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A Ritual Of The Day To The Night

afraid of being converted into a pig
i do not sleep when i am done
and full

i sit and watch the stars flicker
the moon floats on the river and stays full at rest on the side of the mountain
i listen to the fox
i gaze at the bird resting upon a twig on a tree beside the house of my parents

and when i am hungry and thirsty again
upon an empty mind i go to bed and ponder
between this dreamland and this harsh reality
the words come into play
and begin to reconcile

and then i fall into a deep sleep
erasing all that the day has written so
ineptly

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The day has gone

The day has gone

And I am again alone.

What should I say?

I can only pray

For the best times to come

When I meet that only one.

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The day has come

Potter moulds clay;
A day would come
For the clay to mould man.
Man mould nature;
The day has come
For the nature to mould man.
26.03.2010

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With Fever The Day Has Passed

could not have a warm shower first
my wife said soup was getting cold

and the heat of the soup is good

for fever to bring out the sweat
perhaps my head is supposed

to burn


with fever the day has passed
in blessed sleep night has quiet

creeping come with this fever
light headed dizzy flying flu

is timeless in circles of energy

fleeting lapping gone


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The Day Has Come To Its End

The day has come to its end
The birds have returned to their nest
The tired laborours return to their home
The fidgeting baby goes to sleep
The pedestrians
The wanderers
Lay their mats under the trees
The pale and tired moon comes again with its fleet of stars
The May winds swing softly like a cradle
The day has come to its end
And so would the life
Weary,
Careless,
I sleep

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If Every Time of the Day Has a Poem of Its Own

If every time of the day
Has a poem of its own
This afternoon too should long
To say something about itself-
But as it stretches its slow length too long
As it makes heat and light one long unending discomfort,
This afternoon says only
That even the time of day
Cannot mean much
If one does not have something
Outside oneself
To say in it.

All heat and light are emptiness now
And the overwhelming shape of brightness
Is nothing more than the stunned silence
One fears when one wakes from a bad dream
In the middle of the day and night.

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Ella Wheeler Wilcox

Breaking The Day In Two

When from dawn till noon seems one long day,
And from noon till night another,
Oh, then should a little boy come from play,
And creep into the arms of his mother.
Snugly creep and fall asleep,
O come, my baby, do;
Creep into my lap, and with a nap,
We'll break the day in two.


When the shadows slant for afternoon,
When the midday meal is over;
When the winds have sung themselves into a swoon,
And the bees drone in the clover.
Then hie to me, hie, for a lullaby-
Come, my baby, do;
Creep into my lap, and with a nap
We'll break the day in two.


We'll break it in two with a crooning song,
With a soft and soothing number;
For the day has no right to be so long
And keep my baby from slumber.
Then rock-a-by, rock, may white dreams flock
Like angels over you;
Baby's gone, and the deed is done
We've broken the day in two.

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A Poem At The End Of The Day

A POEM AT THE END OF THE DAY

A poem at the end of the day
Cannot have the hope
Of a morning poem.

A poem at the end of the day
Has to have weariness in it
And sadness
And fear.

The night is coming
But no one knows what the night will be.

A poem at the end of the day
Does not know if it will ever see the morning.

It has fear in it
And I would not write it,
Were it not
The end of the day now.

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Of The Day

There has been worry and strife all year,
The sloping ground and the abhorrent facts show;
The showing of nature is then spinning first,
With regards to the godly labour, and desks of thinking.
A little wood senses the surroundings and then
Everyone bolts to the right or left
Depending on their age or size,
Also depending on job and status.
The soft echoes are grey after me,
Then the sudden change is mastered forever.
May the tunes of the galaxy be with us,
Worry is no more an object
And the subject of the day has passed.

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Poem: Sufficient for the Day

Sufficient for the day is the Lord's grace,
although the day has troubles of its own;
remain standing on the foundation of faith,
for the secret… is going before God's throne.

Daily measures of mercies and love are available,
since Christ our advocate is making intercessions
that lift us up - for when we eventually fall down,
as the result of our sinful transgressions.

