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Our Own Mistakes

In the corner of a windowpane,
I watched a fly, caught in a web,
Struggling to escape, but all in vain,
As slowly his life, away did ebb.

Although he’s not a bug I like,
His fight for life was sad to see,
But we too, can feel the spider strike,
Wishing we also could get free.

We want to flee the chains that hold,
That entangle us by our own mistakes.
For we never listen to what we’re told,
And all our senses the mind forsakes.

In the corner of a windowpane,
I watched the fly and it was me.
Trapped by my own obdurate brain,
Caused by my own stupidity.

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The Bottle And The Bird

Once on a time a friend of mine prevailed on me to go
To see the dazzling splendors of a sinful ballet show,
And after we had reveled in the saltatory sights
We sought a neighboring cafe for more tangible delights;
When I demanded of my friend what viands he preferred,
He quoth: 'A large cold bottle and a small hot bird!'

Fool that I was, I did not know what anguish hidden lies
Within the morceau that allures the nostrils and the eyes!
There is a glorious candor in an honest quart of wine--
A certain inspiration which I cannot well define!
How it bubbles, how it sparkles, how its gurgling seems to say:
'Come, on a tide of rapture let me float your soul away!'

But the crispy, steaming mouthful that is spread upon your plate--
How it discounts human sapience and satirizes fate!
You wouldn't think a thing so small could cause the pains and aches
That certainly accrue to him that of that thing partakes;
To me, at least (a guileless wight!) it never once occurred
What horror was encompassed in that one small hot bird.

Oh, what a head I had on me when I awoke next day,
And what a firm conviction of intestinal decay!
What seas of mineral water and of bromide I applied
To quench those fierce volcanic fires that rioted inside!
And, oh! the thousand solemn, awful vows I plighted then
Never to tax my system with a small hot bird again!

The doctor seemed to doubt that birds could worry people so,
But, bless him! since I ate the bird, I guess I ought to know!
The acidous condition of my stomach, so he said,
Bespoke a vinous irritant that amplified my head,
And, ergo, the causation of the thing, as he inferred,
Was the large cold bottle, not the small hot bird.

Of course, I know it wasn't, and I'm sure you'll say I'm right
If ever it has been your wont to train around at night;
How sweet is retrospection when one's heart is bathed in wine,
And before its balmy breath how do the ills of life decline!
How the gracious juices drown what griefs would vex a mortal breast,
And float the flattered soul into the port of dreamless rest!

But you, O noxious, pigmy bird, whether it be you fly
Or paddle in the stagnant pools that sweltering, festering lie--
I curse you and your evil kind for that you do me wrong,
Engendering poisons that corrupt my petted muse of song;
Go, get thee hence, and nevermore discomfit me and mine--
I fain would barter all thy brood for one sweet draught of wine!

So hither come, O sportive youth! when fades the tell-tale day--
Come hither with your fillets and your wreathes of posies gay;
We shall unloose the fragrant seas of seething, frothing wine
Which now the cobwebbed glass and envious wire and corks confine,
And midst the pleasing revelry the praises shall be heard
Of the large cold bottle, _not_ the small hot bird.

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Heart-Felt Cosmic Impacts With Shiva In The Wings And Lyrical Messages

We all are children of the cosmos
And as such alway under the cosmic sway

And as a human of blood and flesh it sometimes feels good to see
This impact showing its face
In the mask of a Face itself, that one may see, almost visible,
Giggling before our own.

As to-day when I was about to send out,
As I often do early in the mornings,
Lyrical spiritual messages,
To a few worthy poetry lovers
Throughout this country where I live,
Both known and unknown to me -

One of them once sent me a souvenir thank-you from Rome, Italy -

And there had, for to-day, accrued a message
With verses from the most glorious Vedas,
To be sent, first in order, ahead of one more package of messages,
The other one of worldly theme, the following sacred hymns,
Endowed with their very own explanatory notes,
So as to render all simplest things well understood:

' Gracious to us be the trembling earth,
When struck by the fiery meteor.
Gracious be the cows yielding red milk,
Gracious be the earth receding.

Gracious be the constellations struck by the meteor,
Gracious incantations and all magic!
Gracious to us be buried charms,
The meteors and plagues that afflict us.

Gracious to us be the stars and the moon,
Gracious the sun and Raahu
(The invisible 'planetary head tail' that
Covers up other planets in times of eclipses) ,
Gracious be Death with his banner of smoke,
Graceful the powerful Rudras
(The cleansing powers of renewal of cosmos
Working on earth through shedding tears) .

Gracious be the Rudras, gracious the Vasus
(The cosmic providers for new vessels to departed souls) ,
Gracious the Adityas
(The sons of the seer Mother Aditi in whom
The gods had their respective individual angles in the One Cosmic Mind
Established on the human plane for the first time,
Who reincarnate in all mystic seers of power)
And Agnis (the embodied incarnations of the fire-god,
The divinizing medium between humans and gods) ,
Gracious to us be the god-like sages,
Gracious to us be the Gods and Brhaspati
(The ancient guru of the [minds of the] gods, husband of Aditi) .

Brahman (balanced vibration of cosmic consciousness) ,
Prajapati (cosmic fathering spirit who
Kindles the fire to his vision of creation) ,
Dhatr (lit. the giver, the spirit of yielding cosmic nature) ,
The worlds, the Vedas, the Seven Sages, and the fires,
Prepare for me a blessed path!
May Indra (the King of Gods) be my refuge,
May Brahman be my refuge,
May all the Gods be my refuge!
May the Gods united be my refuge! '

And there had been, on the eve of this very same morning,
With both planned-for message packages already prepared for their sending,
Following Current NewsFlash publicly out,
In the media from the north-eastern European country of Finland:

'There has been 400 reported incidents of spottings of
A fire-ball soaring high through the night sky in the area of Ursa,
Somewhere deep in the province of Finland's Northern Bottomland,
And there have been several reported incidents of people
Finding meteorites scattered about,
Especially in the area of a place called Temmel
(Which literally translates as 'Battle Field' into English)
And there in that area people may expect to find more meteorites
Even in their own backyards,
So the report, of this cosmic import, went on to say.

