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Much Like the Naturalness of Making Love

How often do I write?

Daily...
Day and night.

Where do I get such an appetite.

It has been with me most of my life.
It is something love,
Much more than a choice...
Between things I 'like'.

It is a craving I can't explain.
Done for so long...
It is something I do that belongs.

Much like the naturalness of making love!
But when I write,
There is a stimulation that remains.
With an excitement...
I can without climax,
Sustain for hours and prolong!

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Just Like The Rain

Just like the rain,
That pours from the sky,
My love for you will never die.

Just like the rain,
That falls on the ground,
I will always be around.

Just like the rain,
That falls upon me,
I'm as happy as I could ever be.

Just like the rain,
With it's pure beauty,
It surely is a sight to see.

Just like the rain,
I can now see,
We were truly meant to be.

Just like the rain,
Sometimes warm and sometimes cold,
You make my heart, not break, but fold.

Just like the rain,
Beneath your feet,
Just come over here and take a seat.

Just like the rain,
Watch it with me,
So you can begin to see.

Just like the rain,
Who may always know,
That I need to stay, and never go.

Just like the rain,
Who knows what's in my heart,
It knows we should never be apart.

Just like the rain,
Please just stay,
And never go any day.

Just like the rain,
That descends from the sky,
Please, please just give me a try...

Just like the rain,
It doesn't last forever,
But it might if we're together.

Just like the rain,
I'm asking you,
When are you going to?

Just like the rain,
I cannot wait,
Until I'm finally in that place.

Just like the rain,
That's in that place in your heart,
When am I going to be that part?

Just like the rain,
That goes alone,
Am I going to turn into stone?

Just like the rain.
I'm waiting for you,
Waiting until you finally do.

Just like the rain,
That goes away,
Do you really want me to stay?

Just like the rain,
I want to know,
Should I stay or should I go?

Just like the rain,
Before that time is passed,
Why don't you just ask?

Just like the rain,
So mysterious to me,
You are just as much as thee.

Just like the rain,
I feel on my skin,
When will you let this relationship begin?

Just like the rain,
I cannot wait,
So come and ask me,
Before it's too late.

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I Like The Sound Of The Rain Pouring

today i listen to the rain pouring
from the roof to the gutter to the polyvinyl pipe
down to the ground which i filled with pebbles

the water drains to the garden where the roots
take all the joyous time of seeping and drinking
the pure taste of life's waters

it is music to my ears, these slow dripping
much like the rhythm of your classical poetry
Catullus and Sappho and Emily and Pablo.

i realize then that my poems are too inferior
than those unwritten by the grace of nature.
I will not be at a loss, for soon, i shall imitate them.

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More Than A Mother

More Than a Mother by Kenny Davis
You’re more than a mother to me
You’re a better part of my heart
Through all the tears, I look to you
For me, that’s where the joy starts

You’re more than a mother to me
You’re more like a guiding light
There in the mists of the darkness
I am drawn to you, burning so bright

You’re more than a mother to me
You’re like the sunlight after the rain
A comfort after the troubles
Removing all of my pain

You’re more than a mother to me
You’re my calm before the storm
Keeping me grounded, keeping me focused
So my faith may take its form

You’re more than a mother to me
My personal North Star
Finding myself following your glistening glow
For times, when I shall stray afar

You’re more than a mother to me
You’re like the first day of spring
Each smile from you, a simple ray of sunshine
Angels and birds would sing

You’re more than a mother to me
You’re my absolute best friend
Of all the times we have spent and shared
I hope and pray they never end

You’re more than a mother to me
You’re truly one of a kind
I am truly blessed to have a mother like you
I am glad to say you’re mine

© May 2010 K. Davis

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Red Rose Of Love

Red rose for my lover,
Red love from her heart;
Red rose from my lover,
Red love from my heart;
Red rose,
Red heart,
Red love,
Red flower,
To praise the muse of her heart with roses;
Love is all around you.
A rose for me,
A rose that says more than two weeks in water;
Just like the dream that brings tow together,
My heart waits for you always.
Red rose of hearts,
red rose of love,
Like the true life in paradise;
I am living with the rose and,
I have a life to share with her.
Life is like a rose from a tree,
Visiting Canada in style;
Where i have more ice to see.
Roses of red to swim my muse with,
Together with my wife to take a trip;
This red rose is more than two weeks in water!
It is still going strong,
The roses of love on this journey;
Red rose of love,
Red hearts at peace,
Red rose of a muse that muses;
I am living in paradise on my lover's rose.

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Give Me Not Which Does Not Feed

Give me not which does not feed,
Not now!
Or stop the quenching of my thirst,
To have my needs I wish met first.
I've sought avenues,
Where I have fought to pay dues.
And they've been paid,
'As' I continue to pave my way...
Through ever changing obstacles,
That have attempted to keep me...
Distant from connecting with the realities,
Of my desires that would please!
And erased from teasing,
Those sacrifices I have made.
Indeed!
I have worked my tasks,
To satisfy that grasp!
And so sweet it would be,
To see my dreams come true!
For me.
To undo delusion and fantasy!

Give me not which does not feed,
Not now!
Nor allow a nibbling needlessly,
With nonsense that has been known...
To bleed my emotions shown!
Growing once...
To throw away more than twice,
A nitpicking on my nerves nonstop!
Coming as I doubted...
Although greeted uninvited sorrows!

