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Stay the same

As time has changed and seasons have past
We've developed a bond that will forever last.

As we say good-bye in this our final year
We try to hold back those overpowering tears.

We remember those time that seem so long ago
As we grew up together through highs and lows.

We knew this day would eventually be here
But had no idea of its overwhelming fear.

The years have flown by but the memories remain
These faces and names will always stay the same.

So as you go out into this world unknown
Always remember there's no place like home.

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There is No Place Like Home

Not being themselves,
Or feeling the need they can be
Is difficult today,
For those who have charaded.
And afraid to reveal a true face.

Opinionated from behind masks,
They have hidden tasks and agendas.
With pretentions more accepted,
By those who have adapted
To false identities from safe,
Although fake
Places.

So difficult it is today,
For those to charade.
And
For those who have charaded,
With feelings fake that are fading
There is,
No place like home.

There is no place like home.
There is no place like home.
There is no place like home.
Once 'home' has been felt,
With a comfort known
From within!

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(There's No Place Like) Home For The Holidays

Oh, there's no place like home for the holidays
'Cause no matter how far away your roam
If you long for the sunshine and a friendly gaze
For the holidays you can't beat home sweet home
I met a man who lived in Tennessee
And he was looking for
Pennsylvania and some homemade pumpkin pie
Now in Pennsylvania folks are traveling
Down to Dixie's sunny shore
The Atlantic to Pacific
Oh, the season is terrific
Oh, there's no place like home for the holidays
For the holidays you can't beat home sweet home

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(There's No Place Like) Home For The Holidays

Oh, there's no place like home for the holidays
'Cause no matter how far away you roam
When you pine for the sunshine of a friendly gaze
For the holidays you can't beat home, sweet home
I met a man who lives in Tennessee
And he was headin' for
Pennsylvania and some homemade pumpkin pie
From Pennsylvania folks are trav'lin' down
To Dixie's sunny shore
From Atlantic to Pacific, gee,
The traffic is teriffic!
Oh, there's no place like home for the holidays
'Cause no matter how far away you roam
When you pine for the sunshine of a friendly gaze
For the holidays you can't beat home, sweet home
When you pine for the sunshine of a friendly gaze
For the holidays you can't beat home
Holidays you can't beat home
Holidays you can't beat home,sweet home

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No Place Like Home

My friend's house is perfect,
they lead such perfect lives.
Curtains never out of place
and beds are made by 9.

The bathroom is in cream,
the toilet seat stays down.
There's tiny little ornaments
and soap balls all around.

My friend's house is perfect,
you dare not move a thing
for if you did they'd notice,
a tad embarrassing.

They dine at 6, no later
and then at half past eight
they have a cup of Earl Grey
and slithers of cream cake.

They talk of trivial matters,
the world evaporates.
Inside their house its perfect,
the world outside can wait.

That's why I run for cover,
right back here, alone.
It may not be quite perfect
but there's no place like home.

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No Place Like Home

=========================================================================
There's my easy chair, just sitting there
I've spent a lot of time
Thinking of this perfect love
I know is yours and mine
Oh how I love that old picture on the wall
Of you and me and the kids
My most favorite times in life I've spent
Right here where we've lived
Chorus:
There's no place like home
There's no place like home
It just hit me as I was leaving
There's no place like home
From the bedroom I smell perfume
My favorite kind you wore
And it brings back memories of all those nights
Behind our bedroom door
The saddest thing I think I've ever seen
Was my closet all cleaned out
It's sad to think that one must leave
Cause we can't work things out
Chorus
So baby, say that I can stay, for just a day or so
Then maybe I can change your mind and I won't have to go
Just look into these baby blues
And tell me it's okay
I love that smile, it drives me wild
No love won't die today
Chorus
=========================================================================

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Time To Say Good-Bye

The time has come
Your time is up
Now you rest in peace
I still think about you
And all the time we shared
I hear your voice inside my head
Telling me your there
Tears run down my face
I turn to see you standing there
Telling me its all ok now
I pray at night an see your face
I know ive got to let you go
Your happy and pain free
Thats all that matters now
Although i miss you near and dear
I have to say good-bye
You say thats why you came
And now i know its time

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To Jyothi Basu – A Loving Tribute: The ‘Lamp’ is dead: Its light will always stay!

