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Patrick White

Who Looks For The Sea By Following Its Waves?

Who looks for the sea by following its waves?
Or the sky by following the flights of birds?
Or their mind with their mind?
Who looks for seeing with their eyes?
Dogen Zenji: The place is here. The path leads everywhere.
And that should be the inexhaustible end of it. Freedom.
And all along the river that means
whatever I want it to, my unfinished solitude.
This discrete spiritual protocol between myself and the stars
that don't know how many times they've saved my life
by simply being there to gaze upon, as if in some way
they were so much more cleansing than water
and I could bathe in them to wash off the dust of the world
on any clear night, or, sometimes when you cry
it's the light that pours out, not your tears.

Some memories enter a coma and stay there,
giving you the impression that the past is fixed,
but I know the past is as creatively ongoing as now
and what was isn't the fossilized substance of what is,
by the way it can still sting, bite, caress and grow
into the available dimension of the future,
by how few times I've come here in joy
that wasn't mentored by some diffuse sorrow
that lingered over the lake like a wraith of the drifting mist
that had drowned in it barely an afterlife or two ago.

Always in the background of my heart I feel
this compassionate sadness like the cosmic hiss of creation,
and o how the watersheds of understanding long to be fountains
and exfoliate into flowing diamonds that simply
celebrate the scintillance, without embracing everything
in the mournful tenderness of this space it shares with them
as if in everything I'm aware of, I were always
mourning the passage of flowers. And if not that,
the heretical indignation born of what it appears
we must suffer to be here, without knowing why,
though I struggle most times to suppress that
to make sure the door stays open to any strays
that might wander in like wayward oversights of creative clarity.

There's a sophomoric debate still going on
about whether I'm getting older or not, but alone,
I can feel the weight of this seasoned bell within me
and I ask myself is this the heaviness of the ripening pear
as it bends the branch as well as the light toward earth?
Is that why time approaches me like the night coming on
sweetened with stars, in this second innocence of wonder
before I fall again? Is pain the only intermediary
between our death and our birth and detachment and separation
the only kind of truce or bridge or oxymoron
that could reconcile them even remotely?

So often when I can't see the radiance of the world
I think it's because my eyes are unclean,
that it's my error of perception if the arrow misses the mark,
not any inherent injustice in the way things are,
because who am I to say how it should all be experienced
when I could talk forever without ever knowing
what a thought, an emotion, or a word truly is,
let alone life with all its conditioned chaos
and dissonant harmonies? All these travelling companions
on the same road I am, trying to figure out
whether they're refugees on the run,
or pilgrims without a shrine. And I'm modestly
exalted by my humility when I think like this
until I remember how easy it is to go blind
looking into any source of illumination
watching two serpents copulating like wavelengths
and helical chromosomes. And I turn away
to stay true to the face in the mirror that isn't mine.
I plunge into a black hole, a rite of passage,
and when I come out the other end, even my shadows shine.

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The Sea and The Sky

The sea and the sky have a wondrous affair.
One rules the water; the other the air.
Together their powers are infinite indeed,
Theyre of service to man in his every need.

With such supreme import, it seems that man
Would protect these riches any way that he can.
But man being man, unfortunately,
Places himself ahead of the sky and the sea.

In his rush… toward money and pleasure,
He often forgets that his greatest treasure
Can be immutably disfigured and indelibly destroyed,
Leaving future offspring a catastrophic void.

Best, respect mighty seas and cavorting skies
So theyre here for many generation’s admiring eyes.

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William Blake

An Imitation of Spenser

Golden Apollo, that thro' heaven wide
Scatter'st the rays of light, and truth's beams,
In lucent words my darkling verses dight,
And wash my earthy mind in thy clear streams,
That wisdom may descend in fairy dreams,
All while the jocund hours in thy train
Scatter their fancies at thy poet's feet;
And when thou yields to night thy wide domain,
Let rays of truth enlight his sleeping brain.
For brutish Pan in vain might thee assay
With tinkling sounds to dash thy nervous verse,
Sound without sense; yet in his rude affray,
(For ignorance is Folly's leasing nurse
And love of Folly needs none other's curse)
Midas the praise hath gain'd of lengthen'd ears,
For which himself might deem him ne'er the worse
To sit in council with his modern peers,
And judge of tinkling rimes and elegances terse.

