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Not One Time Have I Not Been On Your Side

Not one time,
Have I not been on your side.

Each time I offered my opinion,
In your behave...
You were the first to refute my thoughts.
To announce publicly,
You can speak for yourself.

But refused to do it!

If I am going to be reprimanded,
For taking a stand you dislike.
Perhaps you should consider,
Fighting your own battles.
And not choose me to backbite.
Because my choice of words,
Are not yours...
When you decide to run from sight.

That invites more confusion.
Since from behind the scenes,
You are the one who incites,
Indecision and division.
To have others believe to do this is right.

And you don't have the guts,
To confront them and speak up!
Yet you want them to have me be perceived,
As the one who should be ignored...
If I don't keep my own mouth shut!

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If I'm Not The One You Want

If I'm not the one you want
Take your time to figure out
I'm starin at your picture every night
The scent of you still lingers in my mind
I wonder if your alone and feel alright
And the sun has come out of the clouds
And sometimes when I listen to our song
The night seems so cold and far too long
I wanna call you up cuz in the end
I keep writing letters to my garbage can
Lately, feels like I'm going crazy and
Baby, come and lay down beside me
If I'm not the one you want
Then who's he?
Take your time to figure out
And you'll see
If I'm not the one you want
Then maybe
I'll be the one you need
I feel likes it's on you I can depend
Wish I could turn back the hands of time
Enough of building castles in the sand
Why can't we be forever
(Chorus 2x's)
Somewhere in the back of my mind
I know that you will be mine
And somehow
Wish I could rewind
And leave all my worries behind
And If I'm not the one you want
I'll be the one you need
Take your time to figure out
I'll be the one you need
I'll be the one you need

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The 'Not-Yours-But-Mine' Kind

The 'not-yours-but-mine' kind,
Get upset if there is a threat to their 'intellect'.
Especially if it does not shine,
When expressing something 'known'
That is clearly not defined.

Without introspect that reflects,
They soon become protective with a stubbornness.
And insist they 'knew' what is being corrected.
But had been distracted by the facts!
You know...
The ones given to them earlier.
But wouldn't accept it in their minds...
Since they felt 'then' under attack!

There are so many around us,
Who are just like that!
You know...
The 'not-yours-but-mine' kind.
The ones who find the time,
To say someone else thinks 'they' know so much.
And quick to show themselves to be,
The ones who are out of touch!

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Before it is Too Late, Find for yourself a mate: Someone who Cares

Find for yourself
A beloved, a family;
A home, or at least a mate,
Before it is too late,
So 'Angham' sings,
And I obeyed,
I looked in the many
Faces around me;
In the faces of those
Who say they do care,
In search for Love,
Yet love is not gas,
Though it heats,
But in a totally
Over whelming and different
Beautiful way,
Nor it is oil that is buried
Deep in the soil,
It does not need toil,
It comes all of a sudden;
A gift from Heaven,
It lives in the brain,
It occupies the Soul,
The heart beside the flesh;
A combination as such
Is so hard to find;
I tried hard,
I even gave chances
To the smart ones,
Who said they were
In love with me,
But in vain,
For I am crippled
By fate;
Every time I guess
I finally find it
I am faced with helplessness.


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I thought you were the one

I thought you were the one,
I thought you were for me,
I thought you were the person
an the guy of my dreams
How stupid was I
to Believe it's the truth,
The guy of my dreams is so
not like you.
As you lips lie
my eyes begin to cry.
The love between us died,
And there is nothin left between
you an I.
I should have known
that I had been used,
I should of known that my
love for you was fake,
an saying those three words
now is too late.
You should of been real
You should have been true.
You should have felt the
love i had for you.
As I'm walkin away,
wit no words to say,
Im leaving you behind,
its all your fault,
that we have to be a part,
I dont kno you any more,
maybe deep inside I do,
but just remember,
that tiny hole that
you have inside,
is a missing spot
of the love i had for you.

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Africa, I were the one you killed

In those misery-days;
Those days when happiness of birth cried;
-with an oversized echo;

Africa, when your gods roared in their wooden-cages
I were the twins you unjustly killed;
-Just to appease your gods

Again when darkness fell on the skin of your sky
-and gave it ugly spot;
I were the lamp-lights you held;
to walk on the blood-shed roads,

when your furious deities are thirsty and in full rage,
-in their desert homes.
My bloods you gave, to turn away their anger.

Africa, when you killed your'today'
Tell me what would your tomorrow be?

Thanks be to angel Mary Slessor,
who came to dry-clean the tears of Mama-Africa,
-with her most decent affection.