The ‘Lamp’ that lit the homes of myriad souls,
Who toiled, tilled, slogged as Indians proud, galore,
And stayed as guiding light achieving goals,
Has lost its oil and wick, and burns no more!

It stood as beacon for numerous souls,
Who flocked to him for wisdom that they sought,
And always got much more than they had thought;
The Lamp is gone but light it shone will stay!

The doyen worked his way uphill in life;
He stood beside all workers in their strife;
He was a perfect man, so rarely found,
He could have become mountain but stayed mound!

‘Hats off’ to leaders great who simple stay,
And lead unselfishly for others, way;
Who hold on party-men a trance-like sway,
Who lived for good principles every day!

The Lamp had burned for others sake for long;
Its light remains in hearts of myriad souls;
His glorious work will stay alive by song;
The man of mettle, heart of steel hadn’t holes!

No wonder, leaders praise him all sky-high!
His honest national service cannot die;
He left too big a void to be filled nigh;
His love for India is too great to vie!

‘God grant his soul eternal rest’, we pray!
May others follow his footsteps and way;
‘His example was golden’, people say;
He shines in hearts of many souls each day!
The ‘lamp’ is dead: Its light will always stay!

Dedicated in loving memory of the demised soul!

Copyright by Dr John Celes 1-17-2010

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Theres No Place Like Home

(public domain)
Theres no place like home
Well I say now home, home sweet home
Theres no place like home
Wherever you wander
Theres no place like home
Well I used to have a sweetheart
To walk and talk with me
But now I have no sweetheart
What pleasure do I see
Theres no place like home
Well I say now home, home sweet home
Theres no place like home
Wherever you wander
Theres no place like home
Theres no place like home

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The Strength To Say Good-Bye

Even though I seem quiet and shy
I have a strength inside of me
I have the strength to say good-bye

If a friend had always been a lie
I would be heartbroken but I realize
I have the strength to say good-bye

Even if someone precious to me dies
My soul will be crying but give me time
For I have the strength to say good-bye

When my soul is lost and I want to cry
Over time I shall heal, for I know that I
Still have the strength to say good-bye

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Let The Sunshine Inside Of You Shine Out

Let the sunshine
Inside of you
Shine out
To earth
So everyone
can get some

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When The Set Has Changed

Both of us are too 'stage' ready.
We are those, 'Light, camera and action' folks.
Easily provoked...
When in meditation.
Or whatever that is called,
After someone is seen nodding to a sleep...
From boredom.

Both of us are too 'stage' ready.
Drama bent...
And prepared to chew up the scenery.
At a moment's notice.

However...
What is there to prove...
When the set has changed.
And so has the crew!
And the seats of the audience have been removed...
Without a single question asked.

To leave the ones rehashing the past...
Astonished they no longer mesmerize!

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Tears Will Always Shed

tears will always shed,
when we're apart,
you'll never understand,
the pain I feel.

I'll always remember,
what I've been through,
especially when,
it comes to you.

I know it seems foolish,
but I thought it would be you,
to stand beside me,
and to wipe away my tears.

I know that it's hard,
just being there,
not knowing what,
to do or even think.

it happens to all,
that moment,
when we're at a loss,
for every word.

I'm sorry for everything,
all you've been through,
the broke. home,
and the lost hope.

but believe me when I say,
you'll turn out great,
you have a great mind,
with a heart in the right place.

you'll go far,
that I have no doubt,
you've got a great life,
that's waiting for you.

just go my dear,
and don't look back,
I'll always be here,
if you ever crack.

no matter how many,
tears I shed,
it means nothing,
without you there.

don't get me wrong,
I want you to always,
follow your dreams,
even if it means I break.

so good-bye,
just take those steps,
leave me here,
please my dear?