Now, the second batch of messages,
To complete this report of cosmic impact of
Divine coincidings - real heart-felt ones -
Note the meaning of the town's name of Finnish Temmel! -
Had been part and parcel of eleven in a string of poems,
A narrative of great late Ella Wheeler Wilcox',
Part of which reads as follows:

' And blood of warrior, woman and papoose
[North-American native infant or younger child],
Flow free as waters when some dam breaks loose;
Consuming fire, the wanton friend of war
(Whom allies worship and whom foes abhor)
Now trails her crimson garments through the street,
And ruin marks the passing of her feet.
Full three-score lodges smoke upon the plain,
And all the vale is strewn with bodies of the slain.

And those who are not numbered with the dead
Before all-conquering Custer now are led.
To soothe their woes, and calm their fears he seeks;
An Osage guide interprets while he speaks.
The vanquished captives, humbled, cowed and spent
Read in the victor's eye his kind intent.
The modern victor is as kind as brave;
His captive is his guest, not his insulted slave. '

Then also to-day it had come to happen that
The one and only priest in our family's line
From my good old late father's side,
Father Anton, who the other day passed on at age eighty-six,
A charming figure all through his life,
Was being buried for his soul's eternal rest.

During the whole of this morning's message sending operation
To my eight regular message readers from the pacified rim,
Fond of Vedic verses and of modern & old poetry,
There were earthquake-like irregularities in the sending system itself,
That in the end I was yet able to get tackled,
so as not to thwart the whole sending of
Both the above cited to each of them eight -
Annoying erratic automatic double sendings,
And the like errors in the telecommunication system -

The affliction of the meteor, spoken of in
The verses 'of the day' of the ancient sacred Vedas, as like
Pounding on me through alignment of
Contents of the message to be sent
With a real-time rare event in time and space &
Queerness of the signals from the sending system alike -
That stand like a friend's remindful lovely tapping on one's shoulders -
While at the same time it was to me a last word of good-bye
From out of a most high-faring flight of my father's clan's -
The Soul of Father Anton may fly high! -

The wry giggling smile of Shiva,
The divine smile's lip-line drawn slightly across and way over from
Where the earth's magnet pole is set on to, too -
Right there in the northern portion in the heart of a country,
As northern-east as any country on this planet can be - Finland -

Shiva, the God of the sensuous fire
That moulds all Nature in forms divine,
Is known to be stationed in the North,
Where also the lingam, his sacred idol is ever pointed to -

As if this smile of Shiva's of cosmic impacts were to say:
' The soul stays never, the stages pass;
All life is the play of the power that stirs
In the dance of my wanton worshippers.
And the strong swift river my shrine below
It runs, like man, its unending course,
To the boundless sea from eternal snow;
Mine is the Fountain - and mine the Force
That spurs all nature to ceaseless strife;
And my image is Death at the gates of Life.
In many a legend and many a shape,
In the solemn grove and the crowded street,
I am the Slayer, whom none escape,
I am Death trod under a fair girl's feet;
I govern the tides of the sentient sea
That ebbs and flows to eternity
And the sum of the thought and the knowledge of man
Is the secret tale that my emblems tell;
Do ye seek God's purpose, or trace his plan?
Ye may read your doom in my parable;
For the circle of life in its flower and its fall
Is the writing that runs on my temple wall. -
Let my temples fall, they are dark with age,
Let my idols break, they have stood their day;
On their deep hewn stones the primeval sage
Has figured the spells that endure alway;
My presence may vanish from river and grove,
But I rule for ever in Death and Love, '

In the words of another great late poet,
Whose great soul, powerful, just recently had made itself known to me,
Having itself sent over through the ether
By means perfected only in to-day's coincidentally striking
Divine scheme of said cosmic poetical wizardry.

© Erhard Hans Josef Lang

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The Book Of Life Was Opened

The Book of Life was opened
And a name was written down
All of heaven stood and gazed
Not a movement, not a sound

The angels watched in silence
As the story did unfold
And from the pages of the book
The story it was told

And life sprung up from off the page
These words became a man
The angels gasped to see such work
To see God's mighty plan

A soul was fashioned in His hand
And how, no one could tell
It was marvelous and wonderful
And this my soul knows well

Where could I go from you Spirit Lord?
Could I hide in the depths of the sea?
No matter where I run to Lord
You still come after me

I could take the wings of the morning
And fly into the darkest night
And there be blinded by the darkness
And you would come and give me sight

I could ascend to the highest heaven
And I would find you there
I could fall to the lowest pits of hell
And discover that you are everywhere

And so you came and sought me out
Even in this hell dark place
For the day and night are both alike
As they gaze upon your face

For in the glorious light of heaven
There is no darkness that can stand
For through the very gates of hell
You came and took me by the hand

And you laid your hand upon me
That hand that gave me birth
That hand that knew me through and through
Before I came to earth

For before the earth was fashioned
That Book was in your hand
Before the sun shone in the sky
All of this was planned

Oh search me God and know my heart
That sin may have no place in me
For I was covered by your Blood
That precious Blood of Calvary

This sin it would assault my soul
And rob and steal and take from me
The testimony of my King
And what He did on Calvary

But praise the Lord there is no power
Neither hell nor death nor misery
Can come against the precious work
The precious work of Calvary

How precious are your thoughts to me
They're more in number than the sand
I'll praise you Lord eternally
My name was written by your hand.

