean
of my passion at the flood
or would you be into me
like water into mud
like insight into a ripening lamp
about to fall toward paradise again
to see what I've been missing?
If you were a thought and I were an emotion
and we were to hold hands like a bridge
on both sides of the mindstream
would the bridge flow as the water does
or would you think of the two of us
you were the more solid
and I was less real?
Looking upon me from all angles
like a sphere that fills the room
like a habitable planet
with a dead moon in its arms
its only daughter
all ashes and shadows and frozen water
and nowhere to bury her skull in the earth
tell me the truth.
If you were a thought and I were an emotion
if you were land and I were an ocean
because thoughts have legs
and feelings have fins
(or is it scales and feathers?)
if we could bring her back to life
like the weather
and mend her battered body
would it be better to think than feel?
Would the solid turn into the real?
Would she wake up like a koan
with the answer to cancer
and the sound of one hand clapping
high-five the lightning with thunderous compassion
until it rained on the moon?
Would she heal?
If you were a thought and I were an emotion
would all the petals of your loves me loves me nots
you scatter like thoughts on the wind
feel like one whole flower again
that blossoms in the heart
and roots in the brain?
Illusory cures for illusory diseases
would beauty be enough to bluff the pain?

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A Place With No Name

“They tell me you are wicked and I believe them…”
— Carl Sandburg, “Chicago”

This is place with no name,
an imagined ideal, nostalgia
wearing bib overalls, chewing
grass stems, herding cattle,
shearing creamy black-faced
lambs. We carry buckets full
of myths and great expectations.

She hungers for the flavor of buffalo, longs for fresh bones, cougar tracks, wolf dens, the scorch of rapid flames escorting one season into the next, total exchange of life for life, of death for hope.
This is neither fairytale nor ancient pastoral, neither romanticism nor barefoot babes—It is Kinsella’s antipastoral in America.
It is coyotes and coydogs lurking behind walls of fiery thistle, luring pups through horseweeds to razor sharp traps with whimpers and pledges of friendship.

I have seen the earth swallow her own children.
I have seen the sun drink until there was nothing left for the land, until the sunflowers hung their heads in shame and wept dry black tears.

I hear nightly incantations of this place, it howls sober songs—I hear the hollow sounds of owls that warn, the cry of cold winds that begin and end every year—
The indifferent frogs chorus through lightening and spring snow—they think only of their children.
I feel her opening up to swallow again—she baits the trap with illusions of splendor, with promises she will not keep—her hunger never satisfied.
She is my grandmother, my mother, your mother, our sister, the apparition from whom we can hide no better than the prince of Denmark. She speaks in a strange language. We lean in to listen—the bait.

This place still has no name.
The nostalgia rusts.
No one wears overalls anymore.
You must know what the owl means.

The old children throw their weapons to the surface in the wake of silver blades, in the bed of that ash which still remains, in the bed where life meets itself—the old women break their dishes against her surface.
The new children cast themselves into her arms—momentarily quench her thirst with tears—they wait for her to yawn.
Cattle are raised in muddy lots. Pigs never see the grass, never the sun, just grated floors and the pretentious hands that mock her grace.

I have seen the red of factories flow through creeks into ponds and wells. I have seen them celebrate their victories and she will not call out to them—she rejects their bitterness. They are sleeping pills, bad drugs.
I see a dead thing on the road. I know the ringed tail, the hoofed leg, the long snout, the white-gray fur, the domestication gone wrong. The vulture is grateful for our mistakes.

The indifferent frogs sing.
Still. The grass has cancer.
We only think of lambs on Easter.
These buckets are getting too heavy.
I cannot tell a lie.

I killed the tree, used it for books that I bought and never read, used it for walls I take for granted, for heat I could have lived without.
I ate the pig, fed the cattle to my children—we used their bodies for shoes, hats, manufactured food for feral cats and roaming hounds.
I leaned in to hear her faint voice whisper. I tried to kiss her, pulled away when she drew me near, stretched toward her again to hear a family secret.
I fed the vultures a skunk, a raccoon, an armadillo, and two cats that I threw into her long weeds.

I chew her poisonous stems, flirt with her cancer, taunt and dare it, engage it in a war where there can be no victor but her, in a battle I expect to win.

We carry buckets full of
myths and great expectations.
An imagined ideal, nostalgia
wearing bib overalls, chewing
grass stems, herding cattle,
shearing creamy black-faced lambs.
This is place with no name.

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The Years Have Gone By / The Dead Are Still With Us

THE YEARS HAVE GONE BY / THE DEAD ARE STILL WITH US

The years have gone by
The dead are still with us
We need more of the living
Where are they?

I grow old longing to be a grandfather
Will G-d give this?
I pray for my children and their spouses
I pray for myself
And more of us.

.

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I Have Seen Death

I have seen death he is
that flower that delight
the eyes of men, believe
it or not he his that clown
with big nose and the fat
but wary lips of Chris Rock
he even have the cave size
forehead of Rihanna.

Can you believe this? he is
that same Kangaroo at the
zoo with the funny legs of
Barack Obama, he is that
monkey with the funny face
Robert Mugabe, coconut head
of Tupac Shakur with glasses
that entertain the kids at the
park.So give me reasons why i
should be scare of death..

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William Shakespeare

Sonnet 64: When I have seen by Time's fell hand defaced

When I have seen by Time's fell hand defaced
The rich-proud cost of outworn buried age;
When sometime lofty towers I see down-razed
And brass eternal slave to mortal rage;
When I have seen the hungry ocean gain
Advantage on the kingdom of the shore,
And the firm soil win of the watery main,
Increasing store with loss, and loss with store;
When I have seen such interchange of state,
Or state it self confounded to decay,
Ruin hath taught me thus to ruminate
That Time will come and take my love away.
This thought is as a death which cannot choose
But weep to have that which it fears to lose.

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