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Turn Of The Century

Realising a form out of stone.
Set hands moving.
Roan shaped his heart
Thru his working hands.
Work to mold his passion into clay, like the sun.
In his room, his lady
She would dance and sing so completely.
So be still he now cries
I have time, oh let clay transform thee so.
In the deep cold of night
Winter calls, he cries dont deny me!
For his lady, deep her illness.
Time has caught her
And will for all reasons take her.
In the still light of dawn, she dies.
Helpless hands soul revealing.
Like leaves we touch we learn.
We once knew the story.
As winter calls he will starve.
All but to see the stone be life
Now roan, no more tears.
Set to work his strength.
So transformed him
Realising a form out of stone. his work
So absorbed him.
Could she hear him?
Could she see him?
All aglow was his room dazed in this light.
He would touch her
He would hold her.
Laughing as they danced.
Highest colors touching others.
Did her eyes at the turn of the century
Tell me plainly
When we meet, how well love, oh let life so transform me.
Like leaves we touched we danced.
We once knew the story.
As autumn called and we both
Remembered all those many years ago.
Im sure we know.
Was the sign with a touch
As I kiss your fingers.
We walk hands in the sun.
Memories when were young.
Love lingers so.
Was it sun through the haze
That made all your looks
As warm as moonlight?
As a pearl deep in your eyes,
Tears have flown away,
All the same light.
Did her eyes at the turn of the century
Tell me plainly
When we meet how well look
As we smile time will leave me clearly.
Like leaves we touch, we see.
We will know the story.
As autumn calls well both remember
All those many years ago.

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Turn Of The Century

Realising a form out of stone.
Set hands moving.
Roan shaped his heart
Thru his working hands.
Work to mold his passion into clay, like the sun.
In his room, his lady
She would dance and sing so completely.
So be still he now cries
I have time, oh let clay transform thee so.
In the deep cold of night
Winter calls, he cries dont deny me!
For his lady, deep her illness.
Time has caught her
And will for all reasons take her.
In the still light of dawn, she dies.
Helpless hands soul revealing.
Like leaves we touch we learn.
We once knew the story.
As winter calls he will starve.
All but to see the stone be life
Now roan, no more tears.
Set to work his strength.
So transformed him
Realising a form out of stone. his work
So absorbed him.
Could she hear him?
Could she see him?
All aglow was his room dazed in this light.
He would touch her
He would hold her.
Laughing as they danced.
Highest colors touching others.
Did her eyes at the turn of the century
Tell me plainly
When we meet, how well love, oh let life so transform me.
Like leaves we touched we danced.
We once knew the story.
As autumn called and we both
Remembered all those many years ago.
Im sure we know.
Was the sign with a touch
As I kiss your fingers.
We walk hands in the sun.
Memories when were young.
Love lingers so.
Was it sun through the haze
That made all your looks
As warm as moonlight?
As a pearl deep in your eyes,
Tears have flown away,
All the same light.
Did her eyes at the turn of the century
Tell me plainly
When we meet how well look
As we smile time will leave me clearly.
Like leaves we touch, we see.
We will know the story.
As autumn calls well both remember
All those many years ago.

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The Book of Annandale

I

Partly to think, more to be left alone,
George Annandale said something to his friends—
A word or two, brusque, but yet smoothed enough
To suit their funeral gaze—and went upstairs;
And there, in the one room that he could call
His own, he found a sort of meaningless
Annoyance in the mute familiar things
That filled it; for the grate’s monotonous gleam
Was not the gleam that he had known before,
The books were not the books that used to be,
The place was not the place. There was a lack
Of something; and the certitude of death
Itself, as with a furtive questioning,
Hovered, and he could not yet understand.
He knew that she was gone—there was no need
Of any argued proof to tell him that,
For they had buried her that afternoon,
Under the leaves and snow; and still there was
A doubt, a pitiless doubt, a plunging doubt,
That struck him, and upstartled when it struck,
The vision, the old thought in him. There was
A lack, and one that wrenched him; but it was
Not that—not that. There was a present sense
Of something indeterminably near—
The soul-clutch of a prescient emptiness
That would not be foreboding. And if not,
What then?—or was it anything at all?
Yes, it was something—it was everything—
But what was everything? or anything?
Tired of time, bewildered, he sat down;
But in his chair he kept on wondering
That he should feel so desolately strange
And yet—for all he knew that he had lost
More of the world than most men ever win—
So curiously calm. And he was left
Unanswered and unsatisfied: there came
No clearer meaning to him than had come
Before; the old abstraction was the best
That he could find, the farthest he could go;
To that was no beginning and no end—
No end that he could reach. So he must learn
To live the surest and the largest life
Attainable in him, would he divine
The meaning of the dream and of the words
That he had written, without knowing why,
On sheets that he had bound up like a book
And covered with red leather. There it was—
There in his desk, the record he had made,
The spiritual plaything of his life:
There were the words no eyes had ever seen
Save his; there were the words that were not made
For glory or for gold. The pretty wife
Whom he had loved and lost had not so much
As heard of them. They were not made for her.
His love had been so much the life of her,
And hers had been so much the life of him,
That any wayward phrasing on his part
Would have had no moment. Neither had lived enough
To know the book, albeit one of them
Had grown enough to write it. There it was,
However, though he knew not why it was:
There was the book, but it was not for her,
For she was dead. And yet, there was the book.