Truely the years've gone in a quick motion of time;
but its scar remains a badge on my heart

Africa, my Africa,
I were the twins you unjustly killed yesterday;
O the living history of misery;

Africa, I'm back-again today not to avenge,
but tell you how much I love you.

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The tears that I cry are not yours

I am not your friend who tried
to kill you last night
I am not you friend who mustanize
and try to get intimacy
I am not your friend who killed you
your father, then came back home with a gun on my face

I am not your friend
who is your friend
then your friend
what is a friend
when you have a friend
then a friend who is my friend
when I have a friend

The tears that I cry are not yours

I have never had a friend
like my mother
I have never had a friend
like my father
I have never had a friend
like my brother
my sister, she hates me
as much as I hate her

The tears that I cry are not yours

who is she to take off
her clothes in the middle of
the street and say the door will
be closed in the next fifteen minutes round

The tears that I cry are not yours

‘she my mother, my mother who cries
every time she thinks of
you are my sister
but you were my sister
when my sister was born

The tears that I cry are not yours

every time I see her
I am happy
for she knows what it means to

‘she used to come home to me
and say poy I have something for you to eat
dont tell anyone

The tears that I cry are not yours

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See For Yourself What Is Involved

Where are you headed?

'In that direction.'

But that way has no path.
And it is thick and dark.
With no Sun to light upon it.

'I am accustomed to carving my way,
Through brush and the thicket of obstacles.
You must lead one day,
To see for yourself what is involved.
And not follow to wander far behind.
Because one day,
Your following will not be allowed.'

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You Were The One

(after Jan de Bruyn)

You were the one,
the one who could still love me
when my life was destroyed, turned to rock,
with my dreams laying shattered

and with my trampled name
destiny had cut me to pieces,
a so-called holy man confirmed it to you
but you wanted to stay away from me

and maybe you were haughty,
had no comprehension, or a urge for self preservation
or a type of aloofness
that hanged over me like a guillotine

and you were much too scared
when I longed for you the last time.

[Reference: “Joune was die laaste deur” (Yours were the last door) by Jan de Bruyn.]

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Think For Yourself

You think you know just what it means
To be alone
You think youve suffered for your cause
Youre wrong
I dont really need to know what makes you tick
Or what you think is right
I dont want to know the reason you believe
Right now youre like the others
Your thoughts are not your own
Try thinking for yourself and act on what you know
Still you try to defend these things
You were taught
Youve got to try to change the way
You learn
Sometimes it feels just like Ive burned
Every single bridge
That I have ever crossed
I always try to learn
From all of these mistakes
Mistakes that I have made
But pride is a worthy adversary
In the struggle for yourself

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Rich and Rare Were the Gems She Wore

Rich and rare were the gems she wore,
And a bright gold ring on her wand she bore;
But oh! her beauty was far beyond
Her sparkling gems, or snow-white wand.

"Lady! dost thou not fear to stray,
So lone and lovely through this bleak way?
Are Erin's sons so good or so cold,
As not to be tempted by woman or gold?"

"Sir Knight! I feel not the least alarm,
No son of Erin will offer me harm: --
For though they love woman and golden store,
Sir Knight! they love honour and virtue more!"

On she went, and her maiden smile
In safety lighted her round the green isle;
And blest for ever is she who relied
Upon Erin's honour and Erin's pride.

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Decide For Yourself

Who should be held accountable...
And responsible for the current global mess?

Eliminate those who are hungry,
And suffering from homelessness.

Eliminate the 'tryers'...
Who barely survive,
Living from paycheck to paycheck!

Eliminate those among the middle class,
Paying more than their share of taxes.

Eliminate the unborn...
Yet to face conflicts arising,
In unknown and divided environments!

Then listen to others with interest!
Those continuing to protect their selfish greed...
With an excess of protest!
Blaming everyone under the Sun.
Including those living overseas.

And after you have satisfied these questions...
Introducing any that may follow next?
Try to eliminate from your list,
Delusion that interfere...
With fantasies treasured you hold dear.

You can do this with limited unrest.
By looking from your window.
Or gazing down at your own doorstep.

Then ask yourself this...
'How much dirt lays near my own secured nest?
That I have overlooked that keeps it unswept? '

Maybe 'then' you will not be quick to criticize,
Others who speak out...
About losses diminished by a gluttony,
They can no longer accept with ambitions wished.

Perhaps you will then wake up to see...
Reality as it is!
A 'reality' that has been made to be!
And caring less about your isolated shock!
Or the quickness of breath,
Heaving from your chest!

And guess what?
The truth of it did not just arrive.
It has been there,
While you found the time...
To prioritize your life,
With disguised denying eyes!