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Patrick White

My Back Aching Like The Sky Goddess Nut Doing Yoga

My back aching like the sky goddess Nut doing yoga
over a sidereal painting that's burning like a bridge.
I've been many kinds of fool before, some just silly, some profound
but this is the work of a sacred clown hemorrhaging in the heavens
like the supernova of a pot of gold at the end of a ragged rainbow
still shining through the remnants of a colourful wardrobe.
I've been accelerating into space driven by a muse
of dark energy with an expansive heart. Time stops
as I exceed the speed of light across a threshold of starclusters
flowering in my wake like New England asters
with cadmium yellow suns with auras of orange coronas
glowing in their eyes. The apartment is silent
except for the trickling of the water pump in the aquarium
and a dance arrangement of goldfish that are swimming
in synchronicity with my thoughts and feelings
as if the heart of a human can speak through many voices
like the wind through the harps of the trees,
like the angels that descend among the daughters of men
when they're feathered in their beds at night like black swans,
or stars rooted in their own decay like waterlilies
that just don't know when to quit making beauty
out of the muddy deltas of their creative bloodlines.

She's firewalking in her sleep by now I hope, watching
a documentary of how the universe works in another city.
I'm flipping through the pages of the rooftops of Perth
outside my window like a weirdly bound heritage history book,
trying not to get any paint from my fingers on the view of the stars overhead.
Arcturus in Bootes still flying its kite in the west.
I need some rest. I've been bleeding like a cut rose
on the blades of the moon all day, and I feel threshed,
a cylinder of hay left out in the open starfields
for the black horse she told me to put in my last painting
to show something grazing under the full moon
like an eclipse that just discovered it had life on it
lyrically at peace with the siloes of light in the distance.
Even when love is cosmically oriented, God
how it loves to focus on the mystic details of everything
right down to the eyelashes of the ruby throated hummingbirds
hovering in a Pleiades of first magnitude larkspur.

Sometimes I feel like the fossil of a dreamcatcher
in the Burgess Shale, but right now, my third eye's wholly open
and I'm casting silver nets I've woven out of
my axons, blood vessels, nerve ganglia,
lunar fuses of serpent fire coiled around my spinal cord
like a helical riff of a bass run on a burning guitar
I'm holding like a metaphor for the body of a woman in my arms.

When I told you I was a sacred clown. I didn't invent it.
I meant it. I feel it. I can dance for ghosts at a seance.
I can dance for rain and war. I can paint my face blue
with moonlight and wode, and dance for peace, dance for fire,
dance for someone like you to step out of the darkness
as if someone had shaped a jewel out of the northern lights
and I was looking at it from the inside out through your eyes
on a a night of the new moon that isn't on any calendars
that are going to hang doom over my my voodoo heart
because there's never been a curse from the mouth of a Druid or Mayan
that could stand up to the courage that it takes
to receive a blessing without worrying what mistakes
inspiration might make when your muse is as flawless
as imagination obedient to the laws of her own myth of origin
and your art elucidates the crazy wisdom of your folly
like a discipline that isn't for the petty or sane at heart.

The stargates just don't open for those who are still in their right mind.
Just as the maple key to your entry, isn't about
what you leave out like a sin of omission that's culpably blind,
but what you leave innocently behind you
like mountain streams, and morning snails,
and the long uncombed comatose trails of sleepwalking comets
plunging from their dark haloes like Icarus
into a sun that only shines at midnight
like a candle on a windowsill calling out
like a poet for a new medium that's lightyears beyond words
to the first of the autumn stars purring like a cat in her dreams
when she hears the holy nightbird just before the dawn
knowing Regulus and Spica and all the stars of my art
won't pale in the lotus of the heart like real jewels in the eyes
of a sacred clown whenever he looks for her
shining in the ascendent of Leo long after
the Lyre, and the Swan, and the Eagle have all gone down
and all these poems I write on the wings of Luna moths,
enraptured by the sphinx of her radiance, are irrevocably skybound.

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You are like the ink of my pen

You are like the ink of my pen
I write about you now and then
Your heart is my favorite den
I think of you more than often
You are as pretty as crowned crane
You are dream of ambitious men
For you my door is wide open
You are like my sweet oxygen
You are my last word like amen
Without you life seems like a bane
Without you I become insane
If I am Tarzan you are Jane

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When Things Go Wrong Babe

when things go wrong babe
keep the code of silence
do not trust the words
that want to get out from
the panic of your mouth
take the safest step
swallow your pride
keep the utmost vigilance
of the walls and fences
grip the rails and stay
within the limits of your boundaries
descend the stairs of vanity
and open the doors and windows
like the way you open your mind
when things go wrong babe
think of me, close your eyes
hold me and feel me
for in me arrogance is estranged
in my heart is love unchanged

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What We Write Sometimes Strike Us

after a day
i read what has been written

it shocks me sometimes to see
a different picture

bearing another interpretation
of these realities

it is like a tree bearing new surprises
of leaves and flowers

not on its proper season yet
June is usually the month of its fruits

there must be error for the month of May
something strikes me

things pop out, a word a phrase
losing their meanings

faded, and scratched
sometimes i ask, what is this?

this is not it, not me,
how come that it is here?

i drag it in a socket of the bone
to keep it

it protrudes as a fracture
a story with a plot of its own

a poem whose metaphor
anymore, i cannot decipher.

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How Often Do You Bat Your Eyes?