And thou, Mercurius, that with wingèd brow
Dost mount aloft into the yielding sky,
And thro' Heav'n's halls thy airy flight dost throw,
Entering with holy feet to where on high
Jove weighs the counsel of futurity;
Then, laden with eternal fate, dost go
Down, like a falling star, from autumn sky,
And o'er the surface of the silent deep dost fly:

If thou arrivest at the sandy shore
Where nought but envious hissing adders dwell,
Thy golden rod, thrown on t 1000 he dusty floor,
Can charm to harmony with potent spell.
Such is sweet Eloquence, that does dispel
Envy and Hate that thirst for human gore;
And cause in sweet society to dwell
Vile savage minds that lurk in lonely cell

O Mercury, assist my lab'ring sense
That round the circle of the world would fly,
As the wing'd eagle scorns the tow'ry fence
Of Alpine hills round his high aëry,
And searches thro' the corners of the sky,
Sports in the clouds to hear the thunder's sound,
And see the wingèd lightnings as they fly;
Then, bosom'd in an amber cloud, around
Plumes his wide wings, and seeks Sol's palace high.

And thou, O warrior maid invincible,
Arm'd with the terrors of Almighty Jove,
Pallas, Minerva, maiden terrible,
Lov'st thou to walk the peaceful solemn grove,
In solemn gloom of branches interwove?
Or bear'st thy AEgis o'er the burning field,
Where, like the sea, the waves of battle move?
Or have thy soft piteous eyes beheld
The weary wanderer thro' the desert rove?
Or does th' afflicted man thy heav'nly bosom move?

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Sea Of Waves

sea of waves
and waves of the sea
aren't all the same
but salty

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Word of war

I

Flow of light fragment in the night sky
And my Eyes penetrate far into the eyes of man queuing, Crawling like a lizard cold blood.
Morbid attractive vanity of prostitute mind coupled,
Giving birth to lazy memory of soldier life, and cool blood,

Disappearing warmed-blood.
Enchanting mermaids, locked the red sea.
Flocks of birds in my palate, and nausea and regret.
Body nymph, hungry for rape, orgies of minds.
From the darkness to the altar where the executioner kills,
Brain and heart are to the slaughter.
The eyes are their minds,
Life and Love are only complaints.


II


Down to earth, blood and war
Myths of century, Nazi's orgasms.
Sailors mutinied at sunrise.
White corpse, populate my mind.

Fears open my eyes
The murderess is in the world, Is in every person.
Empty of any emotion,
My freedom will become a low-altitude flight of a shallow in a highway.

III


Crying does give life to the corpses buried in war,
but their games would be to sing.
And go back to sleep again, like a blowing wind.
Of agony and boring sun, of light and heat.

Every think is dark, where to look with cat eyes.
Like stars in the night.
Like disgusting and misunderstood souls.
Waiting to rise from the stomach of our though.


IV


Understanding, the obvious night, and the obvious think.
Escape of journey, scenes of yourself.
In your cold mind, whispering heat on and off, to taste.
Mixed religion and confusion

Forgiven, forgiveness, sea water, natural habit.
Mosaic composition of fragments of a fiction story
Science fiction and fantasy society

Of dream and love,
Of fear and pain
Of fate
Of life and death.


V


Man and woman, naked in an orgy, symbol of pleasure
Screaming in my hears, blood murders.
She just lying with open eyes, somebody shooter.
She dying
She was born on honey and milk.
Her hair made of black gold, ribbons, jewels and crown.
Flow from a nest of feather and sticks
Good by my Princess of middle east.

.
The countless eyes describe her death.
End of a relationship, fled to the sky attached to his land.
Cultivate pride and reason, but with not good spring
Anguish the last descendent of life. The soul.


VI


Night falls along with the stars and the moon.
Blood and fear sill argues over, who stay.
However, for you they have ready decide.
Guard on our eyes, in a world of slave leisure.

