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That I Wants

what I'm looking for real I will not even be able to get

if my heart is restless
searching for the truth is not so I need

if looking for something just to guarantee the enjoyment of the world
and appear to be critical in the presence of a few people

although tired I had to keep fighting my low self-defeating
if only I still want to find exactly what I look for

the already stretched in sight
although full of thistles and thorns
but that is what pays for the pleasure that I wants


Copyright © 2012

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Patrick White

The Stars Will Not Devise

The stars will not devise a way out of your life
that they haven’t already offered you
and the sprawl of green fountains
that hallows you now, the victorious trees,
will later dropp all their keys
like a nightwatchman too drunk to get in.
You must stand in the ashes if you want to study orchids,
you must fill your body up with clouds
and red-tailed hawks, and autumn leaves
torn from the pages of the history of fire
if you want to follow what the wind is saying
back to its mouth in the sun.
Everything else is the source of everything else
and the rain knows more about circles and arrows
than all the bows and compasses
of the sad magician who’s stripped his purities of flesh.
Stay close to the earth if you want
to look deeply into the eyes of the stars
and see the golden maggot that hangs from its lifeline
like a message in a tear delivered with wings.
Your blood, no matter how you say it,
is a prelude of wild roses beside a murdered brook,
and there are legends of light on your skin
that are ancient instructions
on how to bring it back to life again. Denude yourself
of those feathers and leaves and mirrors
you dress the morning up in
to go and sit on the corner like an open guitar-case
to deprive the music of the night before.
There are women everywhere, half-awake,
who grope the sheets for you like spare change
in an empty bed, and blue doors where you live
waiting for you to fill the tiny eyes of their spy-holes
with ruined moons willing to sacrifice themselves
for a few moments more.
If you give your word to me
you won’t desecrate their graves with shallow questions,
I’ll show you where the harps
of the enlightened peacocks were buried with honours
when they saw through the veils of the eclipse
that opened their eyes to a dawn
they hadn’t expected. Get up off your knees
in that house of chains and crippled ladders you worship in;
there’s nothing holy about the crutches you contrive
in a shipyard of able bones, and your voyages
are already blessed by the sea that pounds in your chest
to add you to her islands. Can’t you feel
the soft adagios of her secret distances
swaying the keyboard of your crossed horizons like waves?
And why do you quote the fool of your own silence
to contradict the wisdom of the night
that everywhere answers you
with the shadows of bells and owls
you can read between the lines of the stars;
isn’t it clear that all that vastness is a rock in a well
she’s singing to you, a fragrance of time
that wants to voice the solitude
of her lachrymose labyrinths to someone
who knows how to listen
in the nocturnal flowers of her native tongue?
Write, yes, write; by all means
show us the beauty of your soul
in its passage across the moon
whether coming or going, array your lonely jewels
on the carpet of the sky before us
like the fruits and tears and eyes
that have congealed from your sorrows,
and those dark drops of amber and tar
that preserve all your flights and fears intact
like supple summers jailed in a locket; let’s
hold them up, too, to the light and wonder
that you could endure such fables of pain;
and not just your bleeding rubies, not just
your emeritus emeralds and the radiant sapphires
that fell from the crown
that graced the domain of your regal demeanour
with a northern constellation,
but the painted fish and electric eels,
and the sharks and the crabs and the jelly fish
that live in the dead cities of your all night corals
like cheap actors in ravenous wardrobes of blood
playing for real; let’s see them as well,
and all the rank gardens that grow in the dirt
beneath the crescents of your untrimmed nails
slumming like landlords in places you wouldn’t live;
let’s see all of these and more lifting the veils
on the ferrous brides of your unimpeachable sincerity.
But when all the vows have been taken and forsaken
and your dead have been lavishly mourned
in brass, granite, marble, and staples,
let’s see if you know how to drink with the shadows
you go out every sunset
with your tongue as thick as a broom
to sweep from the stairs? After the cool, blue, jazz clefs
warming up like fireflies and fiddleheads
to the implications of emptiness improvising
on the black trumpets of the scorched daylilies,
let’s hear from some passing storm now and again
that you’ve learned how to die enough
that the pulse of a profounder heartbeat
that marks time with the breathing of nightfall
is all that keeps you alive.