Can you explain to us,
With clarity...
How you were able to do that,
And this.
And that.
And this.
And that.
And still leaving us to believe,
We had our eye on you.
With many of us agreeing,
We saw you do absolutely nothing...
You have claimed to have done.

'Oh...
They are not 'claims'.
Those are facts!
That's why I've listed them...
In an order,
To make my efforts...
Easy for you to tract.
Have you discovered an embellishment?
Or an exaggeration stated with false content? '

Nooooo...
We have not!

'Then why are you on my path taking up my time? '

We just can not understand amongst ourselves...
How you have found the time to do this!

'Let me ask you this question? '

By all means,
Go ahead.

'How did you do these things? '

How often do you bat your eyes?

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Things Aint Like They Used To Be

(chorus)
Are you wondering why
No one talks any more
And all you hear
Is the cry for war
Are you wondering if
There are people who
Hurt inside the same as you
There are grey-faced men always telling me
Things aint like they used to be
You kids have got no self respect
Wake up old man to your neglectbr> its dog eat dog
Its hand to mouth
Its east and west
Its north and south
Just like you drummed it into me
Things aint like they used to be
Ill tell you why I cant afford
To hang my hopes upon your word
And when Im done, Ill join the queue
And take my chance, no thanks to you
Its in or out
Its stop and go
It isnt what
Its who you know
Ive heard you, now can you hear me
Things aint like they used to be
Ancient rules for ancient men
But this is now and that was then
Dont lay your heavy hand on me
And sink me in your poison sea
Its us and them
Its me and you
Its guessing games
Its what to do
Exactly like you said to me
Things aint like they used to be
(chorus)
Are you wondering why
No one talks any more
And all you hear
Is the cry for war
Are you wondering if
There are people who
Hurt inside the same as you

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Life in Motion

I am not regular visitor
To shrines, churches or mosques
Yet I believe firmly in creator
But I find long wait and queues

I am blessed with his kind eye
That sees whole universe with smile
I find no tense moments when stat to write
As the wind carries in sky my little kite

We are held firmly by his wishes
How many may be daily waiting to perish?
Some may be parting with so much pleasure!
And some may be unfulfilled with discomfort and unsure

I did the work with difference
Projected all views through sentences
Might have gone here and there without precision
Yet that was perfect moment with clear decision

I knew no meaning of good poetry
I thought it may fine putting of words like good oratory
It proved little difficult when put into practice
It seemed all the more difficult to fulfill promises

It remained very in tense at heart
Some one rightly said” it is prayer with art”
Not all can sing a praises in his songs
As we are selfish and prove all the time wrong

My heart aches when hear some bitter words
I don’t take it to heart and believe in lord
I close eyes and pray for next good moment
Never bear a grudge in mind or lament

This makes me less vulnerable
I am more confident and capable
Poetic words flow from innocent heart
I think life can make with it a good start

What else can I do to project it properly?
But I have found the way to feel it happily
I think it is pure grace that poems flow directly
Those words create some harmony in mind divinely

Sure those words may be cutting across
People may be finding it boring or clear loss
I take it simple way of reaching to kind people
If little can be done to relieve their problems and troubles

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Not Regular Visitor

I am not regular visitor
To shrines, churches or mosques
Yet I believe firmly in creator
But I find long wait and queues

I am blessed with his kind eye
That sees whole universe with smile
I find no tense moments when stat to write
As the wind carries in sky my little kite

We are held firmly by his wishes
How many may be daily waiting to perish?
Some may be parting with so much pleasure!
And some may be unfulfilled with discomfort and unsure

I did the work with difference
Projected all views through sentences
Might have gone here and there without precision
Yet that was perfect moment with clear decision

I knew no meaning of good poetry
I thought it may fine putting of words like good oratory
It proved little difficult when put into practice
It seemed all the more difficult to fulfill promises

It remained very in tense at heart
Some one rightly said” it is prayer with art”
Not all can sing a praises in his songs
As we are selfish and prove all the time wrong

My heart aches when hear some bitter words
I don’t take it to heart and believe in lord
I close eyes and pray for next good moment
Never bear a grudge in mind or lament

This makes me less vulnerable
I am more confident and capable
Poetic words flow from innocent heart
I think life can make with it a good start

What else can I do to project it properly?
But I have found the way to feel it happily
I think it is pure grace that poems flow directly
Those words create some harmony in mind divinely

Sure those words may be cutting across
People may be finding it boring or clear loss
I take it simple way of reaching to kind people
If little can be done to relieve their problems and troubles

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Every Time I Open My Eyes

Night or day
I dream of you
Dream of spending time with you too
Dream we decided to fall in love and that you'd always stay
Sometimes it makes me want to sleep all the time
What's the point of being awake
When during my dreams is when I'm happy
Because during my dreams you're here with me
I'll try to sleep for your sake
We've had the best times together these past three weeks
Even though I haven't seen you in awhile
Every night I go to sleep with a smile

But every morning, every time I wake up
I feel the depression, someone take this cup
Because every time I open my eyes I'm still alone
No matter how sweet the dream, it ends
No matter how much love my heart sends
The dreams they end and when I open my eyes I'm empty
When I open my eyes I'm still alone, I'm still me.... just me
I almost don't want to dream for fear of harsh reality
I know it's selfish of me
To want to dream all day and then not because it hurts my feelings
I wish I could just tape up my heart with sealings
And not let anyone is because all I dream of is true love
And all I can think when I wake up is: I'm completely alone
I'm unloved
I can't write poetry, and I can't rhyme
I have no skill, and I have no true love
EVERY SINGLE TIME MY EYES ARE OPEN!
I'm just alone even when I close my eyes to cry, the second they open tears
Come again, because I'm still alone...
It's gotten to the point where I can barely cry I've drowned in my emotion
I almost wish for death again, anything to end this loneliness
Why do I seek love so ardently when I have nothing left to give of me...
Maybe that's why when I open my eyes I may be a young boy
But I feel like
'An old man, filled with regrets, waiting to die alone.'