Thus would his fancy circle out and out,
And out and in again, till he would make
As if with a large freedom to crush down
Those under-thoughts. He covered with his hands
His tired eyes, and waited: he could hear—
Or partly feel and hear, mechanically—
The sound of talk, with now and then the steps
And skirts of some one scudding on the stairs,
Forgetful of the nerveless funeral feet
That she had brought with her; and more than once
There came to him a call as of a voice—
A voice of love returning—but not hers.
Whose he knew not, nor dreamed; nor did he know,
Nor did he dream, in his blurred loneliness
Of thought, what all the rest might think of him.

For it had come at last, and she was gone
With all the vanished women of old time,—
And she was never coming back again.
Yes, they had buried her that afternoon,
Under the frozen leaves and the cold earth,
Under the leaves and snow. The flickering week,
The sharp and certain day, and the long drowse
Were over, and the man was left alone.
He knew the loss—therefore it puzzled him
That he should sit so long there as he did,
And bring the whole thing backthe love, the trust,
The pallor, the poor face, and the faint way
She last had looked at him—and yet not weep,
Or even choose to look about the room
To see how sad it was; and once or twice
He winked and pinched his eyes against the flame
And hoped there might be tears. But hope was all,
And all to him was nothing: he was lost.
And yet he was not lost: he was astray—
Out of his life and in another life;
And in the stillness of this other life
He wondered and he drowsed. He wondered when
It was, and wondered if it ever was
On earth that he had known the other face—
The searching face, the eloquent, strange face—
That with a sightless beauty looked at him
And with a speechless promise uttered words
That were not the worlds words, or any kind
That he had known before. What was it, then?
What was it held him—fascinated him?
Why should he not be human? He could sigh,
And he could even groan,—but what of that?
There was no grief left in him. Was he glad?

Yet how could he be glad, or reconciled,
Or anything but wretched and undone?
How could he be so frigid and inert—
So like a man with water in his veins
Where blood had been a little while before?
How could he sit shut in there like a snail?
What ailed him? What was on him? Was he glad?
Over and over again the question came,
Unanswered and unchanged,—and there he was.
But what in heaven’s name did it all mean?
If he had lived as other men had lived,
If home had ever shown itself to be
The counterfeit that others had called home,
Then to this undivined resource of his
There were some key; but now … Philosophy?
Yes, he could reason in a kind of way
That he was glad for Miriam’s release—
Much as he might be glad to see his friends
Laid out around him with their grave-clothes on,
And this life done for them; but something else
There was that foundered reason, overwhelmed it,
And with a chilled, intuitive rebuff
Beat back the self-cajoling sophistries
That his half-tutored thought would half-project.

What was it, then? Had he become transformed
And hardened through long watches and long grief
Into a loveless, feelingless dead thing
That brooded like a man, breathed like a man,—
Did everything but ache? And was a day
To come some time when feeling should return
Forever to drive off that other face—
The lineless, indistinguishable face—
That once had thrilled itself between his own
And hers there on the pillow,—and again
Between him and the coffin-lid had flashed
Like fate before it closed,—and at the last
Had come, as it should seem, to stay with him,
Bidden or not? He were a stranger then,
Foredrowsed awhile by some deceiving draught
Of poppied anguish, to the covert grief
And the stark loneliness that waited him,
And for the time were cursedly endowed
With a dull trust that shammed indifference
To knowing there would be no touch again
Of her small hand on his, no silencing
Of her quick lips on his, no feminine
Completeness and love-fragrance in the house,
No sound of some one singing any more,
No smoothing of slow fingers on his hair,
No shimmer of pink slippers on brown tiles.