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Patrick White

Sometimes The Heart Buries Its Sorrow

Sometimes the heart buries its sorrow
like a bell or an hourglass beside the road
as if it came upon a dead bird it couldn't name
and returned it to the earth like unread mail.
There's no gate where I'm going, the air
will tremble a bit and that'll be it. Maybe
a firefly or two, to liven things up,
but no sign of lightning tearing its hair out.

I shall evaporate like a dream someone
couldn't remember having, and what seems
so crucially significant now shall disappear,
disperse, dissipate like smoke from of a fire
and all that will remain of this passionate burning
will be an odd fragrance among the stars
that doesn't arrest the attention of the bees.

And these things of my mother that she gave to me,
Blood, flesh, bone, breath and my love of poetry
and compassion for the world you need to write it,
deeply involved in an unrestricted love affair,
will be scattered like urns on the wind as if
my ashes had no respect for their individuality.
The waterclock ended in a desert of mirages,
not the afterlife of an embryo off to a good start.

The death of an art, the extinction of a species,
not the fall of a sparrow anyone notices,
and I'm not even saying they should if they don't
anymore than they feel the loss of a skin cell.
Some people prefer umbrellas to wild flowers.
Icons of the moon without the dragon.
A mouthful of fire to the taste of water.
Tigers in a zoo, to the dangers of an open door.
It's wrong to make love, music, poetry, colour,
compulsory, anymore than you can demand a friend.
Got to give time and space to the black swan
of a nugget of coal to realize it's a motherlode
of diamonds born out of its progressive dissolution.

Translucent effusions of insight into
a speculative nothing, a flying carpet of wavelengths
unravelling on the loom of the moon,
just because the stars have left their genes
on a helical stairwell of flypaper like a chromosome,
doesn't mean you're a replicant of eternity,
or to see the onceness of life in everything
it's becoming without consulting you
is some kind of exemption you can seek for yourself.
Enlightenment isn't a ticket to pass, it's
not to see the beauty of the chains in the bliss of delusion.
Not to make choirs out of your Maenadic desires.
When have you ever not done this, when
have you ever not realized you were the summum bonum
of your own conspicuous consumption?
But who asks you to die before you're dead
to sabotage your artistic pursuit of happiness
whether you achieve it or not? The absurdity
of the search is enough in itself to make it profound.
Enlightenment ploughs you back into the ground
you came from like grass on the moon
and as a bigger fool that I could ever hope to be
once said: if the cold doesn't go through your bones once
how can there be apricot blossoms in the spring?

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Patrick White

Your Own Life Is The Way

Your own life is the way
whether it charm itself through the woods
like a small snail
or kick the stars up like dust
along the Road of Ghosts
or hang back like the sea
enduring its own weather
waiting for the next loveletter
to arrive like a sail
over the event horizons
of so much unopened junkmail.
But you're a long way off
and deeper in darkness
than you realize
if you're using a searchlight
to look for a star.
There's no reason
to keep showing up
at the wrong address
like a bad definition
of who you are.
You go looking
for the meaning of things
as if meaning were precious and rare,
baby teeth under a pillow
or lost wedding rings
through the noses
of unmarried skulls.
You chase your own tides
back out to sea
and then go ask the waves
trembling in their tidal pools
like children you've frightened
about the meaning of water.
But when they tell you
your mouth hangs open
like a grail in the hand of a drunk
who's sure she just drank poison.
You want to pry
the petals of the flowers open
before they're ready to bloom
as if you were unwrapping your presents early
although nothing's been hidden from you,
cloaked, eclipsed, or covered by a lie.
You paint the window you sit at
all the colours of a parrot
to enhance the clarity
of your longing for stars,
or scare yourself to death
with things you can see in the night
like someone who's been left behind
like a key under your own doormat.
The return journey goes faster than the first
as you progress backwards
looping like a planet
through all the stations of your youth
into the second innocence of awareness
knowing how deeply the soul
can be soiled by the truth
of things as they are
and how, sometimes
to the baffled astonishment of the purists
it takes a little dirt to wash it off;
which is to say, you're human.
Not one reason for everything.
You keep ploughing the same broken record
like a season stuck in a groove
never leaving anything long enough to itself
to germinate and bloom.
Even when the moon
walks on your waters
tapping its white cane
at the curb of every wave
to show you how to master
your own blindness
with your own light in the darkness
of why you won't open your eyes and look,
you cover your face with your hands like a book
you fell asleep reading.
But you can't wake up from a dream
you're not having.
You can't look into life
like a window from the outside
or arrange your eyes
like lenses in a telescope
to view things at arms length.
I know how hard
you've been looking for enlightenment
and the agony of your disappointment
that you can't pull the sword from the stone
or the apple from the seed like autumn.
You account the waste
of time, energy, aspiration,
and want to burn the whole orchard down
like a bride widowed in her wedding gown.
But the fire you set
like a last blossom on a dead branch
goes out like a torch in your own reflection
and you're lost in the woods at night
without a road going in any direction.
You thought you'd hang around
with the constellations,
but there you are
whenever you kick the earth
like a stool away from your feet
dangling like a streetlamp in space
with only go slow and stop
the three expressions
that ever cross your face
like birds hoping they're heading south.
And I don't want to sound mean or unkind,
or suggest that I know
how stars taste to the blind,
or that you're not a fury of insight,
a blazing chandelier, a broken mirror,
but when you cry
you launch your tears like submarines
into your own paranoid depths
to listen to what the others
are saying about you now
and you deploy your emotions like spies
to keep an eye on the opening night projections
you're trying to groom into a movie
where everything comes true
all at once
in a stunning climax of you
holding out like a bridge at the fall of Rome.
Let go. Give up. Let the barbarians across
that you've abused
with the severity
of your savage passions for years.
Abandon the walls
you've beaded like a rosary of skulls
around your imperial frontiers.
How can the frowning jewels
of a dying civilization
dragging itself by the heels
like a corpse through the night
compare with the more imperfectible delights
of leaving the mindstream to its own devices
as if it were wise enough all alone
to make its own circuitous way home
like blood returning to the heart
while we, who don't know the answers,
throw our swords back into the lake
as if we were surrendering to water.
We could feed the demons
of our startling immensities
all those doves you sent out looking for land
that came back like cornerstones of quicksand.
We could stop trying to square the circle
like college dropp outs
trying to corner the rain
and forgo the blinding lucidity
of what we think we know
for the darker esprit
of being swept far out to sea
like two castles effaced by the undertow
of an abyss even the light can't cross.
We could lower our bridges
and open our gates
and liberate our prisons
as if we were making love
like two more bad little reasons to live.