The word momentarily deceives, the tongue wiggles.
Insecure snakes are born from the past.
In the city where no one knows.
Where the close eyes, open on the tower of desire.

VII


The begin stop; a cloud rises from the ruin of the city.
Micro-organisms in a universe
Species of sperm, cells and souls
Wretched and weird, proud and dissatisfied.


VIII


A vicious dream of life
The eye and blinded, and wanders in search of light.
Don t runs from your memories.
1000 moons cannot change your believe.

I forgot the thought into nothingness.
Straight to your eyes, already forgot, by those who invented.
Prisoner mind from enchanted eyes.
Praising war,


IX


The sunset of yellow shape, disappear,
And lives of the nights, born from ancient silence,
are crying and laments.
Wiggling in the stomach of the minds
Like a prisoner in a cage of fear,

The moon is mothering.
Locked, and sleepy between the sheet,
Like a dance on the night light, the bells are hearing.
The Souls coupled to the echoes.
Of water fall, and antique mountain, breathing dream of freedom.


X


The inner voices awake,
Like the indifference swimming of the fish between the sea and the sky,
Weighting in our mind, chain in our eyes, blind, running horses and birth of butterfly, Clearing mind and body.
Loot the night to the one who is sleeping.
Fill is pocket with golden coin, upheaval the soul,
And celebrate sacred wars.

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The World of Night

Like a blanket, it covers the sky
As the hallow moon flies by
And while I watch the sun say goodbye
I welcome the World of Night

It darkens the world and carresses the stars
As they shine so glamorous from the world above ours
And I think to myself, they're farther then far
I welcome the World of Night

For all the pain when the sun's in the sky
And there's not a moment that passes you by
Where you don't feel that your about to cry
I welcome the World of Night

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Part of God

created in his likeness
the anger - thunder
the warning - lightning
the tears - rain
the smile - the breeze
the punishment - earthquake
lesson - the echo, memory
the trees, birds,
sea, clouds and sky
his pictorial poetry
in his likeness
i paint them
with words
that run
like a river
reflecting their beauty in me
styling them in realism
on a calm day
impressionism
on a breezy one
as the river
dances with light
modernism
when the river
shakes the
inquisitive mind
of the mysteries of life
all the blocks and angles
the river registers
as it unfolds a scroll
of god's law
surrealism
mistfilled
a river scene
i did to run away from
a mind that torments
a world that begs for
an answer to everything

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On The Porch

As I lie roofed in, screened in,
From the pattering rain,
The summer rain—
As I lie
Snug and dry,
And hear the birds complain:

Oh, billow on billow,
Oh, roar on roar,
Over me wash
The seas of war.
Over me—down—down—
Lunges and plunges
The huge gun with its one blind eye,
The armored train,
And, swooping out of the sky,
The aeroplane.
Down—down—
The army proudly swinging
Under gay flags,
The glorious dead heaped up like rags,
A church with bronze bells ringing,
A city all towers,
Gardens of lovers and flowers,
The round world swinging
In the light of the sun:
All broken, undone,
All down—under
Black surges of thunder …

Oh, billow on billow
Oh, roar on roar,
Over me wash
The seas of war …

As I lie roofed in, screened in,
From the pattering rain,
The summer rain—
As I lie
Snug and dry,
And hear the birds complain.

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That Which I Have Lost

Hes fighting the forces of darkness limitation
Falsehood and mortality which bar him
The way back into the higher world
While his whole being is bewildered
He does not know - no law of action
Taking refuge inside himself and hes saying
I need someone to show me
Illumine my consciousness
Remove the dark from in me
And give me that which I have lost
As all had seemed lost a light from heaven
Breaking
A flash - inward illumination
Enriched his life more than any words can tell
He stood there, life renewed fresh as rain
Scales were falling from his eyes again
The bolts of his prison opening - hes saying
I found someone who showed me
Illumined my consciousness
Removed the dark from in me
And given me that which I have lost
You people dont have time to listen to him
Youre too busy fighting revolutions
That keep you back down in the lower world
Your mirrors of understanding they need
Cleansing
Polish away the dust of desire
Before pure light will reflect in them
You need someone to show you
Illumine your consciousness
Remove the dark from in you
And give you that which you have lost.