But there was nothing, nothing, in all that:
He had not fooled himself so much as that;
He might be dreaming or he might be sick,
But not like that. There was no place for fear,
No reason for remorse. There was the book
That he had made, though.… It might be the book;
Perhaps he might find something in the book;
But no, there could be nothing there at all—
He knew it word for word; but what it meant—
He was not sure that he had written it
For what it meant; and he was not quite sure
That he had written it;—more likely it
Was all a paper ghost.… But the dead wife
Was real: he knew all that, for he had been
To see them bury her; and he had seen
The flowers and the snow and the stripped limbs
Of trees; and he had heard the preacher pray;
And he was back again, and he was glad.
Was he a brute? No, he was not a brute:
He was a man—like any other man:
He had loved and married his wife Miriam,
They had lived a little while in paradise
And she was gone; and that was all of it.

But no, not all of it—not all of it:
There was the book again; something in that
Pursued him, overpowered him, put out
The futile strength of all his whys and wheres,
And left him unintelligibly numb—
Too numb to care for anything but rest.
It must have been a curious kind of book
That he had made it: it was a drowsy book
At any rate. The very thought of it
Was like the taste of some impossible drink—
A taste that had no taste, but for all that
Had mixed with it a strange thought-cordial,
So potent that it somehow killed in him
The ultimate need of doubting any more—
Of asking any more. Did he but live
The life that he must live, there were no more
To seek.—The rest of it was on the way.

Still there was nothing, nothing, in all this
Nothing that he cared now to reconcile
With reason or with sorrow. All he knew
For certain was that he was tired out:
His flesh was heavy and his blood beat small;
Something supreme had been wrenched out of him
As if to make vague room for something else.
He had been through too much. Yes, he would stay
There where he was and rest.—And there he stayed;
The daylight became twilight, and he stayed;
The flame and the face faded, and he slept.
And they had buried her that afternoon,
Under the tight-screwed lid of a long box,
Under the earth, under the leaves and snow.


II

Look where she would, feed conscience how she might,
There was but one way now for Damaris—
One straight way that was hers, hers to defend,
At hand, imperious. But the nearness of it,
The flesh-bewildering simplicity,
And the plain strangeness of it, thrilled again
That wretched little quivering single string
Which yielded not, but held her to the place
Where now for five triumphant years had slept
The flameless dust of Argan.—He was gone,
The good man she had married long ago;
And she had lived, and living she had learned,
And surely there was nothing to regret:
Much happiness had been for each of them,
And they had been like lovers to the last:
And after that, and long, long after that,
Her tears had washed out more of widowed grief
Than smiles had ever told of other joy.—
But could she, looking back, find anything
That should return to her in the new time,
And with relentless magic uncreate
This temple of new love where she had thrown
Dead sorrow on the altar of new life?
Only one thing, only one thread was left;
When she broke that, when reason snapped it off,
And once for all, baffled, the grave let go
The trivial hideous hold it had on her,—
Then she were free, free to be what she would,
Free to be what she was.—And yet she stayed,
Leashed, as it were, and with a cobweb strand,
Close to a tombstone—maybe to starve there.

