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You Know the Ones

Aren't you tired of the folks who pass judgement?
You know the ones...
Quick to tell you how you should live
Always taking handouts from those they take for granted,
Criticizing the people who take their time to give.

Aren't you sick of those who waste your time to gossip?
You know the ones,
Glued to phones like weapons,
To add fresh lies to what they've heard!
They are nowhere to be found,
To assist 'you' when you need 'them',
But first to arrive to offer a discouraging word.

Aren't you fed up with their lack of time to listen?
Don't you wish they would grow and want to learn?
Even though they blame others for their troubling lives,
They will never feel ashamed,
To express their own limits of concern!
A repeated lesson you have learned?

You know the ones...
With their heads turned!

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Do We Listen? Do We Learn? Do We Grow? No!

A grief recycled to produce an effectiveness...
Is the same grief experienced,
By a connection that affects us all.
No one is insensitive to devastation and sorrow.
And those who pretend they are,
Only fool themselves.
No one is 'that' distant from feeling 'some' empathy.

Mother Nature is not going to prepare us,
With a scheduling of events.
God has already warned us to obey,
When leaving us to follow the Ten Commandments.
Do we listen?
Do we learn?
Do we grow?

Do we demand and insist,
Others know our discomforts?
The second 'that' lollipop is removed,
From our mouths.
We are prepared to vocalize,
With our petty complaints immediately.
No matter who is inconvenienced,
By our spoiled tantrum fits we are quick to throw!

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Were Going To Live For A Very Long Time

I dont care about life
Or the world around me
Ive got a place to go
I dont care what you say
Words cannot harm me
Youre going down below
Come and join the fun on the way to heaven
Come and talk to God on the party line
If you cant be bothered, we dont need you
Were going to live for a very long time
I dont care for your views
Or your style of living
Youre going to fail the test
You can argue all night
I have no misgivings
And I never get depressed
Come and join the fun on the way to heaven
Come and talk to God on the party line
If you cant be bothered, we dont need you
Were going to live for a very long time
You may think that its strange
This is all I live for
But you cant understand
If you listen to me
Ill explain it carefully
You must know I am right
Come and join the fun on the way to heaven
Come and talk to God on the party line
If you cant be bothered, we dont need you
Were going to live for a very long time
Hell give you one more chance
Nows the time to take it
Hes waiting for your call
Youll be up there with me
Well be grinning in heaven
When the day of judgment comes
Come and join the fun on the way to heaven
Come and talk to God on the party line
If you cant be bothered, we dont need you
Were going to live for a very long time

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That Time You Wish To Take From Me Has Come Too Late

If you've noticed it,
You are the one 'hanging-in-there' convinced...
That things take time and it is never too late,
For situations to change if one remains patient.
Those portrayals seem to work only in two hour movies.

First of all,
You and I need not to argue over 'your' philosophy.
None of what you believe works for me.
I am not going to volunteer to hang anywhere.
Or enforce a mood swing to shift upon myself to do it.

I am interested in you.
Do not think I am going to decrease the horsepower,
In my engine...
Because I will not listen to your suggestions,
About how I drive in the direction I have taken.

If you don't wish to ride just tell me.
But decreasing my speed to make you happy...
Is not going to be a focus in my mind to allow to happen.
Chill with those conditioned repetitions!
No bush do I beat to see turn into a rose.

You want to jump off here?
Because you are not going to remain agitating my nerves.
That time you wish to take from me has come too late.
And I don't need to see a flashing neon stop sign,
To have that in my mind to caution.
Since the action has been witnessed as a fact proven.

Do you mind unstrapping and jumping off here!
I would suggest it since my ejection seat malfunctions.
I don't want you to think of me as being rude or abusive.
I've got places to go, people to see and things to get done to do.

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"As certain also of your own poets have said"—

[An imaginary person. The poet quoted by St. Paul was Aratus, a native of Tarsus.]

Cleon the poet (from the sprinkled isles,
Lily on lily, that o'erlace the sea,
And laugh their pride when the light wave lisps "Greece")—
To Protus in his Tyranny: much health!

They give thy letter to me, even now:
I read and seem as if I heard thee speak.
The master of thy galley still unlades
Gift after gift; they block my court at last
And pile themselves along its portico
Royal with sunset, like a thought of thee:
And one white she-slave from the group dispersed
Of black and white slaves (like the chequer-work
Pavement, at once my nation's work and gift,
Now covered with this settle-down of doves),
One lyric woman, in her crocus vest
Woven of sea-wools, with her two white hands
Commends to me the strainer and the cup
Thy lip hath bettered ere it blesses mine.