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A Smile Like Yours

Hmm, thought Id seen everything there was to see in this world
Now Im not so sure Ive really seen anything at all
I thought life could show me no surprises
And then you came and showed me I was wrong
I have seen the bluest skies, rainbows that would make you cry
I have seen miracles that moved my soul, days that changed my life
I have seen the brightest stars shine like diamonds in the dark
Seen all the wonders of the world, but Ive never seen a smile
As beautiful as yours, ooh, ooh, ooh, oh, I thought Id been everywhere
Ive climbed a mountain so high, sailed the sea, crossed the sky
And still I was nowhere at all, until that day, oh, you came to my senses
And your smile, it made sense out of it all, (I have seen the bluest skies)
Rainbows that would make you cry, I have seen miracles
(miracles that moved me soul) that moved my soul, days that changed my life,
I have seen the brightest stars shine like diamonds in the dark
Seen all the wonders of the world, but Ive never seen a smile as beautiful as yours
(smile so beautiful) so beautiful, comes one time in a lifetime
A smile this beautiful, (a smile this beautiful) Ive never dreamed Id ever see, oh
(I have seen the bluest skies) I have seen it, (rainbows that would make you cry)
That would make you cry, Ive seen miracles (miracles) moved my soul,
(days that changed my life) and days that changed my life
I have seen the brightest stars shine like diamonds in the dark
Oh, Ive seen the wonders of this world (wonders of the world)
But Ive never seen a smile (never seen a smile before as beautiful as yours)
Oh, Ive never seen a smile before, (never seen a smile before as beautiful)
As beautiful as yours.

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Henry Van Dyke

Peace

I

IN EXCELSIS

Two dwellings, Peace, are thine.
One is the mountain-height,
Uplifted in the loneliness of light
Beyond the realm of shadows,--fine,
And far, and clear,--where advent of the night
Means only glorious nearness of the stars,
And dawn, unhindered, breaks above the bars
That long the lower world in twilight keep.
Thou sleepest not, and hast no need of sleep,
For all thy cares and fears have dropped away;
The night's fatigue, the fever-fret of day,
Are far below thee; and earth's weary wars,
In vain expense of passion, pass
Before thy sight like visions in a glass,
Or like the wrinkles of the storm that creep
Across the sea and leave no trace
Of trouble on that immemorial face,--
So brief appear the conflicts, and so slight
The wounds men give, the things for which they fight.

Here hangs a fortress on the distant steep,--
A lichen clinging to the rock:
There sails a fleet upon the deep,--
A wandering flock
Of snow-winged gulls: and yonder, in the plain,
A marble palace shines,--a grain
Of mica glittering in the rain.
Beneath thy feet the clouds are rolled
By voiceless winds: and far between
The rolling clouds new shores and peaks are seen,
In shimmering robes of green and gold,
And faint aerial hue
That silent fades into the silent blue.
Thou, from thy mountain-hold,
All day, in tranquil wisdom, looking down
On distant scenes of human toil and strife,
All night, with eyes aware of loftier life,
Uplooking to the sky, where stars are sown,
Dost watch the everlasting fields grow white
Unto the harvest of the sons of light,
And welcome to thy dwelling-place sublime
The few strong souls that dare to climb
The slippery crags and find thee on the height.


II

DE PROFUNDIS

But in the depth thou hast another home,
For hearts less daring, or more frail.
Thou dwellest also in the shadowy vale;
And pilgrim-souls that roam
With weary feet o'er hill and dale,
Bearing the burden and the heat
Of toilful days,
Turn from the dusty ways
To find thee in thy green and still retreat.
Here is no vision wide outspread
Before the lonely and exalted seat
Of all-embracing knowledge. Here, instead,
A little garden, and a sheltered nook,
With outlooks brief and sweet
Across the meadows, and along the brook,--
A little stream that little knows
Of the great sea towards which it gladly flows,--
A little field that bears a little wheat
To make a portion of earth's daily bread.
The vast cloud-armies overhead
Are marshalled, and the wild wind blows
Its trumpet, but thou canst not tell
Whence the storm comes nor where it goes.