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Woman And The Weed

(FOUNDED ON A NEW ZEALAND MYTH.)

In the Morning of Time, when his fortunes began,
How bleak, how un-Greek, was the Nature of Man!
From his wigwam, if ever he ventured to roam,
There was nobody waiting to welcome him home;
For the Man had been made, but the woman had NOT,
And Earth was a highly detestable spot.
Man hated his neighbours; they met and they scowled,
They did not converse but they struggled and howled,
For Man had no tact--he would ne'er take a hint,
And his notions he backed with a hatchet of flint.

So Man was alone, and he wished he could see
On the Earth some one like him, but fairer than he,
With locks like the red gold, a smile like the sun,
To welcome him back when his hunting was done.
And he sighed for a voice that should answer him still,
Like the affable Echo he heard on the hill:
That should answer him softly and always agree,
AND OH, Man reflected, HOW NICE IT WOULD BE!

So he prayed to the Gods, and they stooped to his prayer,
And they spoke to the Sun on his way through the air,
And he married the Echo one fortunate morn,
And Woman, their beautiful daughter, was born!
The daughter of Sunshine and Echo she came
With a voice like a song, with a face like a flame;
With a face like a flame, and a voice like a song,
And happy was Man, but it was not for long!

For weather's a painfully changeable thing,
Not always the child of the Echo would sing;
And the face of the Sun may be hidden with mist,
And his child can be terribly cross if she list.
And unfortunate Man had to learn with surprise
That a frown's not peculiar to masculine eyes;
That the sweetest of voices can scold and can sneer,
And cannot be answered--like men--with a spear.

So Man went and called to the Gods in his woe,
And they answered him--'Sir, you would needs have it so:
And the thing must go on as the thing has begun,
She's immortal--your child of the Echo and Sun.
But we'll send you another, and fairer is she,
This maiden with locks that are flowing and free.
This maiden so gentle, so kind, and so fair,
With a flower like a star in the night of her hair.
With her eyes like the smoke that is misty and blue,
With her heart that is heavenly, and tender, and true.
She will die in the night, but no need you should mourn,
You shall bury her body and thence shall be born
A weed that is green, that is fragrant and fair,
With a flower like the star in the night of her hair.
And the leaves must ye burn till they offer to you
Soft smoke, like her eyes that are misty and blue.

'And the smoke shall ye breathe and no more shall ye fret,
But the child of the Echo and Sun shall forget:
Shall forget all the trouble and torment she brings,
Shall bethink ye of none but delectable things;
And the sound of the wars with your brethren shall cease,
While ye smoke by the camp-fire the great pipe of peace.'
So the last state of Man was by no means the worst,
The second gift softened the sting of the first.

Nor the child of the Echo and Sun doth he heed
When he dreams with the Maid that was changed to the weed;
Though the Echo be silent, the Sun in a mist,
The Maid is the fairest that ever was kissed.
And when tempests are over and ended the rain,
And the child of the Sunshine is sunny again,
He comes back, glad at heart, and again is at one
With the changeable child of the Echo and Sun.

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Didn't Expect It

I never thought you will move back to California forever because of me I make you leave here
I’m feel so horrible and I
Didn’t expect it
Once I found out it hurts so much
It opens my eyes
Now you are gone
I didn’t make right choices and
Break you into million pieces
Things will never be same
I’m so sorry
I feel like I know you forever
We were so close in school in 10th grade
How I can get over you
You were different and what I’m looking for
I can be me around you and have fun with you, but
Things change in 11th grade
I cant smile, laugh, and have fun like I use to around you
I regret for not dating you
You know how I feel about you
I never give us a chance
What have I done?
I didn’t see how you were good for me
Letting you down, I feel so bad
Most of poems I write are about you
That’s all I think to write about is you
I’m out of words to write because of you
On the hand
You told me that you never want to go out with me
It don’t seems like you mean it, I bet you did
You wish we were dating by the way I’m with other guys and
Not with you flirting, smiling and having good time
Memories of us have fun, laugh, hurt by each other,
Joy and time we had spent in class in 10th grade
I never going forget it after all and
It impossible to do that
I miss you too much I know I have to let you go, but
It hurts too much and to be with other guys
It’s not same like when I with you and
I cant love them like I did with you
All I think about is you
There something I need to figure out
Why I cant let you go yet?
What I like about you that was special?
I don't know yet
I'm so clueless
I bet you had move on and dating someone else
It’s not my business
I need to move on too
You gone forever and
You thought you knew me but you don't, I do
I’m not going let you hold me back
I make you wait too long
I thought second chance
I will I get you but I didn’t
I lie and you hate people lying to you
You did too and you put people in your games
I did or say things make you change your feelings about me
I was so confused and hopeless
It all happen so fast and so much going on
I feel so bad
My life getting worster in school
I cant blame you and I
Didn’t expect it
When you hurt me back and get revenge
You are one to blame on and me too
This end in tragedy and so many damages happen
This is life
We are one to be blame
We like to get attention that’s
What all our friends say I bet
We turn out to be jerk especially you
I will never spread rumors about you like the way you did to me
I feel so hurt and sad that you did that
This side I never saw before
You do anything to hurt me back so badly
My heart is shatter
I thought you were different
Everything reminds me of you
My friends were right about you
I need to take their advices
They getting tired of this and mad
They hate when I changes
They want me stop living like this
You never care about me
Wow, I’m shock right now
I feel so dumb for loving you this long and so much
I’m just speechless right now and I need to live my life
Having fun every day and night
Life is short like I say
Didn’t expect it
To know it now is better
I can move on for good
I’m stupid to wait around longer
Their never going be us or chances going happen
Is all over now and
You live in west of United Stated
I need to trust people and stop lying
Didn’t expect it