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Amy Lowell

The Grocery

'Hullo, Alice!'
'Hullo, Leon!'
'Say, Alice, gi' me a couple
O' them two for five cigars,
Will yer?'
'Where's your nickel?'
'My! Ain't you close!
Can't trust a feller, can yer.'
'Trust you! Why
What you owe this store
Would set you up in business.
I can't think why Father 'lows it.'
'Yer Father's a sight more neighbourly
Than you be. That's a fact.
Besides, he knows I got a vote.'
'A vote! Oh, yes, you got a vote!
A lot o' good the Senate'll be to Father
When all his bank account
Has run away in credits.
There's your cigars,
If you can relish smokin'
With all you owe us standin'.'
'I dunno as that makes 'em taste any diff'rent.
You ain't fair to me, Alice, 'deed you ain't.
I work when anythin's doin'.
I'll get a carpenterin' job next Summer sure.
Cleve was tellin' me to-day he'd take me on come Spring.'
'Come Spring, and this December!
I've no patience with you, Leon,
Shilly-shallyin' the way you do.
Here, lift over them crates o' oranges
I wanter fix 'em in the winder.'
'It riles yer, don't it, me not havin' work.
You pepper up about it somethin' good.
You pick an' pick, and that don't help a mite.
Say, Alice, do come in out o' that winder.
Th' oranges c'n wait,
An' I don't like talkin' to yer back.'
'Don't you! Well, you'd better make the best o' what
you can git.
Maybe you won't have my back to talk to soon.
They look good in pyramids with the 'lectric light on 'em,
Don't they?
Now hand me them bananas
An' I'll string 'em right acrost.'
'What do yer mean
'Bout me not havin' you to talk to?
Are yer springin' somethin' on me?'
'I don't know 'bout springin'
When I'm tellin' you right out.
I'm goin' away, that's all.'
'Where? Why?
What yer mean - goin' away?'
'I've took a place
Down to Boston, in a candy store
For the holidays.'
'Good Land, Alice,
What in the Heavens fer!'
'To earn some money,
And to git away from here, I guess.'
'Ain't yer Father got enough?
Don't he give yer proper pocket-money?'
'He'd have a plenty, if you folks paid him.'
'He's rich I tell yer.
I never figured he'd be close with you.'
'Oh, he ain't. Not close.
That ain't why.
But I must git away from here.
I must! I must!'
'You got a lot o' reason in yer
How long d' you cal'late
You'll be gone?'
'Maybe for always.'
'What ails yer, Alice?
Talkin' wild like that.
Ain't you an' me goin' to be married
Some day.'
'Some day! Some day!
I guess the sun'll never rise on some day.'
'So that's the trouble.
Same old story.
'Cause I ain't got the cash to settle right now.
You know I love yer,
An' I'll marry yer as soon
As I c'n raise the money.'
'You've said that any time these five year,
But you don't do nothin'.'
'Wot could I do?
Ther ain't no work here Winters.
Not fer a carpenter, ther ain't.'
'I guess you warn't born a carpenter.
Ther's ice-cuttin' a plenty.'
'I got a dret'ful tender throat;
Dr. Smiles he told me
I mustn't resk ice-cuttin'.'
'Why haven't you gone to Boston,
And hunted up a job?'
'Have yer forgot the time I went expressin'
In the American office, down ther?'
'And come back two weeks later!
No, I ain't.'
'You didn't want I should git hurted,
Did yer?
I'm a sight too light fer all that liftin' work.
My back was commencin' to strain, as 'twas.
Ef I was like yer brother now,
I'd ha' be'n down to the city long ago.
But I'm too clumsy fer a dancer.
I ain't got Arthur's luck.'
'Do you call it luck to be a disgrace to your folks,
And git locked up in jail!'
'Oh, come now, Alice,
`Disgrace' is a mite strong.
Why, the jail was a joke.
Art's all right.'
'All right!
All right to dance, and smirk, and lie
For a livin',
And then in the end
Lead a silly girl to give you