Well-counselled, king, in thy munificence!
For so shall men remark, in such an act
Of love for him whose song gives life its joy,
Thy recognition of the use of life;
Nor call thy spirit barely adequate
To help on life in straight ways, broad enough
For vulgar souls, by ruling and the rest.
Thou, in the daily building of thy tower—
Whether in fierce and sudden spasms of toil,
Or through dim lulls of unapparent growth,
Or when the general work 'mid good acclaim
Climbed with the eye to cheer the architect—
Didst ne'er engage in work for mere work's sake—
Hadst ever in thy heart the luring hope
Of some eventual rest a-top of it,
Whence, all the tumult of the building hushed,
Thou first of men mightst look out to the East:
The vulgar saw thy tower, thou sawest the sun.
For this, I promise on thy festival
To pour libation, looking o'er the sea,
Making this slave narrate thy fortunes, speak
Thy great words, and describe thy royal face—
Wishing thee wholly where Zeus lives the most,
Within the eventual element of calm.

Thy letter's first requirement meets me here.
It is as thou hast heard: in one short life
I, Cleon, have effected all those things
Thou wonderingly dost enumerate.
That epos on thy hundred plates of gold
Is mine—and also mine the little chant,
So sure to rise from every fishing-bark
When, lights at prow, the seamen haul their net.
The image of the sun-god on the phare,
Men turn from the sun's self to see, is mine;
The Poecile, o'er-storied its whole length,
As thou didst hear, with painting, is mine too.
I know the true proportions of a man
And woman also, not observed before;
And I have written three books on the soul,
Proving absurd all written hitherto,
And putting us to ignorance again.
For music—why, I have combined the moods,
Inventing one. In brief, all arts are mine;
Thus much the people know and recognize,
Throughout our seventeen islands. Marvel not.
We of these latter days, with greater mind
Than our forerunners, since more composite,
Look not so great, beside their simple way,
To a judge who only sees one way at once,
One mind-point and no other at a time
Compares the small part of a man of us
With some whole man of the heroic age,
Great in his way—not ours, nor meant for ours.
And ours is greater, had we skill to know:
For, what we call this life of men on earth,
This sequence of the soul's achievements here
Being, as I find much reason to conceive,
Intended to be viewed eventually.
As a great whole, not analyzed to parts,
But each part having reference to all—
How shall a certain part, pronounced complete,
Endure effacement by another part?
Was the thing done?—then, what's to do again?
See, in the chequered pavement opposite,
Suppose the artist made a perfect rhomb,
And next a lozenge, then a trapezoid—
He did not overlay them, superimpose
The new upon the old and blot it out,
But laid them on a level in his work,
Making at last a picture; there it lies.
So, first the perfect separate forms were made,
The portions of mankind; and after, so,
Occurred the combination of the same.
For where had been a progress, otherwise?
Mankind, made up of all the single men—
In such a synthesis the labor ends.
Now mark me! those divine men of old time
Have reached, thou sayest well, each at one point
The outside verge that rounds our faculty;
And where they reached, who can do more than reach?
It takes but little water just to touch
At some one point the inside of a sphere,
And, as we turn the sphere, touch all the rest
In due succession: but the finer air
Which not so palpably nor obviously,
Though no less universally, can touch
The whole circumference of that emptied sphere,
Fills it more fully than the water did;
Holds thrice the weight of water in itself
Resolved into a subtler element.
And yet the vulgar call the sphere first full
Up to the visible height—and after, void;
Not knowing air's more hidden properties.
And thus our soul, misknown, cries out to Zeus
To vindicate his purpose in our life:
Why stay we on the earth unless to grow?
Long since, I imaged, wrote the fiction out,
That he or other god descended here
And, once for all, showed simultaneously
What, in its nature, never can be shown,
Piecemeal or in succession;—showed, I say,
The worth both absolute and relative
Of all his children from the birth of time,
His instruments for all appointed work.
I now go on to image—might we hear
The judgment which should give the due to each,
Show where the labor lay and where the ease,
And prove Zeus' self, the latent everywhere!
This is a dream;—but no dream, let us hope,
That years and days, the summers and the springs,
Follow each other with unwaning powers.
The grapes which dye thy wine are richer far,
Through culture, than the wild wealth of the rock;
The wave plum than the savage-tasted drupe;
The pastured honey-bee drops choicer sweet;
The flowers turn double, and the leaves turn flowers;
That young and tender crescent-moon, thy slave,
Sleeping above her robe as buoyed by clouds,
Refines upon the women of my youth.
What, and the soul alone deteriorates?
I have not chanted verse like Homer, no—
Nor swept string like Terpander, no—nor carved
And painted men like Phidias and his friend;
I am not great as they are, point by point.
But I have entered into sympathy
With these four, running these into one soul,
Who, separate, ignored each other's art.
Say, is it nothing that I know them all?
The wild flower was the larger; I have dashed
Rose-blood upon its petals, pricked its cup's
Honey with wine, and driven its seed to fruit,
And show a better flower if not so large:
I stand myself. Refer this to the gods
Whose gift alone it is! which, shall I dare
(All pride apart) upon the absurd pretext
That such a gift by chance lay in my hand,
Discourse of lightly or depreciate?
It might have fallen to another's hand: what then?
I pass too surely: let at least truth stay!