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The Impossible and the Possible.

Poem Title: The struggle to overcome the difference between the Impossible and the Possible
Acrostic Poem 166a

The struggle to overcome the difference between the impossible and the possible.
Hope being the word that springs to mind to link these two opposites to attract.
Eternally wandering Cyber space side by side hooking onto every adjective or verb.

Seeking Impossible causes to take away excuses and make them once more possible.
To overcome the bigoted, blind, self centred mind set of the un-believers.
Reaching corners of the mind that you of Christian or Muslim Faith never thought existed.
Unless you have spent all your life on earth in a cocoon not within real time.
God has chosen you to teach the differences between the Impossible and Possible.
Given that if at first you don`t succeed... You`ll get it right next time.
Love for all your Fellow Men and Women may seem Impossible. Trust me it`s the only way.
Every possibility, has been at sometime within it`s life...seemed Impossible.

Take the making of a silk purse from one sows ear. If you will
Or the finding of a needle in a hay-stack or the abolition of third world hunger and the like.

Or the creation of the Love of Nation unto Nation... The end to all War or domination
Very nearly every single problem has a solution, indeed sometimes many solutions do exist.
Electricity, how unbelievable to the even the wisest man once upon a time thought “impossible”
Radio waves converted into the sweetest sounds ever heard by mortal Man
Communication instant Chat across the Globe in real time ….one to one...”Impossible”
Of loving commitment between different creeds and cultures without ever meeting possible.
Mighty soon God will look down on earth and see the two words rolled into one!
Entreating the Impossible always Possible and the Possible never Impossible.

The struggle to overcome the difference between the Impossible and the Possible.
Holy Holy Holy, Eureka, Glory be! We are getting there, I do believe I really do believe.
Eternally where two Poets or more can get together to speak as one, in one Like-minded.

Difference between the Impossible and the Possible are reduced to nil
In practical terms every metaphor, rhetoric, noun or verb or adjective can be polished.
From the most impossible dream into the possible reality of the finest prose ever written.
From the dullest of dyslectic mutterings to the most flowery of sweetest love songs.
Endlessly tripping from the lips of stranger meeting stranger, wisest verse ever heard.
Re-acting opposites attracting the Impossible with the Possible. Judge for yourselves.
Enacting with the humble Poet that composed this message. You may never chance to meet.
Never in a Thousand years of trying, these chances, sure don't happen every day.
Catch the Impossible catch on the very boundaries of your mind to make a difference.
Every chance that one single catch will win your team the Game.

By making then the Impossible Possible, you have changed in one action the life you have.
Every Impossible thought can then be dismissed from your mind possibly forever
The sun to leave the sky, the rivers all run dry, a baby not to cry ….Impossible.
We have that song within our mind, which keeps our feet upon the ground
Every now and then to be able to accept that all things are not Possible.
Even Magicians from time to time cannot turn however hard they try by Day and
Night the experiments to turn base metals into Gold, for no good reason!

The Gold that they seek is common currency to any Poet to compose
Heroic Epic verses Odes, Rhyming Verse and translations left right and centre.
Ethereal Gifts making sense of the hopeless jumble of English words and Idioms.


Impossible smilies such as impracticable, unfeasible, unworkable, unattainable, inconceivable.
Measured against the conceivable by removing the whole reason for failure or excuse to fail.
Possible solutions are always potentially available to the ever open mind of a true Poet
Obtain if you will the very unobtainable, for if you believe in God you most probably will
Subjected to the most absurd verbal abuse of an un-romantic Philistine or carping Critic.
Stand up upon your highest tip-toe.tall as you can be, yell and yell, making yourself heard.
In so doing even an ugly Giant, fearsome, fire -breathing ogre will be confused for the moment.
Blinded by the Impossible Beauty of the Prose you Write and the clever songs you sing.
Like the charming of a deadly Cobra, mesmerized, into loving you and every living thing.
Every time you may have doubt creeping into your positive progress in Life with negativity.

Awake in that moment and assume that Nothing is Nothing Like as Impossible as it seems.
Nothing was ever impossible to God the one true creator, he passes on his skill to you ..
Do not be lead to believe by others that your way of life is ludicrous, if it works for you.

The struggle to overcome the difference between the Impossible and the Possible.
Herculean. If you stop to think about it, best have the courage of faith that you will resolve.
Each and everything you ever put your mind to, unacceptably, out of the question!