What warn't hers to give
By pretendin' you'd marry her -
And she a pupil.'
'He'd ha' married her right enough,
Her folks was millionaires.'
'Yes, he'd ha' married her!
Thank God, they saved her that.'
'Art's a fine feller.
I wish I had his luck.
Swellin' round in Hart, Schaffner & Marx fancy suits,
And eatin' in rest'rants.
But somebody's got to stick to the old place,
Else Foxfield'd have to shut up shop,
Hey, Alice?'
'You admire him!
You admire Arthur!
You'd be like him only you can't dance.
Oh, Shame! Shame!
And I've been like that silly girl.
Fooled with your promises,
And I give you all I had.
I knew it, oh, I knew it,
But I wanted to git away 'fore I proved it.
You've shamed me through and through.
Why couldn't you hold your tongue,
And spared me seein' you
As you really are.'
'What the Devil's the row?
I only said Art was lucky.
What you spitfirin' at me fer?
Ferget it, Alice.
We've had good times, ain't we?
I'll see Cleve 'bout that job agin to-morrer,
And we'll be married 'fore hayin' time.'
'It's like you to remind me o' hayin' time.
I've good cause to love it, ain't I?
Many's the night I've hid my face in the dark
To shut out thinkin'!'
'Why, that ain't nothin'.
You ain't be'n half so kind to me
As lots o' fellers' girls.
Gi' me a kiss, Dear,
And let's make up.'
'Make up!
You poor fool.
Do you suppose I care a ten cent piece
For you now.
You've killed yourself for me.
Done it out o' your own mouth.
You've took away my home,
I hate the sight o' the place.
You're all over it,
Every stick an' stone means you,
An' I hate 'em all.'
'Alice, I say,
Don't go on like that.
I can't marry yer
Boardin' in one room,
But I'll see Cleve to-morrer,
I'll make him --'
'Oh, you fool!
You terrible fool!'
'Alice, don't go yit,
Wait a minit,
I'll see Cleve --'
'You terrible fool!'
'Alice, don't go.
Alice --' (Door slams)

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Patrick White

If You Had Any Compassion For Yourself

If you had any compassion for yourself,
others wouldn't have to suffer for you
and the world wouldn't show you
such a sad, woeful, wounded face.
You wouldn't see the withering leaves
and petals of the rose in autumn
as merely the scar tissue of its thorns.
In winter, mend your severance.
In spring, attend to your joys.
Like fishing nets and snow fences.
Like delphiniums in a garden bed
that's beginning to bloom like a starmap.

And you know that stranger inside
that's always witnessing everything we do
like a perfectly clear mirror, even in dreams?
Take another look, you might be surprised
at whose face you see at a meeting of eyes.

It's important not to pass judgement on yourself
for fear of condemning the world.
Show me a mirage that isn't a friend to water
or a wishing-well that resents a rainbow
for the pot of gold at the end, though
no one ever knows which end at the time.

Be kind to your delusive paradigms of life,
as you would an old skin you shed like the moon
when your serpent-fire could no longer contain itself
and broke out of its sacred chrysalis like a dragonfly
that had made itself a house of life out of matchsticks
and went up in flames like a snake with wings.

If you could see your life for what it is,
a teaching device for mentoring your own enlightenment
you might read the books of all the sages
rooted and flowering in you like the wisdom of a seed,
or the star in the ore of a panspermic universe
that was planted in you like the garden you've been from birth.

You might think that the wildflowers
are looking up at the stars to understand themselves
but, in truth, they're looking up at their roots
like rain reveres the lightning that engenders it.