Nor dost thou greatly care, since all is well;
Thy daily task is done,
And though a lowly one,
Thou gavest it of thy best,
And art content to rest
In patience till its slow reward is won.
Not far thou lookest, but thy sight is clear;
Not much thou knowest, but thy faith is dear;
For life is love, and love is always near.
Here friendship lights the fire, and every heart,
Sure of itself and sure of all the rest,
Dares to be true, and gladly takes its part
In open converse, bringing forth its best:
Here is Sweet music, melting every chain
Of lassitude and pain:
And here, at last, is sleep, the gift of gifts,
The tender nurse, who lifts
The soul grown weary of the waking world,
And lays it, with its thoughts all furled,
Its fears forgotten, and its passions still,
On the deep bosom of the Eternal Will.

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Patrick White

I Stand Where The Listening Begins

I stand where the listening begins
as if my voice were just another one of the echoes
and my tongue were the tip of an edgy precipice
that doesn't dare make a move
over an immeasurable abyss of eyes
that nobody belongs to.
This is a seeing that's older than the stars
that were born of it
like a mirror is born of the shining.
Like a body is born of the mind
and takes on the shape of a universe
as an expressionist gesture of classical reserve.
In the great ocean of being before it turned into everyone
our eyes weren't beaded like two drops of water
strung through our nose
like a statement we were trying to make.
They were waves.
Waves of water.
Waves of light.
Waves of thought and feeling.
They were waterbirds that came and went
without leaving.
They were meteorological events
in the emotional life of the sea
when it played alone with itself like weather.
We didn't evolve hands to prove we had a grip on things.
We didn't evolve brains to prove we were intelligent.
We're not nuggets of insight
panned from the mindstream
that runs down the world mountain
in a rush of gold.
I stand where I can hear the night
breathing like a shadow in its own darkness
and whatever I am not
is as real as whatever I am.
And my sorrows dropp away
like the black fruit of ruined bells
and my joys know a freedom
no holy war ever deserved.
Here my death answers to my life
and not the other way around.
My beginnings are not justified by my ends
and my solitude is so wholly itself
it embraces everything
as if it were space
and time were its only friend.
This is a poetic state.
A dynamic mode of creative annihilation.
This is a phoenix blooming in its own fire.
This is life.
This is the universe full of bright ideas
that come to it like stars in the darkness.
This is the white mare of the full moon in the high field
with the gates open
like wings growing out of her shoulders.
This is a space that is so spontaneously immediate
that you receive the reply
long before you've even asked the question.
It doesn't take thousands of thoughtyears
for the light to get here.
A flower blooms.
A star comes out.
It's as simple as that.
You lift one veil of the mystery like an eyelid.
Nothing has a history.
The old man remembers nothing.
The old woman forgets her name.
Once they were seabeds of meaning.
Now they're just water.
And everything is ok with that.
People go grey
and turn into clouds in the mountains
just to catch the last of the light
and give their lives some colour.
And then it's night again
and the dancing chandeliers of the stars
that are burning like legends
to make a name and a myth for themselves
fall like constellations to earth
and shatter like the rainbows of youth.
Every dawn has a taste of the sunset in it.
What's the end of anything
if not the dark side of its beginnings?
I am the fool of a freedom
that lets things be whatever they want to be
deep within the heavy fruit of a compassionate heart
that ripens in its own lucidity.
There are worms.
There are birds.
There's a green star in the apple core.
My skin is the chameleon of the sun going down.
I know how to swim through stone and water.
There are fish in my treetops
and birds in my roots
and when I drown
it's the sun in the sea
and nothing ever really goes out.
Everytime I open my mouth to sing
this is where the muse
puts a finger to her lips
to teach me what I'm talking about.
I'm a star when I write.
First I let go of the light.
And then the children point fingers at me
and say in mutual recognition
of the stories they make up on the go
there you are
just as we foretold.
It's the same way with water
when it's lost in a desert of sand and stars.
Sometimes it takes a mirage to find your way home.
Death gapes like the jawbone of a mummy
and writes like a pyramid
as if it wanted to make all things last forever.
But when life picks up the pen
around the fires of the stars
to whisper into its own ear
things that only solitude
can suggest to the night
its poems are always tents on the move.
The moon sailing paper lifeboats down a river
like waterlilies
blooming in the pale flames
of their lunar immolations
as if each were a white phoenix
rising above its own ashes and smoke
like someone dreaming of swans.