Practicable, solutions and compromise, dilutes the acid contamination to perfection.
Oh, I have seen this in my Life so many times before, as I hope to see many times again.
So take away any silly excuse for failure, place the tools to make the unthinkable thinkable.
Substitute the negatives for a positive frame of mind...the unreasonable to being reasonable.
Illogical thoughts and actions you convert by your process of logical practical analysis
Before too long, my goodness, there it is before your very eyes, the “ Solution”
Like a magic wand, covered in fairy dust, making every impossible task possible in real time.
Earth took it`s creator only six days to design and several million to get itHow it is

Acrostic poem written … 8th March 2010 to 11th March 2010

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Patrick White

It's Not Like The Face In The Flower Of The Star

It's not like the face in the flower of the star
grows more beautiful the more times it's looked at,
it's just that it's humanizing
the vast, cold spaces within you
with your own awareness of it so that
when you spot Arcturus shining through the trees
as you have since childhood and call out its name
it's you that shines brighter
a magnitude more for the moment.
Affable familiars in a big, lonely space
acknowledging each other in passing
as if, animate and inanimate, the same,
what we all hold in common
since we started kicking in the womb
is this life of perpetual exile. Shape-shifters,
driven out of the bliss of oblivion, to bury the bell
of our agony in the stillness of an alien place
and try to love everyone who'll let us
as if they weren't a stranger at the gate.

O the appellations the mind applies to its formlessness
in a world of forms to befriend its cosmic isolation.
That fills space up with stars and birds
suggested by its senses and then casts a spell
like a grammar of things to turn them into words
to start a conversation with chaos as if we weren't all
talking to ourselves. We put lifemasks on everything
like an old Greek play and act out our tragedy
like a dilemma gored on the horns of the goat gods
as if they had a clear grasp of what we were talking about.
Asking a question doesn't change
the ambiguous nature of the issue
and when no one answers isn't proof
the silence is divine. Bright vacancy, dark abundance,
nothing includes everything in it
like a table of contents for the mind
that plays host to its own imaginary guests.

The door bell rings and the world's
standing in the doorway bearing gifts
that have no other meaning other than
they're addressed to you the way life
nourishes itself on its own emptiness
as if every moment were a cause of celebration
engendered by your own inspiration.
Every song in the distance is the ancestral echo
of your own voice in an abyss
you're trying to relate to by listening
as if you were sounding the depths
of the mystery you must be to yourself
to live among your own creations as if
someone signed you too. Your name
scrawled in cadmium red blood across
a white canvas of albino eyes in the dark.
Imagination obedient to the freedom
of its own lawlessness to create as it is urged to
on a caprice, a gust of stars, the nudge of an atom,
whole new paradigms of space and time
it will answer to as if someone called its name.

If the same eye by which I see the star
is the eye by which the star sees me,
then who's the creator, who's the creation?
So if someone were to ask me the colour of my eyes,
I'd show them a painting I did
of blue weed towering beside a dirt road
or a moonscape I dashed off one starless night
between the clouds. Or even further afield,
if I felt they'd been siderealized sufficiently,
the blue auras of trace elements grinding galaxies
into mirrors they can see themselves in
like leggy gazelles come down to the shore
to drink from their own reflection of themselves
like telescopes alert to the eyes that lie in wait for them.

Everywhere I wander down these pathless ways
through my homelessness, I meet myself
like a mirage at the end of a cul de sac,
and I walk through it like a wall
or two galaxies passing through each other
without disturbing a star, I embody such distances,
and I encounter hypnotists from all quarters
that call themselves seekers of the truth
trying to wake up from their own magic
as if they hadn't caught on to their own minds yet
and were still underestimating the power of their illusions.
Why wash the stars off the windows, or sweep
the scars of the autumn leaves off the stairs
expecting the enlightened arrival
of the lord and lady of the manor any day now
as if you could get a grasp on the nature
of your own emptiness like a servant
looking for a master in your own image?

Everything nasty and blind,
everything beautiful and sublime
are the facets of a clear jewel
turning in the light of the void.
All that is separated, all that is enjoined,
all that are searching and finding
and losing themselves again like solar flares
on a return journey back to the sun
or rivers flowing into themselves
as if every wave crossed the threshold of itself
into an openness exhilarated by
the expansive gesture of its presence,
are just the hidden secret of you
wanting to be known by a world
you whisper into your own ear
as if you'd never heard the sound
of your own voice before the wind
began to throw the sea into turmoil
and you were swept ashore out of
the inconceivability of your own emptiness
like a myth of awareness sadly in need of an origin.

So you end up creating a world
out of your own inner resources and calling it
mother or father in the hopes it might be able
to explain what you're doing here by yourself.
And that's how you get lost in the labyrinths
of your own being, that's how your wires get crossed
in the short circuits of your lifelines
tangled up in kites like morning glory
that wouldn't fly. You keep asking simulacrums
of your own creativity about things
that only you on your own, lonelier than God,
projected imaginatively like a lifemask
you created in your own image
onto the formlessness of an invisible space within you,
can be the answer to. The moment
you say I am to yourself and realize
that you're not even there to recognize it
the little thumb puppet in three pounds of starmud
dematerializes like something solid
into the presence of the real. You revel like a child
in the creative liberty of not keeping your own distance
from anything in existence, knowing
in the crazy wisdom of your second innocence
the only thing that binds you to it
or separates you from it, is a sense of play.
That everytime you say I am without
including the whole universe in it as well
it becomes the wayward paradigm
of another brilliant mistake with feet of clay.
Or as Archibald Lampman said
dead of a heart attack at thirty-six,
poor shining angels whom the hoofs betray.