You don't need to convince the wind of your freedom,
you've just got to ride it out to the end,
a friend to yourself, a worthy companion,
the intimate familiar of a cloud with a clear blue sky
or a subliminal lover of the darkness
love mushrooms up in like a moonrise.

If you knew how to nurture yourself
by breaking bread with the spirit of life within you
there wouldn't be millions of children
all over the world who will go hungry tonight.
They'd be licking the spoon with stealthy laughter
like cookie-batter out of the begging bowl of your heart.

Enlightenment isn't going to add one ray of light
or a single star to the night you're already shining in,
and whatever wavelength you're on, regardless
of the mystic polarities your potential flows between,
like dark matter and light, whether the journey you're on
is orange or infrared or the blue white violet of the Pleiades,
absorption or emission spectrum alike, no wave
of thought or mind, light, heart or water
is discontinuous with the oceanic consciousness
they rise upon, so why turn back to the source
like a solar flare to ask for directions from a starmap
that sent you out like a bubble in the multiverse to look for land.
You know, if you were more of an explorer
without a preconceived destination, more
of a space probe leaving the solar system periodically,
the rest of us wouldn't feel so lost or out of place at your table.

And even if you've made a vehicle
of the wheel of birth and death
and think you have a firm grasp on things
with your arm out the window in the driver's seat,
enjoying the passing view with the wind in your hair
without clinging to anything along the way
it still might be a good idea to learn how
to come down off your throne like a pauper
and change a flat tire now and again.

Your life is not an untimely interruption of eternity.
The eternal sky does not inhibit the flight of the white clouds,
and it even bends down sometimes toward the earth
to pick up Venus like a lost earring in the sunset.
It's your point of view that turns your back on yourself
like the retrograde motion of Mars, not
the planet itself playing rope tricks with your spinal cord.

Why go looking for your mind
like a lighthouse with a flashlight,
a flame for the source of the fire
or a star for the constellation it belongs to,
or the homeless for a home when everyone's
the foundation stone of their own habitation
wherever they are at the moment.

If you chase the wind, it will be you
that loses its breath like the atmosphere of the moon.
And when you run out of air, breathe light, breathe space,
and don't try to fix an expanding universe
to your nostrils like a bicycle pump
to get you back on the road again.
Or you'll find you're swimming out of your depths
to run to the rescue of an empty lifeboat
that's already unloaded its contents ashore.

If you don't want to go blind as a starless night
it's prescient to eclipse your blazing from time to time,
turn the lights down low, snuff the candle,
and learn to see in the dark there's just as much reflected
in the depths of the dark abundance
of a black mirror, though it takes time to focus,
than there is in the expansiveness
of the bright vacancy of the white
that takes things in at a glance.
The seed of a every glimpse of insight contains
the whole of the vision in advance,
and at the core of the apple of the issue
is a green star with dark auburn eyes
on the nightshift of the maternity wards of spring.

And o come on now, how long can you hang on
to being this box kite on a string
watching another phoenix ride your thermals
like inspiration on the wing, without feeling
like the premature ghost of yourself at the onset of spring,
all smoke, and no fire, your flightfeathers smouldering
like a pyre of wet maple leaves who haven't got the courage
to break into flames and flap their wings and rise above it all.
Better to be a weather balloon losing altitude like Icarus
or even a candling parachute taking the fall for all of us,
as daring said feathers and falling took flight,
than not risk falling through the black holes of life to paradise?

And what if I were to tell you're they're just the pupils
the light enters through like your eyes into your imagination
to be transformed from a visual into a vision,
the visible form into the invisible shining of the spirit
that raises everything in the known and unknown multiverse,
and the trees and the stars, the rocks and the clouds
are all counting on you to do this for them,
because this is what you're here for,
if you've ever wondered,
to raise them up to eye-level
with a human who knows the names of things
like parents know the names of their own children
running toward them down the street. It's how
we were meant to meet and greet the universe.

So if once, just once, for my sake, your sake, the sake
of the forsaken with their elbows on the windows of the world tonight
watching it all go by like stars on the firewalks beneath their noses,
that are not embedded in cement like a mausoleum
of movie-stars that refused to become fossils
before their shining was spent,
you took a chance, and that's all it would take,
one step forward with no return address,
to risk falling down at the dance,
and seven times down, eight times up,
such is life, get up on your own two good feet again
and discover you've got wings and spurs on your heels
the rest of us wouldn't feel so lame
when we came over to your place
like a riot of erratic fireflies to celebrate
the lightning moves of the rain that's dancing on our graves
where the dead lie down like the corpses of candles
knowing they'll be reincarnated
as wildflowers and Luna moths
because nothing that's ever given its life up
to this business of shining on everything alike
from a first magnitude star, to the night light in the hall
that shoos the ghosts away from their portraits on the wall
so the whole world can bloom in the tears of your eyes,
the fire in your heart, and in the human divinity
of the spirit of your imagination, can ever be put out
because every shadow of doubt
leads back the light that cast it
in love and sorrow, time and space
like the life and death mask of your own face.