And next, of what thou followest on to ask.
This being with me as I declare, O king,
My works, in all these varicolored kinds,
So done by me, accepted so by men—
Thou askest, if (my soul thus in men's hearts)
I must not be accounted to attain
The very crown and proper end of life?
Inquiring thence how, now life closeth up,
I face death with success in my right hand:
Whether I fear death less than dost thyself
The fortunate of men? "For" (writest thou)
"Thou leavest much behind, while I leave naught.
Thy life stays in the poems men shall sing,
The pictures men shall study; while my life,
Complete and whole now in its power and joy,
Dies altogether with my brain and arm,
Is lost indeed; since, what survives myself?
The brazen statue to o'erlook my grave,
See on the promontory which I named.
And that—some supple courtier of my heir
Shall use its robed and sceptred arm, perhaps,
To fix the rope to, which best drags it down.
I go then: triumph thou, who dost not go!"

Nay, thou art worthy of hearing my whole mind.
Is this apparent, when thou turn'st to muse
Upon the scheme of earth and man in chief,
That admiration grows as knowledge grows?
That imperfection means perfection hid,
Reserved in part, to grace the after-time?
If, in the morning of philosophy,
Ere aught had been recorded, nay perceived,
Thou, with the light now in thee, couldst have looked
On all earth's tenantry, from worm to bird,
Ere man, her last, appeared upon the stage—
Thou wouldst have seen them perfect, and deduced
The perfectness of others yet unseen.
Conceding which—had Zeus then questioned thee
"Shall I go on a step, improve on this,
Do more for visible creatures than is done?"
Thou wouldst have answered, "Ay, by making each
Grow conscious in himself—by that alone.
All's perfect else: the shell sucks fast the rock,
The fish strikes through the sea, the snake both swims
And slides, forth range the beasts, the birds take flight,
Till life's mechanics can no further go—
And all this joy in natural life is put
Like fire from off thy finger into each,
So exquisitely perfect is the same.
But 't is pure fire, and they mere matter are;
It has them, not they it: and so I choose
For man, thy last premeditated work
(If I might add a glory to the scheme)
That a third thing should stand apart from both,
A quality arise within his soul,
Which, intro-active, made to supervise
And feel the force it has, may view itself,
And so be happy." Man might live at first
The animal life: but is there nothing more?
In due time, let him critically learn
How he lives; and, the more he gets to know
Of his own life's adaptabilities,
The more joy-giving will his life become.
Thus man, who hath this quality, is best.

But thou, king, hadst more reasonably said:
"Let progress end at once—man make no step
Beyond the natural man, the better beast,
Using his senses, not the sense of sense."
In man there's failure, only since he left
The lower and inconscious forms of life.
We called it an advance, the rendering plain
Man's spirit might grow conscious of man's life,
And, by new lore so added to the old,
Take each step higher over the brute's head.
This grew the only life, the pleasure-house,
Watch-tower and treasure-fortress of the soul,
Which whole surrounding flats of natural life
Seemed only fit to yield subsistence to;
A tower that crowns a country. But alas,
The soul now climbs it just to perish there!
For thence we have discovered ('t is no dream—
We know this, which we had not else perceived)
That there's a world of capability
For joy, spread round about us, meant for us,
Inviting us; and still the soul craves all,
And still the flesh replies, "Take no jot more
Than ere thou clombst the tower to look abroad!
Nay, so much less as that fatigue has brought
Deduction to it." We struggle, fain to enlarge
Our bounded physical recipiency,
Increase our power, supply fresh oil to life,
Repair the waste of age and sickness: no,
It skills not! life's inadequate to joy,
As the soul sees joy, tempting life to take.
They praise a fountain in my garden here
Wherein a Naiad sends the water-bow
Thin from her tube; she smiles to see it rise.
What if I told her, it is just a thread
From that great river which the hills shut up,
And mock her with my leave to take the same?
The artificer has given her one small tube
Past power to widen or exchange—what boots
To know she might spout oceans if she could?
She cannot lift beyond her first thin thread;
And so a man can use but a man's joy
While he sees God's. Is it for Zeus to boast,
"See, man, how happy I live, and despair—
That I may be still happier—for thy use!"
If this were so, we could not thank our Lord,
As hearts beat on to doing; 'tis not so—
Malice it is not. Is it carelessness?
Still, no. If care—where is the sign? I ask,
And get no answer, and agree in sum,
O king, with thy profound discouragement,
Who seest the wider but to sigh the more.
Most progress is most failure: thou sayest well.

