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Water-time
Trickles down the palm
Chasms, several

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Water Me Down

Water me down, water me down; tread me under-
For life's too long, the precious things get sundered;
Take me someplace safe, where we'll find the way,
Where there's no difference, between night and day.

Water me down, water me down; tread me under-
The sky holds back a lot of thunder;
Take me somewhere safe, where love gets born,
Let me bloom on the rose, that has no thorn.

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A Poem Sliding Down the Glass-pane

I look around
And retrieve to
My regular corner
The glass widow
Overlooking the sky

Everyday
Every afternoon
I looked at the baked glass
With its coat of dirt
In expectation

The clear sky
Always giving me
An apologetic glance

Lo, this morning
As the clouds dimmed
The corner, hope revived

The sky didn't let me down
The rain lashed and lashed

The rain slid down the glass-pane
Like water droplets
On the freshly bathed skin!


(05 Jul 2011)

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As I Wind Down The Pines

As I wind down the pines
it's the lines on your face
playing on your face.

Without thinking so much
as abandoning thought
I went through open country
over water meadow streams
lakes and wires and roosts in reeds
to a nest in the hole of
this dead
tree.

To play without stopping or pause
not for silence not for applause
not without thinking
and thinking's abandoning thought.

As I wind down the pines
it's the lines on your face
playing on your face.

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William Blake

Piping Down the Valleys Wild

Piping down the valleys wild,
Piping songs of pleasant glee,
On a cloud I saw a child,
And he laughing said to me:

'Pipe a song about a lamb!'
So I piped with merry cheer.
'Piper, pipe that song again.'
So I piped: he wept to hear.

'Drop thy pipe, thy happy pipe;
Sing thy songs of happy cheer.'
So I sung the same again,
While he wept with joy to hear.

'Piper, sit thee down and write
In a book, that all may read.'
So he vanished from my sight,
And I plucked a hollow reed,

And I made a rural pen,
And I stained the water clear,
And I wrote my happy songs
Every child may joy to hear.

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Goin' Down The Road Feeling Bad

Goin' Down the Road Feelin' Bad
-------------------------------
Goin' down the road feelin' bad.
Goin' down the road feelin' bad.
Goin' down the road feelin' bad.
I don't want to be treated this a away.
Goin' where the climate suits my clothes.
Goin' where the climate suits my clothes.
Goin' where the climate suits my clothes.
I don't want to be treated this a away.
Goin' down the road feelin' bad.
Goin' down the road feelin' bad.
Goin' down the road feelin' bad.
I don't want to be treated this a away.
Goin' where the water tastes like wine.
Goin' where the water tastes like wine.
Goin' where the water tastes like wine.
I don't want to be treated this a away.
Goin' down the road feelin' bad.
Goin' down the road feelin' bad.
Goin' down the road feelin' bad.
I don't want to be treated this a away

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Goin Down The Road Feelin Bad

Goin down the road feelin bad.
Goin down the road feelin bad.
Goin down the road feelin bad.
I dont want to be treated this away.
Goin where the climate suits my clothes.
Goin where the climate suits my clothes.
Goin where the climate suits my clothes.
I dont want to be treated this away.
Goin down the road feelin bad.
Goin down the road feelin bad.
Goin down the road feelin bad.
I dont want to be treated this away.
Goin where the water tastes like wine.
Goin where the water tastes like wine.
Goin where the water tastes like wine.
I dont want to be treated this away.
Goin down the road feelin bad.
Goin down the road feelin bad.
Goin down the road feelin bad.
I dont want to be treated this away.
Goin where the chilly winds dont blow.
Goin where the chilly winds dont blow.
Goin where those chilly winds dont blow.
I dont want to be treated this away.

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Send Down The Rain

The world is ending gradually on us,
But who can stop it from all the disasters around us?
There is fire here and there is war over there,
There is flood over here and there is Tsunami over there!
And people are being killed in many ways;
But who can stop the actions of nature?

This is like the secret code in 'Louis' Theory 6-5-6';
And we need to correct out history to move on in life!
But who will send down the rain to stop this fire?