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Sun and Rain

Eventide,
The slowly setting sun
Says one more goodbye,
The day is done.
Soon morning comes
But, where is the sun?
Dark clouds cover the sky.
Today no birds sing
Nor shall they fly,
The weather wet
With a chill,
The rains have arrived
With a mission to fulfill;
Together with sun
Life to give,
Without both,
Nothing could ever live.

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To Her Of Venus Isle

Born was a sigh, in Venus Isle,
Whose winds caress, and dreams fly high,
Cradled in lore and vestiges,
Of land where dwelt the goddesses,
Hellenic grace, from head to foot,
With poetic prowess of note;

Where else does sea kisses the sky,
If not in pristine Venus Isle,
Where eyes may rest their weariness,
And hearts may fill their emptiness,
But souls that search, from South to North,
Will find, her there, with love they're worth

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Shall There Be Fake Stars In Heaven?

i once named you
as one of the stars in heaven

every night
though distant
i look at you
my true star

time is cruel with its
storms and
rain
and there are times
when i simply
gaze even if i see
nothing of you

the years are patient
and the leaves of
thoughts keep on
covering what naked
bark and trunk
is there upon the being
of my existence

one night
when it was as dark as
the color of
depression

i begin to ask
if in the heavens too
there are fake stars

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Princess Worthless

Your princess worthless on the sand
Dreams of charming to her hand,
To slate the dragon on her path
Slender silver and of wrath.
Her lonely heart and wonder mind
On the spit of sand shes confined,
No wealth or castle to deny
But an empty world alone to cry.
These lost tears fall on rainy days
Princess worthless in her gaze,
A prince of silver and dragon slays
The perfect prince but nervous says.
'The castle it wilts without a rose
Would you be the heart to which it grows'.

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The Great Below

Staring at the sea
Will she come?
Is there hope for me
After all is said and done
Anything at any price
All of this for you
All the spoils of a wasted life
All of this for you
All the world has closed her eyes
Tired faith all worn and thin
For all we could have done
And all that could have been
Ocean pulls me close
And whispers in my ear
The destiny Ive chose
All becoming clear
The currents have their say
The time is drawing near
Washes me away
Makes me disappear
I descend from grace
In arms of underflow
I will take my place
In the great below
I can still feel you
Even so far away

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On The Death Of W. C.

Thou arrant robber, Death!
Couldst thou not find
Some lesser one than he
To rob of breath,--
Some poorer mind
Thy prey to be?

His mind was like the sky,--
As pure and free;
His heart was broad and open
As the sea.
His soul shone purely through his face,
And Love made him her dwelling place.

Not less the scholar than the friend,
Not less a friend than man;
The manly life did shorter end
Because so broad it ran.

Weep not for him, unhappy Muse!
His merits found a grander use
Some other-where. God wisely sees
The place that needs his qualities.
Weep not for him, for when Death lowers
O'er youth's ambrosia-scented bowers
He only plucks the choicest flowers.

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Goldfish

They are the angels of that watery world,
With so much knowledge that they just aspire
To move themselves on golden fins,
Or fill their paradise with fire
By darting suddenly from end to end.

Glowing a thousand centuries behind
In pools half-recollected of the mind,
Their large eyes stare and stare, but do not see
Beyond those curtains of Eternity.

When twilight flows into the room
And air becomes like water, you can feel
Their movements growing larger in the gloom,
And you are led
Backward to where they live beyond the dead.

But in the morning, when the seven rays
Of London sunlight one by one incline,
They glide to meet them, and their gulping lips
Suck the light in, so they are caught and played
Like salmon on a heavenly fishing line.

* * * *

Ghosts on a twilight floor,
Moving about behind their watery door,
Breathing and yet not breathing day and night,
They give the house some gleam of faint delight.