Sufficient for the day is the Lord's joy,
although the day has troubles of its own;
God's love for us has been made evident,
seeing the Son's Salvation has been made known.

With a new day, stillness may certainly come;
unite your voice with eternity's songs.
Become comfortable now for giving God praise,
in preparation of joining the heavenly throng.

Sufficient for the day is the Lord's strength,
although the day has troubles of its own;
so lift us up after we fall again, as we realize…
that Your grace and peace has been already sown.

Author Notes:

Loosely based on:
Matt 6: 34

Learn more about me and my poetry at:
http: //www.squidoo.com/book-isbn-1419650513/

By Joseph J. Breunig 3rd, © 2012, All rights reserved.

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The day has a role

Yesterday had been today and tomorrow.
Tomorrow would be today and yesterday.
Every day has got a role to play.
Regret not you grew into yesterday.
02.01.2010

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This is the day

This is the day I have been waiting for
Let's face the fate to decide our fate.

This is the day that will alter our fate
let's sit and decide what to be done next
we may skip and pass on but
we still would regret as it will be too late.

Should never regret for not saying good bye
so let's sit and decide our fate.

Don't make it too late to decide our fate
don't regret after for not saying your love to me.

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To Become A Part In The Harmony Of The Whole

sometimes you feel
that you are a driftwood
arriving at a river
with no one
living there

you stay for a while
curious
like a bird resting upon
a twig
upon a long migratory
journey
towards a warmer place
of this earth

then you have to go again
drifting
because you have no choice
but to drift
hoping that someday
when this flooding is over
you shall find
someone who will make
something out of you

a furniture, or a decorative
piece of art
in the interior of a
beautiful house
where children shall ask their mama
what kind of art
are you?

you like to answer
i am an abandoned driftwood
once i was a part of the great designs
of trees in the forest
but i was cut off
and left out
to rot

now someone gave me
significance
a motif, a purpose
a piece of an
artwork

and then you like it there
you are the center of this
theme

art and love, a part of a whole,
a mess fabricated into
a harmony of a family in
a house

someone plays a violin
and then you begin to listen

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Day Has Come

Well the day has come to where I┬┤ve never thought of anyone
Quite as much as I think of you
As the days go by I never wonder why
I just know it┬┤s true
Well the day has come
Well the day has come

Well I never would have thought that I
Could love someone like I love you
And I never would have thought
That anyone could love me like you do

The day has come and still I never
Ask myself why I love you
And as the days go by it seems that I
Love you more than I did the day before

Well that day has come
Well that day has come

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All Saint`s Day

A bleached evening, grey
my memory follows me into the cold

the ice records my steps, and peeks
at my afraid progress.

I lay in humility on the damp earth
a priest unable to bear the face of God,

the trees make a lot of noise, the feel as
important as a kestrel in balance with the sky

my face is a forgotten piece of washing on a line
as stupid as a lonely dancer in the wind.

Nothing can be created, all that is holy has been
turned into foulness, gold and silver behind glass.

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Pick up the day for what it has

The night’s tail been dragged away
Into the darkness
Like a wailing hound it smells
Of fire ash and the remnant way
Choiceless still petrified dumb
Freezing cold disease stricken
Wrapped in midnight torn patches
Tomorrow there will be another one
Boy or girl lighting their last matches
No they don’t, no they’ve never known
Never known it’s Christmas time
They had to
Pick up the day for what it has
And drag it away into the night

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The Day When The Sitting To Listen Comes

The day when the sitting to listen comes,
Those who hadn't done it before...
Will discover a wealth of knowledge can be obtained.

Impatience with a running mouth...
And ears blocked,
Makes for poor comprehension.

And those who lack experience,
Are generally the ones...
Who believe they can not be taught anything.

Incompetence loves the company,
Of others equally ignorant.
Especially those who have gained their influence,
Through social networking and kissing tail.