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The One I Was Searching For On the Earth and in Heaven

The one I was searching for on the earth and in heaven
Appeared residing in the recesses of my own heart

When the reality of the self became evident to my eyes
The house appeared among residents of my own heart

If it were somewhat familiar with taste of rubbing foreheads
The stone of Ka’ba’s threshold would have joined the foreheads

O Majnun! Have you ever glanced at yourself
That like Layla you are also sitting in the litter

The months of the union continue flying like moments
But the moments of separation linger for months!

O seaman, how will you protect me from being drowned
As those destined to drowning get drowned in the boats also

The one who concealed His Beauty from Kalim Allah
The same Beloved is manifest among beloveds

The breath of Lovers can light up the extinguished candle
O God! What is kept concealed in the breast of the Lovers?

Serve the fakirs if you have the longing for Love
This pearl is not available in the treasures of kings

Do not ask of these Devotees, if you have faith, you should look at them
They have the illuminated palm up their sleeves

The insightful eye for whose spectacle is tantalized
That elegance of congregation is in these very recluses

Burn the produce of your heart with some such spark
That the Last Day’s sun may also be among your gleaners

For Love search for some heart which would become mortified
This is the wine which is not kept in delicate wine glasses

The Beauty itself becomes the Lover of whose Beauty
O Heart! Does someone among the beautiful has that beauty?

Someone became highly excited at your grace of Ma’arafna
Your rank remained among the most elegant of all the Lovers

Manifest Thyself and show them Thy Beauty some time
Talks have continued among the sagacious since long time

Silent, O Heart! Crying in the full assembly is not good
Decorum is the most important etiquette among the ways of Love

It is not possible for me to deem my critics bad
Because Iqbal, I am myself among my critics

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The Ideal And The Actual Life

Forever fair, forever calm and bright,
Life flies on plumage, zephyr-light,
For those who on the Olympian hill rejoice--
Moons wane, and races wither to the tomb,
And 'mid the universal ruin, bloom
The rosy days of Gods--With man, the choice,
Timid and anxious, hesitates between
The sense's pleasure and the soul's content;
While on celestial brows, aloft and sheen,
The beams of both are blent.

Seekest thou on earth the life of gods to share,
Safe in the realm of death?--beware
To pluck the fruits that glitter to thine eye;
Content thyself with gazing on their glow--
Short are the joys possession can bestow,
And in possession sweet desire will die.
'Twas not the ninefold chain of waves that bound
Thy daughter, Ceres, to the Stygian river--
She plucked the fruit of the unholy ground,
And so--was hell's forever!
The weavers of the web--the fates--but sway
The matter and the things of clay;
Safe from change that time to matter gives,
Nature's blest playmate, free at will to stray
With gods a god, amidst the fields of day,
The form, the archetype [39], serenely lives.
Would'st thou soar heavenward on its joyous wing?
Cast from thee, earth, the bitter and the real,
High from this cramped and dungeon being, spring
Into the realm of the ideal!

Here, bathed, perfection, in thy purest ray,
Free from the clogs and taints of clay,
Hovers divine the archetypal man!
Dim as those phantom ghosts of life that gleam
And wander voiceless by the Stygian stream,--
Fair as it stands in fields Elysian,
Ere down to flesh the immortal doth descend:--
If doubtful ever in the actual life
Each contest--here a victory crowns the end
Of every nobler strife.

Not from the strife itself to set thee free,
But more to nerve--doth victory
Wave her rich garland from the ideal clime.
Whate'er thy wish, the earth has no repose--
Life still must drag thee onward as it flows,
Whirling thee down the dancing surge of time.
But when the courage sinks beneath the dull
Sense of its narrow limits--on the soul,
Bright from the hill-tops of the beautiful,
Bursts the attained goal!

If worth thy while the glory and the strife
Which fire the lists of actual life--
The ardent rush to fortune or to fame,
In the hot field where strength and valor are,
And rolls the whirling thunder of the car,
And the world, breathless, eyes the glorious game--
Then dare and strive--the prize can but belong
To him whose valor o'er his tribe prevails;
In life the victory only crowns the strong--
He who is feeble fails.

But life, whose source, by crags around it piled,
Chafed while confined, foams fierce and wild,
Glides soft and smooth when once its streams expand,
When its waves, glassing in their silver play,
Aurora blent with Hesper's milder ray,
Gain the still beautiful--that shadow-land!
Here, contest grows but interchange of love,
All curb is but the bondage of the grace;
Gone is each foe,--peace folds her wings above
Her native dwelling-place.

When, through dead stone to breathe a soul of light,
With the dull matter to unite
The kindling genius, some great sculptor glows;
Behold him straining, every nerve intent--
Behold how, o'er the subject element,
The stately thought its march laborious goes!
For never, save to toil untiring, spoke
The unwilling truth from her mysterious well--
The statue only to the chisel's stroke
Wakes from its marble cell.

But onward to the sphere of beauty--go
Onward, O child of art! and, lo!
Out of the matter which thy pains control
The statue springs!--not as with labor wrung
From the hard block, but as from nothing sprung--
Airy and light--the offspring of the soul!
The pangs, the cares, the weary toils it cost
Leave not a trace when once the work is done--
The Artist's human frailty merged and lost
In art's great victory won! [40]

If human sin confronts the rigid law
Of perfect truth and virtue [41], awe
Seizes and saddens thee to see how far
Beyond thy reach, perfection;--if we test
By the ideal of the good, the best,
How mean our efforts and our actions are!
This space between the ideal of man's soul
And man's achievement, who hath ever past?
An ocean spreads between us and that goal,
Where anchor ne'er was cast!