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Sancho Sanchez

Sancho Sanchez lay a--dying in the house of Mariquita,
For his life ebbed with the ebbing of the red wound in his side.
And he lay there as they left him when he came from the Corrida
In his gold embroidered jacket and his red cloak and his pride.

But at cockcrow in the morning, when the convents of Sevilla
Suddenly rang loud to matins, Sanchez wakened with a cry,
And he called to Mariquita, bade her summon his cuadrilla,
That they all might stand around him in the hour when he should die.

For he thought in his bold bosom, ``I have ventured with them often,
And have led the way to honour upon every ring in Spain.
And now in this the hardest of the fields that I have fought in
I would choose that every face of them were witness of my pain.

``For their stern eyes would upbraid me if I went down to the battle
Without a friend to cheer me, or at least a fool to hiss.
And they hold it all unworthy men should die like fatted cattle
Stricken singly in the darkness at the shambles of Cadiz.''

Then he bade the lamps be lighted, and he made them bring a mirror,
Lest his cheeks should have grown paler in the watches of the night.
For he feared lest his disciples should mistrust his soul of terror,
When they came to look upon him, if they saw his face was white.

Oh, long time in the mirror did he look with awful smiling
At the eyes which gazed out at him, while the women watched him mute.
And he marked how death's white fingers had been clammily defiling
The redness of God's image and had wiped the sunburns out.

Then he spake, ``Go fetch the carmine from the side drawer of the table,
Where Mariquita keeps it.'' But, when it was not found,
``'Tis no matter,'' answered Sanchez, ``we must do what we are able.''
And he painted his cheeks' paleness with the red blood of his wound.

And anon there came a murmur as of voices and a humming
On the staircase, and he knew them by their footsteps at the door.
And he leant up on his pillow that his eyes might see them coming
In their order of the plaza as they strode across the floor.

And when they stood around him, in their stately mantas folded,
With a solemn grief outawing the brute laughter of their eyes,
You had deemed them in the lamplight to be bronzen statues moulded
Of the powers of Nature yielding a brave man in sacrifice.

But the soul of Sanchez quailed not, and he laughed in their sad faces,
Crying loud to Mariquita for the Valdepeñas wine.
``A fair pig--skin, Caballeros, blushes here for your embraces.
And I drink to you your fortune, and I pray you drink to mine.''

Then they filled their leathern flagons, and they held them up together
In a ghastly expectation till their chief should give the sign.
And the red wine in the silence flowed like blood adown the leather.
And the red blood from the pillow trickled drop by drop like wine.

Spake the Master, ``Ere I pledge you, look upon me, men, and hearken,
For I have a thing to utter, and a dying man is wise.
Death is weighing down my eyelids. Silently your faces darken.
But another torch is lighted than the daylight in my eyes.

``Life, I see it now as never I had thought to comprehend it,
Like the lines which old Manola used to write upon the sand,
And we looked on in wonder nor guessed till it was ended
The birds and trees and faces which were growing from her hand.

``Meaning was there from the outset, glorious meaning in our calling,
In the voice of emulation and our boyhood's pride of soul,
From the day when first, the capa from our father's shoulders falling,
We were seized with inspiration and rushed out upon the bull.

``Meaning was there in our courage and the calm of our demeanour,
For there stood a foe before us which had need of all our skill.
And our lives were as the programme, and the world was our arena,
And the wicked beast was death, and the horns of death were hell.

``And the boast of our profession was a bulwark against danger
With its fearless expectation of what good or ill may come,
For the very prince of darkness shall burst forth on us no stranger
When the doors of death fly open to the rolling of the drum.

``As I lay here in the darkness, I beheld a sign from Heaven:
Standing close a golden angel by the footpost of my bed,
And in his hand a letter with the seal and arms engraven
Of the glorious San Fernando which he bade me read and read.

``And the message of his master, the blessed king my patron,
Was to bid me in his honour to hold myself at need
For this very day and morning of his feast and celebration,
And in pledge of his high favour he had sent me his own steed.

``For the lists of Heaven were open, and that day they had decreed it
There should be a special function for the glory of his name.
And the beasts were Sevillanos, and a master's hand was needed
Lest the swords of Heaven should falter and the Saint be put to shame.

``And I heard the potro stamping in the street, and would have risen
But that Mariquita held me and the women and my wound.
And, though the angel left me, it was truth and not a vision,
And I know the Saint has called me, and the place where I am bound.

``I shall fight this day in Heaven, and, though all Hell shall assail me,
I have hope of a good issue, for perhaps I have some skill,
And perhaps, if I should stumble or if my hand should fail me,
There are others in the plaza who have vowed me less than ill.

``And my mantle of salvation is the faith which is our charter,
And the Virgin of the Pillar my protector and reward,
And the hosts of Heaven my witness and each Spanish Saint and Martyr,
And our lord Don Santiago himself has lent the sword.''

Thus he spoke, and on his speaking fell a silence and a wonder,
While the eyes of his companions turned in awe from each to each,
And they waited in expectance for the gates to roll asunder
And the voices of the angels to command him to the breach,--

Waited till the sun uprising sent his glory through the chamber,
And the spent lamps paled and flickered on the shame of their dismay,
And the dying man transfigured passed in silence from his slumber,
Like a king to coronation, in the light of his new day.