The day when the sitting to listen comes,
Those who hadn't done it before...
Will discover a wealth of knowledge can be obtained.
And what has been done by misdeed and in discreet...
Will be seen for what it is to undo.

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When The Time Has Come

Everythings gonna clear up
And the sun will shine
Everybodys gonna cheer up
cause its redemption time
Dont you worry bout a thing
Cause you know things are gonna change
When the time has come
Walls are gonna crumble
And fall into the sea
Oh, all men will be humble
Thats a guarantee
A little rain is gonna fall
But it will only wash away the tears of us all
Dont you worry bout a thing
cause that train is gonna run
You will be on it
From here to kingdom come
When the time has come
Listen to the band
Feels like a change
Wind is gonna rise up
And blow us all away
People gonna wise up
Cause its judgement day
So dont you worry about a thing
Cause you know that train is gonna run
You will be on it
Not just for some
Well all be on it
From here to kingdom come
When the time has come
When the time has come
When the time has come
Oh when the time has come
Everythings gonna clear up
Everybody cheer up
Walls are gonna crumble
All men will be humble
Feeling it getting stronger
Wont be down much longer
We will be free
When the time has come
When the time has come
I beieve the time has come
Feels like a change
When the time....

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Patrick White

The Day An Empty Envelope

The day an empty envelope, the clouds
islands of their own in a slow wind,
gathering out of nothing, going anywhere
the blue conception of the dispersing sky urges
above the green, summer turmoil of the trees.
I wake up wondering if love is just a word
or a whisper of smoke from distant mountains
or a tuberous begonia someone tore up last night
in their madness to dramatize their exit out of ecstasy,
their roses, scalded lobsters, their heart
torn like a soggy dawn in the pincers of the moon.

And I have been here before at the end
of these long wharves pillared in departure,
standing firmly fixed in the tides of sorrow,
saying goodbye to the sky and the sea
that have cried enough stars for the night
to remember its light is the taste of oblivion.
The air breathes you in like an anchor of mist
and all the words we released like vows
gently unhooking their wings from the fishing nets
we found abandoned in the wake of a lunar desert
that had wandered off like an arsonist in the archives of its tears,
are pens that have flooded in our pockets of blood like oilslicks,
not the feather of song left that could fly.

And I should thank you for the bouquet of corals
you gave me like an island in a ocean of ashes,
and the nights my heart was a frenzy of mating eels
thrashing the silver waves in a ferocity of transcendence,
a rabble of moonlit tongues, that made me feel
the hanged man was at last a key someone would risk,
a boat moored to the wind that had at last found a door
with the eye of a water-lock and the Gulf Stream
of an infinite threshold it would take a galaxy to cross,
and there were voyages I dreamed, o, I dreamed
of naming continents after you, oceans on the moon
that teemed with startling new forms of luminous life
that did not salivate for each other like arrows on a food chain
but fell from the intensity of our wishing like rain.

I wanted to add your fire to mine on a pyre of thorns
and mounting the last constellation uttered in bliss
by the mouth of a burning rose immolated in her own beauty
rise like a kite trailing a thread of blood to show the stars
how to weave a life that breathes like silk
out of the mulberry cocoons of their nebular cradles,
auroras exhaled like the veils and ghosts of riverine light
that disclose the grace of a woman, secret by secret,
until even the stars are homeless gestures of ash,
crowns of flame enthroned in the abysmal domains
of the radiant mystery they could draw from
like water from the wells of your eyes
to refute the claws of time and space with flowers.

And it's been four starless nights, four bleached days
since I last heard from you, no word, no sail, no wick,
no eyelid of a candle to open the darkness like a dream,
not a chromosome in a fortune-cookie to dispell my fate,
only the incremental atrocity of the cruel silence that salts the garden
with the radioactive fall-out of your nuclear absence
so that even my shadow glows like a sunspot that won't wash off.