But fly the boundary of the senses--live
The ideal life free thought can give;
And, lo, the gulf shall vanish, and the chill
Of the soul's impotent despair be gone!
And with divinity thou sharest the throne,
Let but divinity become thy will!
Scorn not the law--permit its iron band
The sense (it cannot chain the soul) to thrall.
Let man no more the will of Jove withstand [42],
And Jove the bolt lets fall!

If, in the woes of actual human life--
If thou could'st see the serpent strife
Which the Greek art has made divine in stone--
Could'st see the writhing limbs, the livid cheek,
Note every pang, and hearken every shriek,
Of some despairing lost Laocoon,
The human nature would thyself subdue
To share the human woe before thine eye--
Thy cheek would pale, and all thy soul be true
To man's great sympathy.

But in the ideal realm, aloof and far,
Where the calm art's pure dwellers are,
Lo, the Laocoon writhes, but does not groan.
Here, no sharp grief the high emotion knows--
Here, suffering's self is made divine, and shows
The brave resolve of the firm soul alone:
Here, lovely as the rainbow on the dew
Of the spent thunder-cloud, to art is given,
Gleaming through grief's dark veil, the peaceful blue
Of the sweet moral heaven.

So, in the glorious parable, behold
How, bowed to mortal bonds, of old
Life's dreary path divine Alcides trod:
The hydra and the lion were his prey,
And to restore the friend he loved to-day,
He went undaunted to the black-browed god;
And all the torments and the labors sore
Wroth Juno sent--the meek majestic one,
With patient spirit and unquailing, bore,
Until the course was run--

Until the god cast down his garb of clay,
And rent in hallowing flame away
The mortal part from the divine--to soar
To the empyreal air! Behold him spring
Blithe in the pride of the unwonted wing,
And the dull matter that confined before
Sinks downward, downward, downward as a dream!
Olympian hymns receive the escaping soul,
And smiling Hebe, from the ambrosial stream,
Fills for a god the bowl!

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Patrick White

For All The Seers And Seekers Out There

For all the seers and seekers out there,
all you bright seeds on a blind wind
looking for a vision of life you can root in
and express yourselves like willows in the moonlight
to the night creek nearby that listens
when you cry out in mystical bliss
at the surprise of waterlilies gathered at your feet
to catch a taste of the same essence that makes you weep,
deep inside, inside, inside, look there for paradise,
where the stars are dazzled by your eyes
that don't fade away in the blazing like Venus at dusk.

Looking for the spirit with the spirit
like a breathless wind looking for the wind
to give it mouth to mouth resuscitation
is a snake with its tail in its mouth
enchained to its own liberation.
Is a candle in the sun living on borrowed light
when it's already well-provisioned with its own shining
for the long nights in the heart
of an unknown radiance within?
Long nights on the high slopes
of the world mountain you're sitting on alone
like a pauper with kingly second thoughts
about abdicating the ancestral throne of your ego.

For you who are not stuck
like a false idol the size of your thumb
through a three and a half pound brain of starmud.

For you who are not voidbound by your freedom,
or cower in the shadows of your solitude
afraid to read the messages that flower under your doorsill
from anonymous admirers passing in the hall.

For those of you who learned to read and write
in an alphabet of loveletters waiting for a reply
that could answer them all like a return address on the silence.

For you who have taken the splinters of a shattered mirror
out of your eye and replaced them with stars
that have gone on giving light long after
the chandeliers of light-winged sorrows
have stopped waltzing in three four time with their
club-footed candles for the night.

Follow this goat bell up the high dangerous trails
where even overcoming your fear of heights
isn't enough courage to guarantee your footing
and I'll show you the jewelled hoofs of the wild horses
kicking up the dust of stars on the open plains
of an inconceivable spiritual vastness where wishes are horses
and beggars do ride and you can hear the jingling
of constellations like the wind-chimes of Spanish spurs
that get under your skin where the spiritual junkies shoot up
like selflessly motivated thorns of starlight
potent enough to keep them high for the rest of the lives
on the antidote they derive like the milk of human kindness
even from the toxic serums of the most dangerous mystical snakes
that have ever poled danced like a winged caduceus
around the axis of the most habitable planet you've ever been inclined to.

Whether you're a blissed-out gardenia of God
or just another double agent doing espionage for the Devil
to see when the next whirlwind of revelation
is going to sweep you up like a chimney spark
into a maelstrom of cosmic events against your will,
look at how the radiance shining out
from the clear void of an unknown light source deep within you
illuminates heaven like the moon in your window
as surely and truly as it does the prophetic skulls of hell.

And this is the point I've been missing
and trying to make simultaneously throughout this poem
like a tattoo starred on my forehead
that leads me like a lantern into deeper and darker spaces
than any abandoned shrine in a sacred wood
I've ever existed in before like a swallow
among the quake-proof columns of the trees.

We're all three-winged songbirds under the leaf-cluttered eaves
of the temples we brought with us like spiritual refugees
overstepping the bounds and borders of ourselves
like prodigal sons and daughters on the thresholds of exile.

And each of us weaves, after our own fashion,
on a loom of lunar wavelengths of shadows and light,
a crown of thorns we leave with wings
like the mangers of the earthbound killdeer and English skylarks
after we've cracked the koans
of the cosmic eggs we were born from.

We fly away home like ladybirds and dragonflies
whose house is on fire and kids are alone
to have it burned into us like a prison tattoo
that enlightenment is just as white
on the dark side, as it is black on the light.