Look at Japan and the situatons to the nuclear reactors! !
With fire-fighters pumping out enough water to cool down the overheated reactors;
But we need the heavy down pour from the heavens to help solve this matter,
For the land of Fukushima now looks like the end of the world.

Send down the rain!
For we need the rain to help stop these reactors from a major nuclear disaster! !
But the Tsunami came and the earth quaked,
With fire, snow and the burning of the forest and the oil refineries!
And of the many missing dead bodies not accounted for,
But who can stop the actions of nature?

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Wade In The Water

(first release, live version minneapolis, december 22, 1961traditional, arranged by bob dylan)
Wade in the water
Wade in the water, children
Wade in the water
Gods a-gonna trouble the water
Gods a-gonna trouble the water.
Well, who are these children all dressed in red?
Gods a-gonna trouble the water
Must-a-be the children that moses lead
Gods a-gonna trouble the water.
Wade in the water
Wade in the water, children
Wade in the water
Gods a-gonna trouble the water
Gods a-gonna trouble the water.
Well out of the mountain come fire an smoke
Gods a-gonna trouble the water
Jehovah nobody be he couldve spoke
Gods a-gonna trouble the water.
Wade in the water
Wade in the water, children
Wade in the water
Gods a-gonna trouble the water
Gods a-gonna trouble the water.
Well, Im walkin down the highway an the waters gettin low
Gods a-gonna trouble the water.
Walkin down the highway, nowhere to go
Gods a-gonna trouble the water.
But its wade in the water
Wade in the water, children
Wade in the water
Gods a-gonna trouble the water
Gods a-gonna trouble the water.
Gods a-gonna trouble the water.

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A Bird Came Down The Walk

bird fun, they are all up there
drizzle, the row of little robins on the wire
a lost bee flying by, takes a round and flies off,

bird fun, a little kite gliding chirping
a sentinel for female kite
hatching its young in the trees

bird fun, they are all down there
a white energetic scintillating dove
after the rain cleaning itself in a puddle
sprinkling off the water
inches its head in and out of water
quick and skillful as a roman prince in his bath

bird fun, they are all down here
a drowsy cockroach on the sundry shop verandah
snapped up by the sharp-eyed little sparrow
flew in, snapped and went without a care of the world

bird fun, they are all in the trees
the little colourful bird with
match size curved beak
hopping, looking for hawthorns
other flocks had patronised
and me....feeling guilty like a thief
that i am too trying to share its hawthorns

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A Bird came down the Walk
A Bird came down the Walk—
He did not know I saw—
He bit an angle-worm in halves
And ate the fellow, raw,
And then he drank a Dew
From a convenient Grass,
And then hopped sidewise to the Wall
To let a Beetle pass—
He glanced with rapid eyes
That hurried all abroa—
They looked like frightened Beads, I thought—
He stirred his velvet head
Like one in danger, Cautious,
I offered him a Crumb,
And he unrolled his feathers
And rowed him softer home—
Than Oars divide the Ocean,
Too silver for a seam—
Or Butterflies, off Banks of Noon,
Leap, plashless as they swim.
Emily Dickinson

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Water-Party On The Beaulieu River, In The New Forest

I thought 'twas a toy of the fancy, a dream
That leads with illusion the senses astray,
And I sighed with delight as we stole down the stream,
While the sun, as he smiled on our sail, seemed to say,
Rejoice in my light, ere it fade fast away!

We left the loud rocking of ocean behind,
And stealing along the clear current serene,
The Phaedria spread her white sails to the wind,
And they who divided had many a day been,
Gazed with added delight on the charms of the scene.

Each bosom one spirit of peace seemed to feel;
We heard not the tossing, the stir, and the roar
Of the ocean without; we heard only the keel,
The keel that went whispering along the green shore,
And the stroke, as it dipped, of the feathering oar.

Beneath the dark woods now, as winding we go,
What sounds of rich harmony burst on the ear!
Hark, cheer'ly the loud-swelling clarionets blow;
Now the tones gently die, now more mellow we hear
The horns through the high forest echoing clear!