And I must tell myself you're not the queen caprice
of a cherry in a hive of chocolate leaking honey
all over the sticky page of a theatrical candy-wrapper
blowing up the road like the obsolete playbill of a cliche
well attended by the ants who traffic in sugar.
I must tell myself over and over again like a wheel,
not to save myself like an enlightened pagoda
in a corner of the cones of the fools who wear
their disasters like the paper headlines of a daily heart,
not to adorn death with the lies of wounded heroes,
for I am a small planet of haunted wines
you can burst against the roof of your mouth like a grape,
and far too acquainted with eclipses and cremations
to exalt my ashes with the consolations of a reviving phoenix,
tell myself not to lawyer my sorrow with a congress of crows,
and in a crowd of placards and protesters, pretend that I am brave,
that my cause is just, that the world you've left me needs to be saved;
or that I can save it from myself like an arsonist
by learning how to swallow it like fire,
not to incriminate you among the cap-gun terrorists
who rage like chains in the doorways of their emergency exits,
their hearts boiling hand-picked scorpions like blackberries
to mitigate the acids of their glass wounds,
but to believe you're still out there somewhere like a road
that has wandered off in a wilderness of directions,
though the mountains and trees all point the stars out to you,
that cannot conceive of where it leads until we both walk it.

I want to believe there's no bodycount
behind the words of love you send me like refugees
that gather in the valleys of my heart like liberated fireflies,
that the lampshades of your poems are not wrapped in human skin
with a star pricked out by fangs and the repeating decimal
of a genocidal number too powerless to stop itself
from biting at the running sore of its own ulcerations.

I have never seen your face, heard your voice,
the wind more intimate with your skin than my longing,
but I have felt the stars within brighten in your presence
when all I could be to you over the miles, lives, the worn shoes,
was someone who charged space with gusts of ionic affinities,
hoping somehow the atoms knew, the rain, the hill in the fog
calling out to the drifting lifeboat with a disembodied voice
that there was yet a breath within a breath, a light within the light,
what I was before I was born to reach out empty-handed like this
to create you out of the nothing I am, a marvel more than me,
a clear fire that burns invisibly like breath on a windowpane,
the exhalation of a ghost startled by a spirit that lives
within and beyond it in a continuum of vital strangers,
closer to us than the patches on the underside of our eyelids.

I don't know what I am to you; though I have hoped
and you have said things to me I could only disappoint,
but they have made me want to drink your face from my bare hands,
they have made me a fountain and a vine, a door that bleeds
among the quicksand foundation-stones waiting out the mountain,
and my heart was a pauper lavish with revelation, a glove
that felt the universe fit it like your hand, and the answers,
were as evident as birds gathering seeds in an open furrow.

We have grown over the months like the rain together
and maybe now we fall, maybe now this alloy of water
is to be threshed by the wind like wild rice
shaken into a birchbark prow of aboriginal moonlight,
and the waterlilies have finished blooming like asterisks
and the stirling is marred by the acids of black fingerprints,
and a patina of commonality makes the moon a cold stone,
but there's a pause between accountable heartbeats,
a world between waking and dreaming, exits and entrances,
where I think everything returns without having left
like stars paled in the blazing of a lesser light that thrives,
and the heart receives itself back into its own hands like a ball,
and even in the rain-soaked journals of the autumn leaves,
the wind still addresses the flowers with its inconstancy,
and hands still find each other across the dangerous table
like the lost receiving the lost in a place of belonging
that is a stranger to them both on the same side of the river.

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James Joyce

Rain Has Fallen All the Day

Rain has fallen all the day.
O come among the laden trees:
The leaves lie thick upon the way
Of memories.

Staying a little by the way
Of memories shall we depart.
Come, my beloved, where I may
Speak to your heart.

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When The Long Day Has Faded

When the long day has faded to its end,
The flowers gone, and all the singing done,
And there is no companion left save Death-
Ah! there is one,
Though in her grave she lies this many a year,
Will send a violet made of her blue eyes,
A flowering whisper of her April breath,
Up through the sleeping grass to comfort me,
And in the April rain her tears shall fall.

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