The last point now:—thou dost except a case—
Holding joy not impossible to one
With artist-gifts—to such a man as I
Who leave behind me living works indeed;
For, such a poem, such a painting lives.
What? dost thou verily trip upon a word,
Confound the accurate view of what joy is
(Caught somewhat clearer by my eyes than thine)
With feeling joy? confound the knowing how
And showing how to live (my faculty)
With actually living?—Otherwise
Where is the artist's vantage o'er the king?
Because in my great epos I display
How divers men young, strong, fair, wise, can act—
Is this as though I acted? if I paint,
Carve the young Phoebus, am I therefore young?
Methinks I'm older that I bowed myself
The many years of pain that taught me art!
Indeed, to know is something, and to prove
How all this beauty might be enjoyed, is more;
But, knowing naught, to enjoy is something too.
Yon rower, with the moulded muscles there,
Lowering the sail, is nearer it than I.
I can write love-odes: thy fair slave's an ode.
I get to sing of love, when grown too gray
For being beloved: she turns to that young man,
The muscles all a-ripple on his back.
I know the joy of kingship: well, thou art king!

"But," sayest thou—(and I marvel, I repeat,
To find thee trip on such a mere word) "what
Thou writest, paintest, stays; that does not die:
Sappho survives, because we sing her songs,
And AEschylus, because we read his plays!"
Why, if they live still, let them come and take
Thy slave in my despite, drink from thy cup,
Speak in my place. Thou diest while I survive?
Say rather that my fate is deadlier still,
In this, that every day my sense of joy
Grows more acute, my soul (intensified
By power and insight) more enlarged, more keen;
While every day my hairs fall more and more,
My hand shakes, and the heavy years increase—
The horror quickening still from year to year,
The consummation coming past escape
When I shall know most, and yet least enjoy—
When all my works wherein I prove my worth,
Being present still to mock me in men's mouths,
Alive still, in the praise of such as thou,
I, I the feeling, thinking, acting man,
The man who loved his life so over-much,
Sleep in my urn. It is so horrible,
I dare at times imagine to my need
Some future state revealed to us by Zeus,
Unlimited in capability
For joy, as this is in desire for joy,
To seek which, the joy-hunger forces us:
That, stung by straitness of our life, made strait
On purpose to make prized the life at large—
Freed by the throbbing impulse we call death,
We burst there as the worm into the fly,
Who, while a worm still, wants his wings. But no!
Zeus has not yet revealed it; and alas,
He must have done so, were it possible!

Live long and happy, and in that thought die;
Glad for what was! Farewell. And for the rest,
I cannot tell thy messenger aright
Where to deliver what he bears of thine
To one called Paulus; we have heard his fame
Indeed, if Christus be not one with him—
I know not, nor am troubled much to know.
Thou canst not think a mere barbarian Jew,
As Paulus proves to be, one circumcised,
Hath access to a secret shut from us?
Thou wrongest our philosophy, O king,
In stooping to inquire of such an one,
As if his answer could impose at all!
He writeth, doth he? well, and he may write.
Oh, the Jew findeth scholars! certain slaves
Who touched on this same isle, preached him and Christ;
And (as I gathered from a bystander)
Their doctrine could be held by no sane man.

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Love Sonnet 60 I Live In Dreams, Waiting For Time To Come

I live in dreams, waiting for time to come,
That bud I spied would open up someday,
What had been days or scant minutes for some,
Became those lonely centuries to me;
As sun would tarry long before it dims,
For night to fall, so dew on leaves could coat,
Or show as droplets on the petal rims,
As what aphids may soon regard as moat;
Yet, soon it blooms, or later, if at all,
Dependent on the time's leisurely gait,
But heart expects grandeur before its fall,
And love made it a virtue just to wait;
…..A lifetime's length could be pittance to spend,
…..If wait would last eternal, till the end.