Only they that stood the closest say the pale lips curved and parted,
And the eyes flashed out in battle, and the fingers sought the sword.
``'Tis the President has called him,'' said Fernandez the true hearted,
``He has thrown his hat behind him for the glory of the Lord!''

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Patrick White

When Imagination And Reality Are One

When imagination and reality are one
and there's no recourse for civilization
to distinguish between them by usage and consensus,
and the light of the stars isn't condemned
to a life of hard labour as a torch in a coal mine
looking for diamonds you can drink by the grailful
until you're as satiate as oblivion, there's no doubt
the mind is an artist riffing on the new strings of the rain
or painting it in picture-music like a poet or a scientist
who look deranged to those who've averaged out
the crucials of the mindscape like the odds of a lottery,
convinced as they are like pilgrims walking
from one end of their sacred asphalt driveways
to the other, that one size fits all, and that these
enlightened journeys without destinations
are just circles that haven't been squared yet.

But if you're off on your own,
making roads with your walking you're the first
to set foot on like the moon of a spaced-out planet
you're trying to turn into something habitable,
remember it's an act of compassion not to lock the door
to the available dimensions of the future when you leave.
Remember that all six of your senses
live in the world you creatively visualize
like the aura of the life that surrounds you
like an ongoing masterpiece of incompletion.
Without them you might be a master of making trees,
but, hey, man, where are the birds?
I don't hear anything singing.
There's nothing to taste or touch or listen to.
No appearances to deceive your consciousness with.

When your eye's got an idea of the kind of star
it wants to be, before it's learned to see, it never shines.
Wondering what flora to root where in the expanding abyss
of the night before you, scatter the stars across the firmament
as if you were sowing the unknown seeds of the wildflowers
that scuttled themselves like arks
in the cracked creekbeds of your neocortical starmud
and waited patiently like hibernating frogs
for the conditioned chaos of the rain
to come like a flashflood of life-nourishing insight.

And when you're annihilated
by the mystic terror of your own freedom
jimmying with the G-spot on your prison locks
to get them to open up like a coven of doves
that want to release their omens like feathers on the wind
that can scry and fly where they want,
don't linger in the doorway of your liberation.
Hesitation is the flypaper of light.
Stare straight into the eyes of the Medusa
until she's the one that blinks first in the savage snake pit
and the stone bird of your heart thaws like a volcano
potting islands in the draconian heat of its bloodstream
and the Gorgons start dancing to the music of their classical hair-dos
as if they could hear the wavelengths
of a pan flute lapping nearby like water.

Kiss the serpent fire on the head
if you want to honour the shapeshifter
that sets your dark energy free to assume the form
of the world that moults the chrysalis of your imagination
that reassembles the rubble of the last gasp
into a house of transformation that fits you
like a bubble of supple skin where you alone
are the myth and physics of its origination.
And whatever world provides you with the mindscape
of your exploration, you recognize by the style
it's painted in as everywhere a work of your own
signed by the wind in the left hand bottom corner of the sky.

Hard to tell the wells from the fountains
in the mingling mindstream that flows like life lines
into the frayed deltas of your palm. And what madness
hasn't always alloyed its backbone to the swords of the sane
defending their indigenous traditions of soft metal?
Don't stare into your cauldron as if you were trying
to read the future by the lint in your belly-button.
Actualize your magic and stir the womb a bit like a master of departures
with an intuitive genius for unitive metaphors.
Mix the paint on the palette into necromantic shades
of new underworlds weeping jewels on the roots
of the fireflowers bearing forbidden fruits
they'll carry by the armful with them out of the garden
like refugees running from an abandoned embassy
that used to give them shelter from themselves with impunity.

No limit. You can live in as many worlds as there are
grains of dust and pollen, where you're not allergic
to the stars, and the constellations come like the empty baggage
of a book that hasn't written a word to anyone,
nor appointed an alpha like the book end of a beginning
to balance the long vowel of omega at the other extreme
to let you know when it's all been said, and it's time
to lay the cornerstone of a myth of origin of your own,
a pebble in the random tide of providential events,
that doesn't need more than one leg to stand on
like a heron hunting fish in the bestiaries of the moon
that's finally given up its dead like a graveyard of Orphic skulls.

Imagine your way like smoke through the eye of a keyhole
into spaces you create by your very being there
to summon them from the abyss, a carillon of dragons
on a holy day of reptiles when the lowest are blessed with wings,
or wall yourself into an aesthetically sealed garden
where the rain perennially washes the blood of the children
who finger-painted the flowers on your thin skin off,
and luxuriate in your fastidious appetite for insignificant details.
Mind is an artist. Able to paint the worlds as a sin of omission,
a sum of destructions, or the negative space of a hand
breaching stone with a spiritual tattoo on its palm,
indelibly invisible as nothing for whom nothing is out of reach.
Make heaven. Make hell. Who you are is where you live.
Nest in a bell like a bird under the roof of your mouth
or root like lightning in a cloud you left unweeded.

Out of the random ignitions and annihilations of dark matter
bombarding your senses like anti-photonic fireflies
emerges a world of shadows into the light
of your imagination like the rising of a new moon
engendered out of you restoring yourself to it
like a lost atmosphere that got carried away by wings.
You can say things into existence word by word
or you can talk them to death in the silence
that follows the ghost of ideas like darkness follows us.
Or you can let the night bird deep
in the solitude of your heart sing
your fervent yearning for a companionable world
into being sweeter than the immensity of your creative freedom
to long for it as if what were missing
would always seem somehow more real than what was not.

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