But why to starve? And why stay there at all?
Why not make one good leap and then be done
Forever and at once with Argan’s ghost
And all such outworn churchyard servitude?
For it was Argan’s ghost that held the string,
And her sick fancy that held Argan’s ghost—
Held it and pitied it. She laughed, almost,
There for the moment; but her strained eyes filled
With tears, and she was angry for those tears
Angry at first, then proud, then sorry for them.
So she grew calm; and after a vain chase
For thoughts more vain, she questioned of herself
What measure of primeval doubts and fears
Were still to be gone through that she might win
Persuasion of her strength and of herself
To be what she could see that she must be,
No matter where the ghost was.—And the more
She lived, the more she came to recognize
That something out of her thrilled ignorance
Was luminously, proudly being born,
And thereby proving, thought by forward thought,
The prowess of its image; and she learned
At length to look right on to the long days
Before her without fearing. She could watch
The coming course of them as if they were
No more than birds, that slowly, silently,
And irretrievably should wing themselves
Uncounted out of sight. And when he came
Again, she might be free—she would be free.
Else, when he looked at her she must look down,
Defeated, and malignly dispossessed
Of what was hers to prove and in the proving
Wisely to consecrate. And if the plague
Of that perverse defeat should come to be
If at that sickening end she were to find
Herself to be the same poor prisoner
That he had found at first—then she must lose
All sight and sound of him, she must abjure
All possible thought of him; for he would go
So far and for so long from her that love—
Yes, even a love like his, exiled enough,
Might for another’s touch be born again—
Born to be lost and starved for and not found;
Or, at the next, the second wretchedest,
It might go mutely flickering down and out,
And on some incomplete and piteous day,
Some perilous day to come, she might at last
Learn, with a noxious freedom, what it is
To be at peace with ghosts. Then were the blow
Thrice deadlier than any kind of death
Could ever be: to know that she had won
The truth too late—there were the dregs indeed
Of wisdom, and of love the final thrust
Unmerciful; and there where now did lie
So plain before her the straight radiance
Of what was her appointed way to take,
Were only the bleak ruts of an old road
That stretched ahead and faded and lay far
Through deserts of unconscionable years.

But vampire thoughts like these confessed the doubt
That love denied; and once, if never again,
They should be turned away. They might come back
More craftily, perchance, they might come back
And with a spirit-thirst insatiable
Finish the strength of her; but now, today
She would have none of them. She knew that love
Was true, that he was true, that she was true;
And should a death-bed snare that she had made
So long ago be stretched inexorably
Through all her life, only to be unspun
With her last breathing? And were bats and threads,
Accursedly devised with watered gules,
To be Love’s heraldry? What were it worth
To live and to find out that life were life
But for an unrequited incubus
Of outlawed shame that would not be thrown down
Till she had thrown down fear and overcome
The woman that was yet so much of her
That she might yet go mad? What were it worth
To live, to linger, and to be condemned
In her submission to a common thought
That clogged itself and made of its first faith
Its last impediment? What augured it,
Now in this quick beginning of new life,
To clutch the sunlight and be feeling back,
Back with a scared fantastic fearfulness,
To touch, not knowing why, the vexed-up ghost
Of what was gone?

Yes, there was Argan’s face,
Pallid and pinched and ruinously marked
With big pathetic bones; there were his eyes,
Quiet and large, fixed wistfully on hers;
And there, close-pressed again within her own,
Quivered his cold thin fingers. And, ah! yes,
There were the words, those dying words again,
And hers that answered when she promised him.
Promised him? … yes. And had she known the truth
Of what she felt that he should ask her that,
And had she known the love that was to be,
God knew that she could not have told him then.
But then she knew it not, nor thought of it;
There was no need of it; nor was there need
Of any problematical support
Whereto to cling while she convinced herself
That love’s intuitive utility,
Inexorably merciful, had proved
That what was human was unpermanent
And what was flesh was ashes. She had told
Him then that she would love no other man,
That there was not another man on earth
Whom she could ever love, or who could make
So much as a love thought go through her brain;
And he had smiled. And just before he died
His lips had made as if to say something—
Something that passed unwhispered with his breath,
Out of her reach, out of all quest of it.
And then, could she have known enough to know
The meaning of her grief, the folly of it,
The faithlessness and the proud anguish of it,
There might be now no threads to punish her,
No vampire thoughts to suck the coward blood,
The life, the very soul of her.

Yes, Yes,
They might come back.… But why should they come back?
Why was it she had suffered? Why had she
Struggled and grown these years to demonstrate
That close without those hovering clouds of gloom
And through them here and there forever gleamed
The Light itself, the life, the love, the glory,
Which was of its own radiance good proof
That all the rest was darkness and blind sight?
And who was she? The woman she had known—
The woman she had petted and called “I”—
The woman she had pitied, and at last
Commiserated for the most abject
And persecuted of all womankind,—
Could it be she that had sought out the way
To measure and thereby to quench in her
The woman’s fearthe fear of her not fearing?
A nervous little laugh that lost itself,
Like logic in a dream, fluttered her thoughts
An instant there that ever she should ask
What she might then have told so easily—
So easily that Annandale had frowned,
Had he been given wholly to be told
The truth of what had never been before
So passionately, so inevitably
Confessed.