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I Wish I Knew How It Would Feel To Be Free

Richard lamb, william taylor
And I wish I knew how
It would feel to be free
I wish that I could break
All the chains holding me
I wish I could say
All the things that Id like to say
Say em loud say em clear
For the whole round world to hear
I wish I could share
All the love thats in my heart
Remove every doubt
It keeps us apart
And I wish you could know
What it means to be me
Then youd see and agree
Every man should be free
I wish I could live
Like Im longin to live
I wish I could give
What Im longin to give
And I wish I could do
All the things Id like to do
You know theyll still miss part of you
Yes sir...
And Im way way over due
I wish I could be like a bird up in the sky
How sweet it would be
If I found out I could fly
So long to my song
And look down upon ihe sea
And I sing because I know
I would see you
I sing because I know
I would see you
And I sing because I know
I would see you
To be free yea

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I Wish I Knew How It Would Feel To Be Free

This song was first released on the rhymes and reasons album. it is the only album it has been released on.
And I wish I knew how
It would feel to be free
I wish that I could break
All the chains holding me
I wish I could say
All the things that Id like to say
Say em loud say em clear
For the whole round world to hear
I wish I could share
All the love thats in my heart
Remove every doubt
It keeps us apart
And I wish you could know
What it means to be me
Then youd see and agree
Every man should be free
I wish I could live
Like Im longin to live
I wish I could give
What Im longin to give
And I wish I could do
All the things Id like to do
You know theyll still miss part of you
Yes sir...
And Im way way over due
I wish I could be like a bird up in the sky
How sweet it would be
If I found out I could fly
So long to my song
And look down upon ihe sea
And I sing because I know
I would see you
I sing because I know
I would see you
And I sing because I know
I would see you
To be free yea
Words and music by taylor and dallas

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John Keats

To Charles Cowden Clarke

Oft have you seen a swan superbly frowning,
And with proud breast his own white shadow crowning;
He slants his neck beneath the waters bright
So silently, it seems a beam of light
Come from the galaxy: anon he sports,--
With outspread wings the Naiad Zephyr courts,
Or ruffles all the surface of the lake
In striving from its crystal face to take
Some diamond water drops, and them to treasure
In milky nest, and sip them off at leisure.
But not a moment can he there insure them,
Nor to such downy rest can he allure them;
For down they rush as though they would be free,
And drop like hours into eternity.
Just like that bird am I in loss of time,
Whene'er I venture on the stream of rhyme;
With shatter'd boat, oar snapt, and canvass rent,
I slowly sail, scarce knowing my intent;
Still scooping up the water with my fingers,
In which a trembling diamond never lingers.

By this, friend Charles, you may full plainly see
Why I have never penn’d a line to thee:
Because my thoughts were never free, and clear,
And little fit to please a classic ear;
Because my wine was of too poor a savour
For one whose palate gladdens in the flavour
Of sparkling Helicon:--small good it were
To take him to a desert rude, and bare,
Who had on Baiae's shore reclin'd at ease,
While Tasso's page was floating in a breeze
That gave soft music from Armida's bowers,
Mingled with fragrance from her rarest flowers:
Small good to one who had by Mulla's stream
Fondled the maidens with the breasts of cream;
Who had beheld Belphoebe in a brook,
And lovely Una in a leafy nook,
And Archimago leaning o'er his book:
Who had of all that's sweet tasted, and seen,
From silv'ry ripple, up to beauty's queen;
From the sequester'd haunts of gay Titania,
To the blue dwelling of divine Urania:
One, who, of late, had ta'en sweet forest walks
With him who elegantly chats, and talks--
The wrong'd Libertas,--who has told you stories
Of laurel chaplets, and Apollo’s glories;
Of troops chivalrous prancing through a city,
And tearful ladies made for love, and pity:
With many else which I have never known.
Thus have I thought; and days on days have flown
Slowly, or rapidly--unwilling still
For you to try my dull, unlearned quill.
Nor should I now, but that I've known you long;
That you first taught me all the sweets of song:
The grand, the sweet, the terse, the free, the fine;
What swell'd with pathos, and what right divine:
Spenserian vowels that elope with ease,
And float along like birds o'er summer seas;
Miltonian storms, and more, Miltonian tenderness;
Michael in arms, and more, meek Eve’s fair slenderness.
Who read for me the sonnet swelling loudly
Up to its climax and then dying proudly?
Who found for me the grandeur of the ode,
Growing, like Atlas, stronger from its load?
Who let me taste that more than cordial dram,
The sharp, the rapier-pointed epigram?
Shew'd me that epic was of all the king,
Round, vast, and spanning all like Saturn's ring?
You too upheld the veil from Clio's beauty,
And pointed out the patriot's stern duty;
The might of Alfred, and the shaft of Tell;
The hand of Brutus, that so grandly fell
Upon a tyrant's head. Ah! had I never seen,
Or known your kindness, what might I have been?
What my enjoyments in my youthful years,
Bereft of all that now my life endears?
And can I e'er these benefits forget?
And can I e'er repay the friendly debt?
No, doubly no;--yet should these rhymings please,
I shall roll on the grass with two-fold ease:
For I have long time been my fancy feeding
With hopes that you would one day think the reading
Of my rough verses not an hour mis[s]pent;
Should it e'er be so, what a rich content!
Some weeks have pass'd since last I saw the spires
In lucent Thames reflected:—warm desires
To see the sun o'er peep the eastern dimness,
And morning shadows streaking into slimness
Across the lawny fields, and pebbly water;
To mark the time as they grow broad, and shorter;
To feel the air that plays about the hills,
And sips its freshness from the little rills;
To see high, golden corn wave in the light
When Cynthia smiles upon a summer's night,
And peers among the cloudlet's jet and white,
As though she were reclining in a bed
Of bean blossoms, in heaven freshly shed.
No sooner had I stepp'd into these pleasures
Than I began to think of rhymes and measures:
The air that floated by me seem’d to say
'Write! thou wilt never have a better day.'
And so I did. When many lines I’d written,
Though with their grace I was not oversmitten,
Yet, as my hand was warm, I thought I’d better
Trust to my feelings, and write you a letter.
Such an attempt required an inspiration
Of a peculiar sort,--a consummation;--
Which, had I felt, these scribblings might have been
Verses from which the soul would never wean:
But many days have past since last my heart
Was warm’d luxuriously by divine Mozart;
By Arne delighted, or by Handel madden'd;
Or by the song of Erin pierc’d and sadden'd:
What time you were before the music sitting,
And the rich notes to each sensation fitting.
Since I have walk'd with you through shady lanes
That freshly terminate in open plains,
And revel'd in a chat that ceased not
When at night-fall among your books we got:
No, nor when supper came, nor after that,--
Nor when reluctantly I took my hat;
No, nor till cordially you shook my hand
Mid-way between our homes:--your accents bland
Still sounded in my ears, when I no more
Could hear your footsteps touch the grav’ly floor.
Sometimes I lost them, and then found again;
You chang'd the footpath for the grassy plain.
In those still moments I have wish'd you joys
That well you know to honour:--'Life's very toys
'With him,' said I, 'will take a pleasant charm;
'It cannot be that ought will work him harm.'
These thoughts now come o’er me with all their might:--
Again I shake your hand,--friend Charles, good night.