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Patrick White

You Were The Intimacy

You were the intimacy
of the things I loved
that were so impossibly far away
I could never reach out and touch them
except by touching you.
In the long silence of these past thirty-seven years
I have never been able to look at people again
the way I used to see them before I met you.
There's a fear in the way I love them
that I learned
from living your absence.
A deep black wounded space within
that has sadly outgrown the stars
like October outlives its fireflies.
And every threshold I've crossed ever since
has turned into a long road
with a precipice at the end of my spinal cord
swaying like the first night I met you
on the Capilano Suspension Bridge
and you said
the only way
to overcome your fear of falling
is to have the courage to jump.
And I laughed and said
staring into the gorge
and the thin silver water down below
what's to fear
if you know how to fall toward paradise?
And you knew right away
I was your kind of challenge.
And I knew you wanted
to sword-dance with razorblades
you laid out like the Tarot
later back at your place
as if you wanted to convince yourself
you were still silly enough to believe in tomorrow.
The candle beside the cards on the floor
didn't turn out to be
enough of a lighthouse
to warn us of the approaching storm.
We were sincere in the darkness
for a little while
astounded by the expert innocence
of our mindless flesh.
You shone like the sun at midnight
and I came undone like Icarus
to prove I was falling
without regrets
like a spent star
into the singularity
of a whole new universe
where everything that didn't happen in this one
came uncannily true in the next
for both of us
as if we were at last worthy
in each others' arms
of our own happiness.
When happiness is brave
it's bliss.
And when it's afraid
there's nothing sadder
than a gift that was never opened.
Joy is a warrior that risked hoping
there was nothing left dying for.
Sorrow comes up with a million reasons.
The only way of life
is not making a way of life.
Nor making
not making a way of life
a way.
One day you just get off the road
and start taking the long way home through the starfields.
You stop looking in the mirror
to see if you still have eyes.
For years after your death
no matter what I looked at
I always saw the same thing.
The black clarity
of your existential absence
staring me in the face
without turning me into stone
because that would have been mercy.
Try how I might
I could never quite
shut the lid on your coffin
or accept
that you were buried in me for good
or that my blood burned
like the infernal red
of an emergency exit
to show me the way out
of heaven and hell
by falling on them both
like a two-edged sword
that killed me deeper into life
than your death ever did.
Either life's unfair
or I'm not man enough
to live up to your suicide
but I remember how I used to love
feeling the weight
of the nightstream of your hair
as it poured through my hand
like a landscape that could feel
for the first time in a long time
water running in the dry creekbeds of its lifelines.
Things woke up.
And I saw the flowers
among the thorns
that had been guarding them
like the secret names of God
you had to know
to get past the burning angels
through the gates
of your sad return to Eden alone.
The eloquence of your flesh
when you walked on the earth
as if your heart danced to your blood
like an old song we both knew
now a broken harp of bone,
a wounded guitar,
someone laid down for good.
A prophetic skull
without a future
anyone can foretell.
The full moon going down
like a spare penny
into a dry wishing well.
Me looking at the dark hills
like the contours of your corpse laid out
under a collapsed tent
as they wheeled you into the ambulance
to spend your first vast impossibly long night in the morgue
among the dead
who don't catch their breath
or break their bodies like bread
alone in the stillness
that can't distinguish one death from another.
However I wept for you
all the hard bitter baffled tears
all the sweet radiant wellsprings
that washed the dust like stars
off the wings of the birds
that had laboured to carry the souls of the dead
far to the west
when I remembered
how blessed I really was
that things had been
so beautifully dangerous for awhile.
And all the dark fathomless watersheds of lucidity
I drowned in like a eye in a grail
looking for butterflies in a suicide note.
All the black pearls
the diamond skulls
the eclipsed chalices
all the precious jewels of my grieving
that death hoarded underground
nothing in the end
but nameless water
frozen between the cracks
of a gravestone as old as the moon.
I remember how I loved your ice-blue eyes
and how they burned with an Arctic clarity
you had to dress warmly for
if you didn't want to suffer from frost-bite
but there's more nightshade in them now
than chicory
when I look into them like tundral flowers
and the light turns hurtful and eerie
when I recall how the melting snow
washed itself clean of itself
all those years ago
when we didn't know
what all this meant.
It's of little relevance
that we once loved each other
the way we did
and once you've exhausted
the meaning of signs
like galaxies expanding
ever more deeply into space
less significance.
What does it look like from Mars?
Your death was a koan
not a fortune-cookie
and the koan broke me
like a man it couldn't understand
There is no scar for you.
You will always be
this open wound inside of me.
When I look at the stars
I can't dissociate beauty from absurdity.
I cherish their clarity
as something that can't be
contaminated by my eyes
when they're nothing
but two black holes in space
a snake-bite of the light
in the middle of my face
like a colon without the following:
the kind of faith
that makes what little is left
so incommensurably greater than what's been lost.
I can see the blue morning glory in the garden
as if moonlight had turned to skin
just to feel what it's like to flower
but I can't forget the frost
that fell like your death over all of it
when I went so numb
space turned into glass
and time pulled the blind down on the window.
I closed my eyes like a mirror
content to let the stars make sense
of their own reflections.
I gave up on directions
and burned my starmaps
and followed who I was
without caring what I became.
Absolutes of ice
spread like cataracts
over the relativities of the river
that went on flowing
as if nothing had changed
and my life was still a dream without eyelids.
A ghost would be easier to deal with
than the fact
that you don't exist anymore
except as bare bones
denuded of the world
like yarrow sticks
thrown before the Book of Changes.
But then I expect
you'd exorcise yourself
at a suggestion of the night
that the stars would be so much brighter
if you only blew out the candleflame.
You'd do it just to see
if things got better.
You'd leave me in the dark again
staring at the stars
like white ink
on a black loveletter
you left unsigned
as you disappeared into death
like your last breath on a cold windowpane.
I've long since forgiven you my solitude.
I've long since forgiven you
the severity of the wisdom
that hardened my eyes
like diamonds in the darkness
that could cut through anything
except my attachment to you.
I have forgiven you
for the way I have grown through suffering
to realize
how much I owe your death
and the terrible eyeless abyss that followed it
like an enlightened insight
into the impersonal nature of compassion.
I have forgiven you
the way I am spontaneously compelled
to love a world that is so estranged from me
I feel like water on the moon
trying to imagine what it must be like
to fall like rain on the intimate earth
with a reasonable expectation
of coming up flowers
that weren't destined
to be laid on your grave.
I've gone grey gathering them up
and bringing them to you
like bouquets of paints and brushes
that are ready at hand
should you ever wish
to pick them up again
and show me what the world looks like
without a body for a picture-frame
as you play the part of the upstart genius
who lived the black farce of creative pain
like the agony of the wick
burning at the stake like a heretic
between the flesh of the wax
and the spiritual aspirations of the candleflame
thrusting spears into space at the stars
as if the only way you could ever know God
if you ever met up
was by the scars.