For she could see from where she sat
The sheets that he had bound up like a book
And covered with red leather; and her eyes
Could see between the pages of the book,
Though her eyes, like them, were closed. And she could read
As well as if she had them in her hand,
What he had written on them long ago,—
Six years ago, when he was waiting for her.
She might as well have said that she could see
The man himself, as once he would have looked
Had she been there to watch him while he wrote
Those words, and all for her.… For her whose face
Had flashed itself, prophetic and unseen,
But not unspirited, between the life
That would have been without her and the life
That he had gathered up like frozen roots
Out of a grave-clod lying at his feet,
Unconsciously, and as unconsciously
Transplanted and revived. He did not know
The kind of life that he had found, nor did
He doubt, not knowing it; but well he knew
That it was life—new life, and that the old
Might then with unimprisoned wings go free,
Onward and all along to its own light,
Through the appointed shadow.

While she gazed
Upon it there she felt within herself
The growing of a newer consciousness—
The pride of something fairer than her first
Outclamoring of interdicted thought
Had ever quite foretold; and all at once
There quivered and requivered through her flesh,
Like music, like the sound of an old song,
Triumphant, love-remembered murmurings
Of what for passion’s innocence had been
Too mightily, too perilously hers,
Ever to be reclaimed and realized
Until today. Today she could throw off
The burden that had held her down so long,
And she could stand upright, and she could see
The way to take, with eyes that had in them
No gleam but of the spirit. Day or night,
No matter; she could see what was to see—
All that had been till now shut out from her,
The service, the fulfillment, and the truth,
And thus the cruel wiseness of it all.

So Damaris, more like than anything
To one long prisoned in a twilight cave
With hovering bats for all companionship,
And after time set free to fight the sun,
Laughed out, so glad she was to recognize
The test of what had been, through all her folly,
The courage of her conscience; for she knew,
Now on a late-flushed autumn afternoon
That else had been too bodeful of dead things
To be endured with aught but the same old
Inert, self-contradicted martyrdom
Which she had known so long, that she could look
Right forward through the years, nor any more
Shrink with a cringing prescience to behold
The glitter of dead summer on the grass,
Or the brown-glimmered crimson of still trees
Across the intervale where flashed along,
Black-silvered, the cold river. She had found,
As if by some transcendent freakishness
Of reason, the glad life that she had sought
Where naught but obvious clouds could ever be
Clouds to put out the sunlight from her eyes,
And to put out the love-light from her soul.
But they were gone—now they were all gone;
And with a whimsied pathos, like the mist
Of grief that clings to new-found happiness
Hard wrought, she might have pity for the small
Defeated quest of them that brushed her sight
Like flying lint—lint that had once been thread.…
Yes, like an anodyne, the voice of him,
There were the words that he had made for her,
For her alone. The more she thought of them
The more she lived them, and the more she knew
The life-grip and the pulse of warm strength in them.
They were the first and last of words to her,
And there was in them a far questioning
That had for long been variously at work,
Divinely and elusively at work,
With her, and with the grace that had been hers;
They were eternal words, and they diffused
A flame of meaning that men’s lexicons
Had never kindled; they were choral words
That harmonized with love’s enduring chords
Like wisdom with release; triumphant words
That rang like elemental orisons
Through ages out of ages; words that fed
Love’s hunger in the spirit; words that smote;
Thrilled words that echoed, and barbed words that clung;—
And every one of them was like a friend
Whose obstinate fidelity, well tried,
Had found at last and irresistibly
The way to her close conscience, and thereby
Revealed the unsubstantial Nemesis
That she had clutched and shuddered at so long;
And every one of them was like a real
And ringing voice, clear toned and absolute,
But of a love-subdued authority
That uttered thrice the plain significance
Of what had else been generously vague
And indolently true. It may have been
The triumph and the magic of the soul,
Unspeakably revealed, that finally
Had reconciled the grim probationing
Of wisdom with unalterable faith,
But she could feel—not knowing what it was,
For the sheer freedom of it—a new joy
That humanized the latent wizardry
Of his prophetic voice and put for it
The man within the music.