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Life In The Balance

Is death an arch rival we are supposed to fear?
An arch rival of what life? Life has its time?
Time enough to grow learn even accomplish.

In proportion to time and talent life lessons.
Effort focus belief honest toil are watered seed
love care produces a fine crop reaped in time.

At appointed time we enter this life in birth.
Free will conscience weighed life choices sow
opportunities to hope to despair in balance.

We appoint values priorities affix heart’s desire.
Yet not all that glitters is gold or good karma to
dominate take because we can has consequences.

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For Many This Is 'Still' A Mystery

It annoys me when I hear,
People say they must go away...
To another place to get things done.
As if when they arrive at their destinations,
Someone there is awaiting...
To hand to them their lives to live.
And without any effort...
A strolling through an amusement park is welcomed.

For anyone who knows what it takes to initiate a process,
Time must be given to it.
And there will be opposition.
Especially if qualifications are considered.
But there are some who believe,
All they need is to show up.
And the doing of that for many...
This is 'still' a mystery as to how they should proceed,
Even in places they wish to leave.

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Food Handouts To Vagrants

There were food handouts
for vagrants in those days
when people travelled to places by walk.
If tired strangers sat at the steps
of choultries in villages,
people would give them food to eat.
And in the early morning,
they would resume their journey.
Now we see hotels all along the road
but the rate of each item is doubled.
Some tramps beg for food and shelter
and in the dawn they'd be out with
some valuables missing. In some places,
the derelicts are given shelter
but their meagre gold is looted.
The governments give freebies to people
in exchange of their votes in ensuing polls.
Yet some odd persons are out to beg and eat.
In a few days the cops find them as terror-outfits.
Some with beards come like sages
and in the morning, some nearby cages are empty,
from which a few women elope with them.
Beware of the vagrants these days!

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It Appealed....

It appealed me less when she cried
It even puzzled me when she lied
It even terrified me when she tried
'Love, happy valentine day' gently said

It is always nice to feel good about
Friends, relatives, near ones and who are out
Little urges arise in the remote centre of heart
Bring us together in times to come as living art

It is not mere exchange of pleasantries
In our life there may be several entries
But when some one enters all of sudden
It becomes unique in chance as very golden

You need some one to talk and move with
Confide in person and free the tongue from teeth
Prison gate opens up with lot more thoughts to release
What a situation to find with and live at ease!