And though you were to look like billions of fireflies
for millions of lightyears, you'll never find enlightenment
up ahead of you because it will never be found
anywhere other than behind and beside you
where it's always been from the beginningless beginning
like a shadow that's been following you
on the blind side of your third eye that set out
the moment it first opened up to you like a flower to the stars
to look for the other two like a shepherd
looking for lost goats on the altars
of the unblooded sacrificial mountains of the moon.

You just have to look at the stars
and feel them staring back at you on the inside
with the same inconceivable wonder at why and what you are
as you return the light that was given to you back to them
realizing every insight into the nature of life,
every word, every star, every bird, firefly, every
lighthouse and clocktower of the moon
is a sign of mutual greeting that can't be ignored.

For those of you who cry for the earth that is moved
by the same agony you are, as if you were born
to be its tears, its wounds, its scars,
to suffer like flowers for the beauty you aspire to.

For those of you whose seeing
will become the substance of the world tomorrow
though you should lose your eyes for it today
like apple-bloom, for the sake of the root of the light within.

For those of you who are always seeking
the things that belong to all of us, the dreams
the visions, the insights, the perfect expression
of what we have to say to the silence
that's always listening to us
talking to ourselves like a sleepwalking stream
or a wild grapevine putting out tendrils
like Korans of Kufic script and Books of harvest Kells.

May your labour come to love you like a bad habit
that's grown fond of you over the years
because you made an art of your life
that brought the merciless desert to tears
to see how even a delusion or a mirage
with a big enough heart and a taste for compassion
that gives it an eye for how sublime beauty really is
as deep as the watershed at the bottom of a wishing well
it turned into the moment it cried on behalf
of everyone's efforts to make themselves
in all the glory of their schemes, dreams and delusions
streaming out behind them in victory parades
put on by their own minds
like the emperor's non-existent clothes
for knowing how to turn a defeat into a celebration,
come true to life. The seeking life. The seeing life.

The just life like dry oak on a good fire.
The life of thought that eventually forgets
what there is to think about. The wasted life
whose gifts were mistaken for flaws in its character,
The anonymous life of a spiritual blood donor
that sent a single red rose to a dead child
and restored her back to life. Life returning to life
like crocuses and killer whales through the ice,
seeking itself out in every corner of our lives,
and under the stones of our own starmud minds
lodged in the earth like meteorites
that once flashed across the sky like insight
from an unknown radiant i
in the eye sockets of prophetic skulls
as if strange new life forms were going on in there
it knew nothing about and was dying to see.
And who knows? Maybe even something
unspeakably precious it thought was lost for good.

And most especially a life that feels life
has shapeshifted it into the dupe of its own ideals,
that all its disguises and deathmasks were removed
like painful tattoos only to reveal a rodeo clown
dressed in a barrel with a red poppy for a cape in its hat
to draw the bull away from the rider that's down.

To feel like a clown in all your actions
to judge by the crowd's reactions,
but to put your life on the line anyway
as a funny kind of sacrifice that saves the hero
you risked as much to rescue, as he did
to put you in harm's way when he faltered.

And you embodied the human condition with compassion,
running away as a way of coming to the rescue,
without realizing, as you laughed at yourself,
it doesn't get anymore divine than that.
Trying to get a smile out of the bull
you're running before on someone else's behalf
in a funny hat with an artificial flower
is a sublime act of devotion
and the truest form of worship
from the human divinity in each of us to another.

Because getting up after life's been struck to its knees,
is how everything grows, even when its roots
are watered by delusions and its butt gets kicked up
into the grandstands of the amused demons and angels,
that funny little dejected flower in a rodeo clown's hat
that steals the show like the Buddha's purse
to buy the Buddha a horse to get back up on,
regardless of what you, the bull, the Buddha,
his purse, the horse or the thrown rider feel,
still blossoms from the heart it's rooted in for real.

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For The Price And The Cost Of One's Life

The fact that it's talked about,
To be discussed...
Has advanced from whispers,
To an accepting public not shocked.

Secrets and demons do not join hands,
When the tentacles of evil reaches.
And has come to squeeze the life,
From one who has sold...
An image made to appear as sweet,
But with a lost soul.

And in places where the doing of it,
Is expected...
Souls are sold to glimmer like gold,
For the price and the cost of one's life.

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Fight For Your Life

[Bonus Track - From the Screaming For Vengeance sessions, part was used for "Rock Hard Ride Free" from Defenders Of The Faith]
Get a grip on the action
I'm moving heaven and earth
Don't let go of the action
Push for all that you're worth
No denying
It goes against the grain
So Defying
You're screaming again
Fight for your life
Fight for your money
Fight for your life
Fight for your money
Time for steel, stop at nothing
Looking fate in the face
We don't take no for an answer
Grab the lead in the race
Rock hard with a purpose
Got a mind that won't bend
A hard resolution
That is true to the end

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If The Intention For Peace Was Reached

The madness that is there,
And some have declared...
Is for them in the sharing of it!
Is there for them to declare,
Ruin upon humanity.

If it is recognized for what it is,
And attempts are made to prevent...
An existence of it,
Is a legitimate undertaking.

And if...
It is not presented,
As a natural occurrence.

It isn't!

There is nothing natural,
About the spreading of a disease.
Prevention would not be mentioned,
If the intention for peace was reached.

Conflicts, chaos and division....
Have been made neccessities of life,
By those wishing to inflict,
A desperate attachment they have...
To self destruct!
And those validating a destruction,
To maintain a peace...
Worship the wicked ways of demons.