So it came
To pass, like many a long-compelled emprise
That with its first accomplishment almost
Annihilates its own severity,
That she could find, whenever she might look,
The certified achievement of a love
That had endured, self-guarded and supreme,
To the glad end of all that wavering;
And she could see that now the flickering world
Of autumn was awake with sudden bloom,
New-born, perforce, of a slow bourgeoning.
And she had found what more than half had been
The grave-deluded, flesh-bewildered fear
Which men and women struggle to call faith,
To be the paid progression to an end
Whereat she knew the foresight and the strength
To glorify the gift of what was hers,
To vindicate the truth of what she was.
And had it come to her so suddenly?
There was a pity and a weariness
In asking that, and a great needlessness;
For now there were no wretched quivering strings
That held her to the churchyard any more:
There were no thoughts that flapped themselves like bats
Around her any more. The shield of love
Was clean, and she had paid enough to learn
How it had always been so. And the truth,
Like silence after some far victory,
Had come to her, and she had found it out
As if it were a vision, a thing born
So suddenly!—just as a flower is born,
Or as a world is born—so suddenly.

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Let Me Be The One To Love You More

i waited all these years for you
past rains pour on me and they dry through time in my hair

i keep my words
and let these words stay faithful in my diaries

you finally appear in the form of mere thought
inside my mind

let me have you in that state
let me love you more as air inside my nostrils my lungs my heart

for you my love
these lines are dedicated

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You Dont Feel The Same

(carly simon)
Honey, I dont want you to see me this way
So out of control
So carried away
cause you dont feel the same
And I remember times when I was your storm
I blew hot and cold
And you were so warm
But, now you dont feel the same
I remember when you were looking up at me
Like I was the only one
That youd ever wanna see
Honey, how can I ask you to stay
When youre already gone
Theres no one to blame
Its just that you dont feel the same
I touch you
Your eyes look away
Your hands are cold
The balance has changed
And darling, you dont feel
Honey, you dont feel
No, you dont feel the same

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To Change The World Enough

To change the world enough
you must cease to be afraid
of the poor.
We experience your fear as the least pardonable of
humiliations; in the past
it has sent us scurrying off
daunted and ashamed
into the shadows.
Now,
the world ending
the only one all of us have known
we seek the same
fresh light
you do:
the same high place
and ample table.
The poor always believe
there is room enough
for all of us;
the very rich never seem to have heard
of this.
In us there is wisdom of how to share
loaves and fishes
however few;
we do this everyday.
Learn from us,
we ask you.
We enter now
the dreaded location
of Earth's reckoning;
no longer far
off
or hidden in books
that claim to disclose
revelations;
it is here.
We must walk together without fear.
There is no path without us

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Home, Sweet Home.....

There is no place like home in this world
Home sweet home where I always live so happily
A light from the sky seems to bless us there
and God's love is spread all over there
How happy when you sit with loved ones
and to see their faces full of love smile
How nice to sit near our parents and great parents
and listen to their old stories that bring us lessons too
Our garden full of greenery and the flowers are
bloomed to give us pleasure
All those birds on the trees singing gaily
to give us a peace of mind
Our pets run freely in and out of the house
and keep us busy to watch their naughtiness
When I look at the mountains in their great splendor
that blows with cool breeze that give us healthy life
Our neighbors are dear and so helpful without fear
An exile from home, bring nothing but sadness
Because home is sweet home.


(Sri Lanka/2007)

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Home, sweet home is home with daddy!

I look at the familiar house I call home
I am back home, sweet home after the journey
Be it ever so humble, there's no place like home
There's no place like home, oh, there's no place like home!
Home, sweet home is home with daddy!

I look at Daddy's children, full of expectations
The young man with soiled hands, still jumping on Daddy
The young lady wanting to tell Daddy all the stories of school
It does not matter that Daddy is tired! Daddy is always daddy
Home, sweet home is home with daddy!

I know I have to travel again from home tomorrow
I may go to the nice places, be they palaces or hotels
Marble floors sparkling with reflections of cleanliness
But they are not as homely as home with daddy
Home, sweet home is home with daddy!

I look at everybody wanting to know about the trip of daddy
Everybody wants to know what daddy has brought
Everybody is happy to see daddy home
Daddy is always strong, no tiredness even when tired
Home, sweet home is home with daddy!

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