Flower presentation may have been easy medium
Where eyes meet with eagerness and tongues keeps mum
No need to speak a word but only exchange of lovely rose
As if to speak thousand words in one word and suppose

Very delicate situation when you are seized with uncertainty
There is no time to think of and take help from almighty
Complete mind is diverted to single point programme and action
There is no time to think about other things and awaiting reaction

I hope world rejoices at this small token with joy
Somewhere takes place harmonious tuning to enjoy
Many feel whole world under their feet
So much to speak, converse and finally to greet

We have come closer indeed
At some point we have forgotten the lust or greed
It is sincere desire to think and cement the bond
Push everything aside and to take place at second

I wish and pray for this lovely day to do much more
Open the new avenues for world community to explore
We have no time to observe and feel delicate touch
Let us join together and feel warmth of feelings as such

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Alphabet Spaces

In my mind rambles
ideas which seek to unscramble
and grant me crystal clear consistency
but the more I try to wrangle
ideas about Physics and Religion
the more they metamorphosize
into same and similar.

The more I learn about anything
the less I know about the whole
of any and all disciplines;
so I succumb to debates about
T's and I's
while forgetting my alphabet.

For example, if I take my own name
and examine it minutely,
space and letter
nano-space by nano-space
I cannot ever
see a whole word or letter.

Therefore, I come away nameless and confused.

So if I wish to learn the whole
of any disciple or subject-area
I have learned
best not to get too smart about
the spaces between the alphabets.

Yet, and this my conundrum, no letter
is ever apparent
unless there are spaces between Alpha and Omega.
So, too, music is a relationship between the sound and the silences-
too much music or sound is ultimately just noise or silence.
So in my mind rambles all these inconsistencies-
what about yours?
So we have the letters of an alphabet, and the spaces in between the letters
which are necessary to understand the words they form and from these empty spaces in between, much like silence and sound form music.
From this relationship we form the words and ultimately sentences, but note sentences alone do not form coherent paragraphs or pages for that matter and ultimately a book.
So what is the moral here? Pay attention to the background as well as the foreground, the seen and unseen since only from these relationships can we glean, true meaning:
too much concentration on the latter, and we miss the meaning embedded in the former.

True creativity means we are versatile in both and it is also the perfect metaphor for the differences and similarities between Science and Religion.

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She is the Chalk Outline at the Murder Scene,
the shadow which precedes you and me.

She's the sea's retreat before the Tsunami,
the Silence before the Crash,
the Still before Mayhem,
the earthquake weather
before the shaking begins;
the Eye of the Hurricane.

She lives in moments
where Time is Hushed;
at the brink;
the interstices;
the river's rush,

the blue part of the flame;
the Single Hand
holding the Universe back.

And she gets away with it.

She is the one pulling
the curtain
at Oz,

She is the one
backing up
the one-way zone,

who seems to live
without money
because people
simply give her want she wants.

She goes to funerals of people
she doesn't know
and cries reading obituaries.

She is the uninvited wedding guest
that no one knows,
goes to hotels, uses the sauna
and the swimming pool
and never registers
or pays;

sits down
on the curb on city streets
to rest her feet;

goes to Poetry meetings
and reads
the Phone Book;
'I can be anyone I want to be
and then acts out that part
saying its just as satisfying
to act and dream who you want to be
at least it is the first step'

She walks against the light
if no cars are coming
leaving others at the curb,

talks in restaurants to strangers
asking them what dishes are good
and they'll give her a taste
to see what she'll like.

Laughs out loud

Runs up and down stairs;

wears stripped socks
and short black boots

calls her mother
by her first name
always goes home for the holidays,

helps her male friends find girl friends
helps her girls friends find true love.

Sits wide legged;
reads novels out loud
on the subway;

asks strangers
to take photographs of her;

loves little children;
men gather round-
she waves
and moves on.

She once held
a Dumped Party
where everyone
got a chance
to tell
their story.

Holds pot lucks
every month
in her apartment building;
watches soap operas;

Got a good education
by attending big lecture
classes without ever registering.

Bought a cheap microphone
pretending to be a journalist
and interviewed the rich and famous
for the contacts.

Doormen love her.

That's Katie

Wrong all the time
Right all the time
but it doesn't seem to matter

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Many miles away

Many miles away, my mind can wonder
different things can change
how different i want things to be
at this very stage

as i get home all tired
wondering if a warm smile is waiting to welcome me
but all i get is an empty feeling
and end up crying down to my knees

so many people i want to look up to
so many reasons to try
to be someones little angel
and someone who doesnt make me cry

i wish someone cared about how i feel for once
how i want things to change so much
but realizing later that this is my mind wondering
because things will never change, not even by chance.