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The Warlords And Aggressive Men

The Warlords and aggressive men their praises many sing
But peace and harmony to the Human World these people will never bring
The war supposed to end all wars was fought decades ago
And where mistrust and hate is rife the flower of peace won't grow
Another war waged in Iraq where thousands now are dead
The silly men who declare war the war history have not read
Far too many times we've heard those words 'At the going down of the sun'
Though we know that peace will never come from the barrel of a gun,
The Warlords and aggressive men are surely cowards at heart
They start a war but in their war they never do take part
Where the bombs dropp and the bullets fly you will not find them there
Of their own safety it does seem they do seem quite aware,
A World of peace and harmony how marvellous that would be
But that will not happen for as long as men ignore the lessons of war history.

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Life Was Dozing, The Lady-bird Flew Over The Verge Of The Death

The world was dozing,
It was tired and worn.
“Man is supported by man,
A fence – by blackthorn! ”
That precept was well-known,
But entirely forgotten…alas!
The death, too, slumbered,
The day was colorless…

The guys remaining chums
By chance,
Had washed away all their talent
And all their heavenly donation,
Women and girls scattered in the streets
Were seized by the shameful passion.

Men wanted to whitewash themselves in solitude,
They craved for solitude, for isolation.
The current – slow, calm, but yet naughty,
Suppressed them… they were tied to the life,
They were tied by the bonds of obligation.

The world was taken ill with despair,
Roar was heard, all was alarmed,
Life was dozing… slumbered the world,
Over the verge of the death
Flew the ladybird.

Hope twinkled on that path,
Cosmic mists brought relief…
And the fables of the Doomsday
Were woven there –
Fate, Future, and Belief.

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The Dilettante And The Critic

A BOY a pigeon once possess'd,
In gay and brilliant plumage dress'd;
He loved it well, and in boyish sport
Its food to take from his mouth he taught,
And in his pigeon he took such pride,
That his joy to others he needs must confide.

An aged fox near the place chanc'd to dwell,
Talkative, clever, and learned as well;
The boy his society used to prize,
Hearing with pleasure his wonders and lies.

"My friend the fox my pigeon must see
He ran, and stretch'd 'mongst the bushes lay he
"Look, fox, at my pigeon, my pigeon so fair!
His equal I'm sure thou hast look'd upon ne'er!"

"Let's see!"--The boy gave it.--"'Tis really not bad;
And yet, it is far from complete, I must add.
The feathers, for, instance, how short! 'Tis absurd!"
So he set to work straightway to pluck the poor bird.

The boy screamed.--"Thou must now stronger pinions supply,
Or else 'twill be ugly, unable to fly."--
Soon 'twas stripp'd--oh, the villain!--and torn all to pieces.
The boy was heart-broken,--and so my tale ceases.

He who sees in the boy shadow'd forth his own case,
Should be on his guard 'gainst the fox's whole race.

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The Olde, Olde, very Olde Man; or The Age and Long Life of Thomas Parr

Good wholesome labour was his exercise,
Down with the lamb, and with the lark would rise:
In mire and toiling sweat he spent the day,
And to his team he whistled time away:
The cock his night-clock, and till day was done,
His watch and chief sun-dial was the sun.
He was of old Pythagoras' opinion,
That green cheese was most wholesome with an onion;
Coarse meslin bread, and for his daily swig,
Milk, butter-milk, and water, whey and whig:
Sometimes metheglin, and by fortune happy,
He sometimes sipped a cup of ale most nappy,
Cycler or perry, when he did repair
T' Whitson ale, wake, wedding, or a fair;
Or when in Christmas-time he was a guest
At his good landlord's house amongst the rest:
Else he had little leisure-time to waste,
Or at the ale-house huff-cap ale to taste;
His physic was good butter, which the soil
Of Salop yields, more sweet than candy oil;
And garlick he esteemed above the rate
Of Venice treacle, or best mithridate.
He entertained no gout, no ache he felt,
The air was good and temperate where he dwelt;
While mavisses and sweet-tongued nightingales
Did chant him roundelays and madrigals.
Thus living within bounds of nature's laws,
Of his long-lasting life may be some cause.

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Today... 'The Author and Finisher of our faith

Before the seconds of time had begun.
At the great council of the Triune One.
A plan was devised for the salvation of man
and was agreed upon before all life began.

Such an awesome and incredible plan
to condense Yourself and become a man.
The Immortal, Invisible, God Only Wise
took on all our mortality to pay sins price.

Then that awful day came in Your great plan
when the Author of Life was taken by man
and made to climb the steep hill to Calvary's tree.
There You lay down Your life for sin and set us free.

'It is finished' was your victory cry
as You gave Your life in a final sigh.
Finished completely was that work of grace.
Salvation made possible for the human race.

Completing the work that You came to do
all Your followers made perfect in You.
Each having a righteousness not of their own
but from the One seated on the heavenly throne.

Fixing our eyes upon the Risen Lord
Who for the joy before Him the cross endured.
Made perfect through suffering sin and its shame
and been given the Name above every name.

All Creation joins in the victory song
united in one great heavenly throng.
To the Author and Finisher of Faith we sing
gathered in heaven before our glorious King.

(see also the additional information in the Poet's notes box below)

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An Appreciation For The Highs And Lows

I did not invent motivation.
Nor was initiative,
Sitting in a variety store...
Wishing that it,
I would come along to pick.

And dedication with devotion,
Was not served to me on a silver platter.
No matter how long I sat wishing for dreams to exist.

Something inside of me arrived long ago.
A comprehension to understand...
Yearning without earning,
What I wanted was not going to be...
In stars that glowed.
And the wearing of fine clothes,
Was not prioritized as my objective.

With lessons taught and disappointments bestowed,
I learned that patience wasn't everything I need to know.
I needed to know the connection between hard work, sacrifice...
And arguments I've settled with discipline in stubborn fights,
Helped me open my eyes...
To the kind of world this is I am blessed to live in.
Without those selfish expectations.