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You Were The Topic Of Our Conversations

I didn't know that about you?

'I never knew you had the interest?
Never to me before had it been expressed.'

You did not bring it up.

'How could I?
You were the topic of our conversations.'

But you could have said something about yourself.
And that...
Which I didn't know about you,
I had to learn from someone else.

'And you would have given me the attention?
When talking about yourself is what you do best?
You never stop to take a breath.
And that...
I do know about you.'

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From the Inside of Your Own Mind

Be you physically freed.
Or mentally tied up trapped in knots.
Encased in invisible limitations...
Viewed from a perspective,
You can not seem to stop!

It is 'you' that has to be faced.
It is 'you' that has to find your place.
It is you and no one other,
That has to unravel what it takes...
To deliver an approval,
No one can erase.
Or say what it is,
A happiness only you allow and make.
To give and let live...
From the inside of your own mind.

There for you to discover.
And there...
For 'you' as it is to define.

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At times you need some space for yourself

At times you
Need some space for
May be your spouse
May be the person
You love most
No matter
How close you are to
You need some privacy
For your self
Want to be on your own
Complete isolation
No intruders
You want
To do and think
As you feel
Many may not
The importance of
Being alone for a while
It is there problem
If you want to live life
As you wish
You ought to know
How and Why?
You shall find the answer
Only when you are
On your own
That is why
At times
You need some space
For your self

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Do This For Yourself

Waking up and giving 'thanks',
Should dawn...
At the crack of the morning.

And waking up to say a prayer,
Would daily rid with a forgetting...
Those moans one groans to go on.

Appreciating more of life,
Than to moan and groan...
And choosing something that is liked,
Make living life better,
To chase away what has gone.

Get up determined to feel grateful...
Get up determined to feel loved...
Get up determined to confess...
Do this for yourself everyday.

Waking up and giving 'thanks',
Should dawn.
Do this for yourself everyday.

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