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Truth Is Free of Deception

Truth has descended upon us unannounced,
And people are discovering their shallowness.
They are hiding to cover themselves under fresh lies!
Believing they can not be seen!
They do not know they always were.
Since truth is free of deception!
There can be only one truth!
And when the truth sets you free...
Believe it!
It sets you free to see deceivers!
Even encased within steel and walls of concrete,
They can not hide!
Not who they are.
Not from inside!
They run to God not knowing it is HE who reveals them!
Not knowing HE is also SHE...
Of the WE of US He has made!

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i feel alone... i feel like i could die
i feel alone... i feel like i could die... tonight
carry on carry on

don't feel ashamed.. don't feel ashamed
i rather it be this way
you're not to blame you're not to blame
don't feel ashamed

i'm getting close...
to the other side
just close the door
i'll leave the past behind me
can you see my pride
it's only one step away from
freedom... freedom...

i feel i can fly anywhere with anyone

don't feel ashamed
i rather it be this way
you're not to blame
don't feel ashamed
don't feel ashamed
i rather it be this way
you're not to blame
don't feel ashamed

i love you baby... so don't you feel ashamed!!

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Pukllay Festival Release Social Tensions

I sing song of life is theme harmony
inspired Andean festival of Pukllay
held in high Andes in month February
over a period of harmonious eight days

eight days singing and dancing
eight days to inspire social harmony
women dance dance with bundles
of maize grain fruit in your shawls

young mothers young mothers bundle
bundle in your infants bundle in life
dance with life your wide-eyed infants
infants learning who bounce wide-eyed

above maternal twirling and stamping
let women sing let men together sing sing
sing in two choirs sing sing back and forth
sing in festival time of whipping dances

sing in teasing sing hearts in love making
sing in time of release release release from
traditional restraints feel do express what
cannot be done expressed at all other times

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I Wonder How Am I a Poet?

No great language skill,
No sufficient vocabulary,
No grip of grammar,
Frequent spelling mistake,
no laptop or desktop,
Only I will be Sometimes on rooftop,
Monkey mind jumps from rooftop
to next treetop,
Shaking bunches of fruits,
Only words fall from tip of leaves like dewdrops!

Winged feelings fly above clouds
What ever molten heart put words in different molds!
No resource,
only a second hand phone I use,
my heart is my only source!

Dictionary predict some words for some another,
I think some words to type,
it types something different

No poesy, no poetic skill,
Whatever thought comes,
I fill the page!
I can't go beyond as I am not a sage!

All started with something melting in me,
Frozen thoughts started to flow,
I am even typing very slow,
I have more poverty than poetry in heart!

My poems, are works of poetaster,
What my heart does I don't know,
Sometimes mind shines like mountain snow,
Avalanche and sliding cause frequent mistakes,
I wonder whether my esteem is at stake!
I feel like some iceberg melting,
Sometime with flowing thoughts,
Waste to float on lines!

I know, I am nothing,
I came here a nothing,
Living as a nothing,
But something which is everything,
Making my weakness public,
Sometime I feel ashamed of myself,
As my poems are making me more and more naked,
But I console myself,
Why you worry, you are still a kid,
stone happened to to melt, or just opened eyes,
wondering kid!

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Be In The Word

Everyday you should be in The Word, this friend, I have often heard.
I need God to guide me every day, to listen to what He has to say.
For The Lord has a path set for me, to lead me safely into Eternity.
His Word is a light on my path, to guide me away from pending wrath.
But when I stray from His light, I walk from the day into the night.
I begin to kick against the goads, and wander down forbidden roads.

His Word is my very life to me, and it guides me when I can not see.
For The Word of God in my life, guards me from much pain and strife.
I must hide it in my heart, for Christ is with me each waking start.
And He goes with me throughout the day guiding every word I say.
And whenever I forget to pray, my heart deep inside begins to stray.
Then I forget The Word He instilled and act against my Father’s will.

His Word can not be ignored, for it’s sharper than a two edged sword.
And it cuts deep into the heart of man, and shows me just what I am.
I’m a sinner saved by God’s Grace, and daily I need to seek His face.
Prayer is how my heart may plea but The Word is how God speaks to me.
When through prayer I speak to Him, His Word helps me deal with sin.
With The Word dwelling within, the daily battles Christ helps me win.

His Word is an essential part in my life and how God cleanses my heart.
When I allow The Word to dwell in me, The Spirit truly sets me free.
Christ sets me free from my will so that in my life His is fulfilled.
And that, according to God’s Word, is to preach until all have heard.
That for me He paid the price, and on that cross I died with Christ.
And for me to serve Jesus Christ, my life must be a living sacrifice.

(Copyright ©07/2004)

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