I did not invent motivation.
Nor was initiative,
Sitting in a variety store...
Wishing that it,
I would come along to pick.
I learned to tie my own shoes,
Before I was able to walk.

And dedication with devotion,
Was not served to me on a silver platter.
No matter how long I sat wishing for dreams to exist.
The clearing of weeds off my own path,
Began a process of adventure through hills and valleys...
With an appreciation for the highs and lows,
That never seem to end.
And 'if' that is my task to last...
Who's journey is this I've been given to enjoy?

At no charge to me.
But to live it as it is with a gratitude expressed.

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Wallace Stevens

Looking Across the Fields and Watching the Birds Fly

Among the more irritating minor ideas
Of Mr. Homburg during his visits home
To Concord, at the edge of things, was this:

To think away the grass, the trees, the clouds,
Not to transform them into other things,
Is only what the sun does every day,

Until we say to ourselves that there may be
A pensive nature, a mechanical
And slightly detestable operandum, free

From man's ghost, larger and yet a little like,
Without his literature and without his gods . . .
No doubt we live beyond ourselves in air,

In an element that does not do for us,
so well, that which we do for ourselves, too big,
A thing not planned for imagery or belief,

Not one of the masculine myths we used to make,
A transparency through which the swallow weaves,
Without any form or any sense of form,

What we know in what we see, what we feel in what
We hear, what we are, beyond mystic disputation,
In the tumult of integrations out of the sky,

And what we think, a breathing like the wind,
A moving part of a motion, a discovery
Part of a discovery, a change part of a change,

A sharing of color and being part of it.
The afternoon is visibly a source,
Too wide, too irised, to be more than calm,

Too much like thinking to be less than thought,
Obscurest parent, obscurest patriarch,
A daily majesty of meditation,

That comes and goes in silences of its own.
We think, then as the sun shines or does not.
We think as wind skitters on a pond in a field

Or we put mantles on our words because
The same wind, rising and rising, makes a sound
Like the last muting of winter as it ends.

A new scholar replacing an older one reflects
A moment on this fantasia. He seeks
For a human that can be accounted for.

The spirit comes from the body of the world,
Or so Mr. Homburg thought: the body of a world
Whose blunt laws make an affectation of mind,

The mannerism of nature caught in a glass
And there become a spirit's mannerism,
A glass aswarm with things going as far as they can.

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The Joker and the Queen of Hearts

The Queen of Hearts is dead and gone
By her hand she was slain
The Prince stands like a statue
Quietly crying in the rain

Work calls to the ruler
Like the lyres to the bards
As the King takes on the task
Of informing the other cards

Two looks on in horror
Of the bloodshed that was wrought
Three sreams out to heaven
'Everything's for naught'

Four sits in a corner
And sadly hangs his head
Five now wishes with all his heart
That he was also dead

Six can barely hang on
He will really miss the Queen
Seven sees her spirit
As he can see more than is seen

Eight runs to the forest
And cries beneath a tree
Nine stares out forlornly
But he knows the Queen is free

Ten retreats to darkness
And will not show his face
That leaves one last card...
The little lonely Ace

Ace will know the story
He will search and seek and find
Nothing will deter him
Or ever change his mind

The story that he found out
It can be told like this
It involves a handsome lover
And our stunning Queen of bliss

There was a man of high degree
Funny, smart, and quite a looker
And though it was degrading
His mother named him Joker

The Queen, though she was married,
Fell into his arms
The Joker was a mischievous man
And only planned her harms

The Queen had truly loved him
And she would not let go
The Joker tore her heart to bits
And all the rest you know

She ended her life in her depression
To end her throbbing pain
And as I have said before
Prince Jack stands in the rain

The cards all stand in silence
As she descends into the ground
And her lover and her killer
Is locked up, chained and bound

But these are not your average chains
He's bound by things above
Cause now he knows with all his heart
He's killed his one true love

The Joker did not think
He could love someone
He broke the hearts of many
And thought it all good fun

But this time it was differnt
Maybe he changed with age
Because now that his Queen is gone
He's locked up in this cage

He wishes he could turn back time
Repeat and start again
But Nature will not have it
It's not part of the plan

And so the Joker takes his life
To join his missing Heart
And now that they're together
They shall never part

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The Genius Of Being A Dumb Animal (like a horse for instance)

The precocious interrupted patterns
of his thick tongued speech
are a direct result of the broken dialects

he had been learned at home.(the master not the horse)
His loving mother and laboring father,
both of whom were legal immigrants,

had walked out of eastern Europe,
and yet only briefly had stepped outside
of their existentialist dreams,

when they conceived the likes of him.
'Son, we want you to hurt like we do.'
they both would radically repeat

to their impressionable boy.....over and over,
as they washed behind his balls and ears.
And so it was that at a very young age

these austere expressions would become
very systematic in his writings.
Poetry became his enemy and his best friend.

Throwing himself into books full
of someone else's distorted
thoughts and equations,

he promised himself that one day soon
he would save the world. (from itself)
Even if it resisted such help, he thought

he would never see it his parent's way.
In a time when most boys
still played with all their marbles

he kept his glass eyes in a tin,
which also doubled as his head.

an early indicator
of the duplicitous manner,
in which he intended to prove

to the myopic world
that he was smarter than one might think
Hence.....*this is where the horse comes in...*

The man bought a horse to help
him in the cluttered junk business
he had built from the ground up

The horse just as all else in the man's life
was always placed before the cart
and the cart was routinely overfilled,

while still bridled to the hard working horse.
The horse, after all was said and done
remained completely convinced

despite his Master's verbose claims,
that there was no possible reason,
or need to reinvent a better wheel

for his overloaded cart
as was suggested by the horse
when the horse had on one day developed

a noticeable shortness in his gate
All the genius which the horse displayed

in both compensating for his limp despite the load.....
still completing his daily grind without complaint
would prove to count for nothing

when he broke his leg tripping over his master
in the stampede to get the 'Hell out of Dodge'____
and his master's utopia......