They cease; and no longer the echoes prolong
The swell of the concert; in silence we float--
In silence! Oh, listen! 'tis woman's sweet song--
The bends of the river reply to each note,
And the oar is held dripping and still from the boat.

Mark the sun that descends o'er the curve of the flood!
Seize, Wilmot, the pencil, and instant convey
To the tablet the water, the banks, and the wood,
That their colours may live without change or decay,
When these beautiful tints die in darkness away.

So when we are parted, and tossed on the deep,
And no longer the light on our prospect shall gleam,
The semblance of one lovely scene we may keep,
And remember the day, and the hour, like a dream,
When we sighed with delight as we stole down the stream!

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Patrick White

The Leaves Sluicing The Rain Down The Back Of My Neck

The leaves sluicing the rain down the back of my neck
to put out my candle of serpent-fire
like an orchid in an abandoned house well,
lightning in its tears, thunder in the hollow
of its telescope when the white runaway horse
pounds its hoof upon it at four in the morning,
the muscled embodiment of moonlight made flesh,
the stars running to peer through their windows
to see what's making that sound.

The sodden path down to the lake, rife with duff,
an Orphic descent whose picture-music
owes nothing to death, and the moss-pated skulls
of the prophetic rocks along the way, every precarious step,
the assessment of an omnipresent danger
that could kick the stool from out under your noose,
though you were foolishly hoping it might be
an Egyptian ankh, granting you long life
in an underworld where anything that's violet
is the toxic shadow of an inconsolable grief
that laments that it had ever met the sun eye to eye,
and try how it might, can't make a way of life
out of suicide. But I didn't come here to grease
the hinges on hell like the wings of rusty birds
or desecrate the place with my omnipresence.

Once I realized the realm of the dead
is no realm at all that can be distinguished from the living,
I've returned to this underground river from time to time
where the roots try to take hold of my skull like the moon
as if it were their last chance at blossoming,
and my bones are scattered along the banks
like socket wrenches from a dead mechanic's tool box
or a coffin that's finally run out of things to fix.
This is where I come to return my harp of water
to a watershed of indistinguishable wavelengths
in homage to the source that handed it on to me,
a voice of my own, and there's a bridge I stand on
no one's burnt down yet, just a fallen log really,
but to me an overarching oxymoron that lets me stand
on both sides of the mindstream at once
to pay homage to a death I long to be worthy of
like a teacher my life is obligated to surpass
to fully honour her undisciplined transcendence.

Like water. A carrying away into a carrying away.
We couldn't tell time if we weren't all dying.
Eternity just a sundial that never closed its eyelids.
The wounded serpent of the waterclock bleeding out
like a human heart to remind us what hour it is,
what windfalls and harvests of the season of our soul
to leave in the begging bowls we place
at the eastern doors of our autumnal burial huts,
hoping we'll see each other again, once are bones are dust,
like Canada geese returning in the early spring.

Some bring silver swords minted of moonlight
thrusting through the parting clouds
and lay them down on the water gently
like children they once cherished abandoned for life
as the greatest gift their hands had ever grasped.
I lay down this gift of a clear voice
that no fear or desire's ever broken in like a wishbone
pimped out like tinfoil to the glamour of temptation.
Whatever storms raged in the crowns of its oracular branches,
this tree never injured any bird that ever sang in it.
I never hung my lyre like a dreamcatcher over the bed,
or used it to seduce butterflies into a spider-web,
dolphins into a bay of fishing-nets, nor yet
let its strings go slack like the pentatonic spinal cords
of a guitar that's lost its nerve in the dark corners of life.
Nor did I ever refuse to sing what the dead asked me to
anymore than I did the living. Nor let the medium
intrude upon the message in such a way
the import of the song couldn't exceed
the wingspan of the bird that released it
into the vastness of its interstellar longing.

Here the dead whisper their secrets to the waters
like coy sylphs of the wind flirting with waves,
and here where dissolution walks in the same shoes
as regeneration, and one step east is one step west
and though there's a coming and though there's a going
birth and death don't know anything about this,
and Prussian blue the wet wind that's been crying
about the sturm and drang of things to the broken pines
whose excruciations have become part of their character,
as if the haloes of the rain rippled through their heartwood
like the echoes of old engagement rings
from wide-eyed springs that have lasted for light years.