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Malaysiana - Leatherback Turtle

coconut leaves rustle,
running with the wind
at at least 20 km per hour
waves surge at an
equally frantic speed -
patriotic hands that
repeatedly hold onto
the beach with a roaring
and thunderous voice to
match their claim

a giant turtle slowly emerges
in the water, a dark shadow
accenting the night with its
rare mound and strenuous flippers
the final touchdown in a
thousand mile comeback

each stride and lug forward
reflects a firm belief in the land
that it belongs to

it is the first comeback after
many many years at sea
and now for the noblest of chores

in less than two hours,
at least a hundred
ping pong size eggs
have gone into a hole it has dug
a hole large enough to hold
all its love for the land

and you should see how tears
keep rolling down its eyes
as it thanks god it still remembers
its way back to shower its gratitude
to the land that had given him birth

the giant turtle remembers how years
ago it had crept out of its egg, shoveled away sand
and without another thought made its
precarious way to the freedom of the sea

despite the brief encounter, it never never
forgot the land it originated from, its smell, its winds,
its sounds and has logged every inch it had swam
to make that triumphant return today

the hundred eggs hold its hundred wishes
that this tradition be kept for as long
as leatherback turtle exists

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Eaten In Eden

Eve, the Mother of Mothers,
Woken from her first sleep,
Thoughts coursing through her brain,
Accepting every sight and sound,
Sensing the presence of her humanity...

This form was all she was,
It ended there beyond herself,
Yet there before her some likeness,
Some extra humanity...

Words within her telling her things,
Recognising colours and forms,
Seeing flying birds and crawling creatures,
Seeing eyes looking back at her...

Ears, what were these hidden in her hair?
Detectors of left and right events,
Alert to buzzing of bees, eagles landing,
Her own movements across the grass...

And hands and feet, shaped alike,
Fit for purpose, yet what purpose?
Then there were bones within warm skin,
Yet even more, blue lines above bones.

Strange endings, nails, hard skins,
Fingers and toes curling, gripping,
Chest curves hiding the human heart,
More bones front and back,
Being able to twist left and right...

Hair, strange, without senses, dead,
Like twigs on trees, hanging down,
Then an awareness of something,
There between two eyes, a shape,
A mere blur when the eyes are open,
One eye closed and it appears...

And what is that drawing in and forcing out?
The chest filling and emptying,
Yet again, for what purpose?
Oh, my, the amazing concept of the head,
A heavy rock to carry, perhaps for balance?

And a falling gap for thoughts to share,
Leaving her head to venture forth,
And thus she talks and walks to Adam,
To be touched and embraced, softly,
To feel the warmth of his skin...

Is that how she looks with hair and form,
With arms and legs, fingers and toes,
A few differences, yet much the same?
If so, then why, for what purpose?
Strange thoughts tumbling within,
Puzzled frowns upon her brow...

What am I? What are you? What are we?
And slowly the answers unfolding before her,
As if she were a child beside him,
Needing to be taught afresh, listening,
Yet feeling inferior for lack of knowledge,
Surely knowledge is power, to be desired?

And what now? Rules? Told what to do?
This, yes, that, no? For what purpose?
Confusion as to Creation, her creation,
All these creatures, lovely, ugly, why?

Birds flying, yet she had no wings, why?
Forced to walk, forced to run, but why?
Flying is easier, faster, more beautiful...
Adam, fellow humanity, fellow thinker,
Does he know all the answers?
No, he only knows a few answers...

Feeling weakness, inferiority, not being wise,
So many secrets, things unexplained,
Curious, needing answers, feeling left out,
Burdened with strange doubts, as if unloved,
As if not counted trustworthy to know...

But even now, more strangeness,
A creature that talks as well,
A fellow thinker, with questions, too,
A serpent, nothing more,
A fragile thing easily crushed underfoot,
Another reason to tread carefully...

What's that? Eat of the forbidden fruit?
Creator keeping secrets from us?
Holding back both wisdom and power?
But why? For what purpose?
Too many questions. Something's wrong here.
Heart aching for answers, yet no-one in sight...

Just one bite, that can't hurt, can it?
Something eaten in Eden...
And so the fruit is swallowed and death was born.
Something new under the sun, manmade...
Something that changed everything...

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