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The Princess and the White Knight

My life is a fairy tale
Thats not as great as it sounds
You see, I’m Cinderella
The lonely princess
In a turret
Inside of the castle
In my mind

I am lost
And alone
No one understands
No one sees this me
Waiting at the window
Watching the destruction
Watching the outside world
Through her little hole
In the turret’s wall

Watching for her prince
I won’t let anyone else in
No one but

I am
A slave
A slave to their desires
Subject to their punishments
But to the world
I am
A queen
Well, soon-to-be

One step away
From the top of the world
In the palm of my hand
Well, you see everything
I only see the one thing I’m missing
I only see the empty space
Where I’ve been programmed to believe
That my prince
My white knight
Should be

As a queen I appear
Before the crowd
I smile and wave
Trying to hide the fact
That I’m crying inside
That I’m dying inside

That night
As I lay
Alone in the dark
Sobbing myself to sleep
A soft knock
On the grand wooden door
Startles me back
To harsh reality

My messenger approaches
Bowing, he says
The white knight approaches.
He is on his way.”

The white knight
My prince
I get all dressed up for him
Oh, how I have longed for him
For a sharp sword to fight for me
And a broad shield to protect me
For a savior

He saved the city to the north
From death and destruction
Stopped the earth from quaking
In the west
The sky from falling
To the east he fought
The darkness back from swallowing the sky
In time,
I believe
He will save me, too

Around midday
The gates burst open
He has been idolized for so long
That the guards recognize his face
He needs no pass to get through

Sword sheathed, helmet on
He enters my hall
The way he moves seems somehow
Like I have moved the same way
I begin to praise him
Give him thanks

Beneath the helmet
A female voice rings out
“Do not speak.
You will not silence
My message.”

She reaches up
Removes the protective mask
As I gasp
Looking at her face
The White Knight is me

I am trapped in my castle
By three painful powerful dragons:
My past, present and future?
And only I can save me
As I have rescued everyone else
But I trapped myself in the first place

Beware the White Knights
We do not fight our dragons –
Instead, we train them

So I have retreated to my turret
My little corner of the globe
Returned to my familiar position
Staring out the window
But now the scenery has changed
Or maybe just the eyes
Through which its seen

The watery, tear-filled eyes
Of the lonely princess
Who’s finally realized
That no one is coming
She has already lost
Her white knight.
The watery, tear-filled eyes
Of the Cinderella
Who has finally come to the conclusion
That Prince Charming
Does not exist.

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John Gay

The Shepherd and the Philosopher

Remote from cities liv'd a swain,
Unvex'd with all the cares of gain;
His head was silver'd o'er with age,
And long experience made him sage;
In summer's heat and winter's cold,
He led his flock and penn'd the fold;
His hours in cheerful labour flew,
Nor envy nor ambition knew:
His wisdom and his honest fame
Through all the country rais'd his name

A deep philosopher (whose rules
Of moral life were drawn from schools)
The shepherd's homely cottage sought,
And thus explor'd his reach of thought.

'Whence is thy learning? Hath thy toil
O'er books consum'd the midnight oil?
Hast thou old Greece and Rome survey'd,
And the vast sense of Plato weigh'd?
Hath Socrates thy soul refin'd,
And hast thou fathom'd Tully's mind?
Or, like the wise Ulysses, thrown,
By various fates, on realms unknown,
Hast thou through many cities stray'd,
Their customs, laws, and manners weigh'd?'

The shepherd modestly replied,
'I ne'er the paths of learning tried;
Nor have I roam'd in foreign parts,
To read mankind, their laws and arts;
For man is practis'd in disguise,
HE cheats the most discerning eyes.
Who by that search shall wiser grow?
By that ourselves we never know.
The little knowledge I have gain'd,
Was all from simple nature drain'd;
Hence my life's maxims took their rise,
Hence grew my settled hate to vice.
The daily labours of the bee
Awake my soul to industry.
Who can observe the careful ant,
And not provide for future want?
My dog (the trustiest of his kind)
With gratitude inflames my mind:
I mark his true, his faithful way,
And in my service copy Tray.
In constancy and nuptial love,
I learn my duty from the dove.
The hen, who from the chilly air,
With pious wing protects her care,
And ev'ry fowl that flies at large,
Instructs me in a parent's charge.'

'From nature too I take my rule,
To shun contempt and ridicule.
I never, with important air,
In conversation overbear.
Can grave and formal pass for wise,
When men the solemn owl despise?
My tongue within my lips I rein;
For who talks much must talk in vain,
We from the wordy torrent fly:
Who listens to the chatt'ring pye?
Nor would I, with felonious flight,
By stealth invade my neighbour's right:
Rapacious animals we hate;
Kites, hawks, and wolves, deserve their fate.
Do not we just abhorrence find
Against the toad and serpent kind?
But envy, calumny, and spite,
Bear stronger venom in their bite.
Thus ev'ry object of creation
Can furnish hints to contemplation;
And from the most minute and mean,
A virtuous mind can morals glean.'

'Thy fame is just,' the sage replies;
'Thy virtue proves thee truly wise.
Pride often guides the author's pen,
Books as affected are as men:
But he who studies nature's laws,
From certain truth his maxims draws;
And those, without our schools, suffice,
To make men moral, good, and wise.'

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