Death isn't the derelict of life's glory.
Just as peace isn't the end of passage.
Mid-summer squanders as many flowers
on the capricious rivers of life as it does
the funeral bells of the fallen water birds.
And maybe that's all these words are,
wild iris and daylilies lifting their skirts
above the flowing like troupes of gypsy fires
that like dancing to the flutes of their own desires
as they burn on the pyres of their floral reflections.
Who knows this late in the day, but maybe
I'm just trying to approach my own death
like an unopened gate to a garden
the way I did as a novice to love
when I couldn't tell a larkspur from a hollyhock
nor what sign the star sapphire of the borage
wanted to be planted under like the Pleiades?

Anyway it pans out is ok with me, though.
I like it here where the waterlilies reset their sails
like redemption out of their own salvage
and after a long, grey day of funereal rain,
the clouds begin to clear around nightfall
and my eyes are seeded with the stars
of unnamed constellations of New England asters
that don't conform to any known starmaps
I can follow genetically back like a fuse of dna
to the Big Bang of my first flowering into life.

And maybe I'm a mutant in the ancestry of death
that has always been the subliminal motif
of a symphonic life that wasn't immune
to the picture-music of the celestial spheres
but I can't help noticing how the bones of the muskrat
and the skeletal remains of the heron's stilts
toppled by the stealthy fluke of a fox
all resonate like musical instruments
laid down in tribute on the roots of the trees
and on the sides of the paths that broke like melodies
on the ears of the dead who could taste them
like the tears of the moon on their silver tongues.

In this realm of radiant starmud in a state
of reanimating life out of its own detritus and decay,
I can hear their ghosts returning to life
like native atmospheres
returning to the songs of the lunar night birds
that don't abuse their solitude with a sense of loss
without sweetening the music
with the ripeness of their silence
just before the grande finale
of their next windfall of transcendent whole notes.

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Whistle Down The Wind

There are days when I want to
whistle down the wind
just to blow all my troubles away
so that I can forget them for another day.

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I Walk Down The Hill Of My Own Loneliness

I WALK DOWN THE HILL OF MY OWN LONELINESS

I walk down the hill of my own loneliness
It is a sad hill
It is a long hill
But it is my hill.

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Down The Stream The Swans All Glide

Down the stream the swans all glide;
It's quite the cheapest way to ride.
Their legs get wet,
Their tummies wetter:
I think after all
The bus is better

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You Have To Lay Down The Law

It is very sad
But the truth is that you
Have to lay down the law
When you are dealing with ignorant
People in your life
Otherwise they won't respect you

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Down the airy mountain

Down the airy mountain
Through the rushing glen
We daren't go a- hunting
For fear of little men-
Good folk bright folk
trooping all together
With redcap, green coat and
white owl feather.

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Down The Streams Of Light I Floated

Down the streams of passion I sighed
Thrown in your arms so strong I squatted
Born in your kiss I timelessly died

Now lift me up higher
When caught up there
Now gift sacred fire
When breathed by the air

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I Walk Down The Road Toward Another Poem

I walk down the road toward another poem-
It will come before the road ends-
It is coming now
Surrounded as it often is by morning light-

I have made many poems in my life-
This is another one-
The one I am writing now-
Having stopped in the middle of the road
Before I get home.

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Kissing Down The Telephone Line

With loving words,
we coo and dove to one another
over the telephone line.
Blowing kisses to one another
down the telephone.
Now tomorrow when we meet,
we’ll take them up for real
that’s if our mothers let us,
because you are only two
and I am only three.

29 February 2008

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Move On Down The Line

You gonna be my lover baby
You aint gonna stop
Im gonna give you real good love
Gonna drive ( ? )
Well move, move on down the line
Im gonna do right, do right all the time
Well Im gonna move on down the line
Im gonna get this girl to be mine
Shell be cool and shell be tall
( ? ) we gotta go

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