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When The Money Runs Out/Another Poem Will Not Save Me

When the money runs out
Another poem will not save me-
When the money runs out
The poems will be a bit less poetic-
They will seem more meaningless-
All the years of writing them
Will seem more a waste and an indulgence-
When the money runs out
And I am working or trying to work
For not enough money
And guilty at being in debt
And frightened at not being able to pay on time
The poems will seem another kind of thing entirely
And I will wonder how I could have once given so much time to something
That does not make a cent-
When the money runs out
The poetry may run out with it
I will be the slave of small sums
And have lost my time and dedication
To what I have loved most.

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The scars inside will not heal

There is noubt different than being raped
and being pushed down mentaly.
except that the wounds also bleed inside.
The mental scars will not heal.
They do not fade.

There was no difference between being raped
and being run over by a lorry
except that afterwards the sicko asked if you enjoyed it.
As if it were a game.
And still the scars have not healed.

There is no difference of being raped
and going head first through a top floor window.
except that afterwards you are not afraid of hights.
but of half the human population.
And still the scars linger on with the pain.
They do not fade.

Fear of rape is a storm brewing.
Never towalk out alone
when I see a man coming towards me.
All the fears reopen.
And all there is to do is run for dear life.
This scar will not go it will not heal.

Never to open the door to a knock
without the fear has he found me.
What if its him.
All of the fears hold me back.
The scars do not fade they will not heal

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The sun will not shine

The sun may not shine tomorrow
The dark dungeons may not allow
Any sun beam to enter prison wall
The world has last day to call

The end may be very slow
I shall be buried deep below
No more pain and blows
It will be nice in gallows

Only almighty has right to snatch the life
Who can cut throat with blade or knife?
Only butcher or murderer can do at will
Otherwise it is deliberate and intentional kill

I am charged with gruesome murder
No one heard my plea when surrendered
The dark clouds were striking harder on that day
The lightening was fast and heavier to mislead you the way

I don’t know what really went wrong
The night was frightening and gave a loud bang
It was unusual and very strange
I was surging ahead but with difficulty to manage

The man was lying before me in pools of blood
The rainy water was increasing and resulting in flood
I just ushered in to see what actually had gone bad
I could see dead person and felt so sad

So many hands pounced on me and made prisoner
Everyone refused my story and declined to be listener
I had all the evidences against me to prove their point
I was given severe beating causing heavy pain in joints

How could be they be inhumane on the name of human?
Why do they consider us animal in the shape of man or woman?
What have we done to be called a blot on humanity?
Are we to be condemned with total disregard to the dignity?

It is living hell on this beautiful earth
Prisoners are leading animal life awaiting death
Who knows what type of treatment can be meted out to them?
Till there are enough of witnesses and circumstantial evidences to frame?

I know for sure that I will die unheard
There will not a murmur or single sympathetic word
No one may shed the tear to mark the memory
Only I have to feel pity and very sorry


There is natural justice for innocent
Some of the judgments are very fresh and recent
Not one innocent is to be hanged let hundred get freed”
The justice can not be blind and depend on wrongly feed

I am not sure of any outcome
The God is great and any verdict is welcome
I have full faith in His judgment
There is nothing as such to lament

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The Undying One' - Canto I

MOONLIGHT is o'er the dim and heaving sea,--
Moonlight is on the mountain's frowning brow,
And by their silvery fountains merrily
The maids of Castaly are dancing now.
Young hearts, bright eyes, and rosy lips are there,
And fairy steps, and light and laughing voices,
Ringing like welcome music through the air--
A sound at which the untroubled heart rejoices.
But there are hearts o'er which that dancing measure
Heavily falls!
And there are ears to which the voice of pleasure
Still vainly calls !
There's not a scene on earth so full of lightness
That withering care
Sleeps not beneath the flowers, and turns their brightness
To dark despair!

Oh! Earth, dim Earth, thou canst not be our home;
Or wherefore look we still for joys to come?
The fairy steps are flown--the scene is still--
Nought mingles with the murmuring of the rill.
Nay, hush! it is a sound--a sigh--again!
It is a human voice--the voice of pain.
And beautiful is she, who sighs alone
Now that her young and playful mates are gone:
The dim moon, shining on her statue face,
Gives it a mournful and unearthly grace;
And she hath bent her gentle knee to earth;
And she hath raised her meek sad eyes to heaven--
As if in such a breast sin could have birth,
She clasps her hands, and sues to be forgiven.
Her prayer is over; but her anxious glance
Into the blue transparency of night
Seems as it fain would read the book of chance,
And fix the future hours, dark or bright.
A slow and heavy footstep strikes her ear--
What ails the gentle maiden?--Is it fear?
Lo! she hath lightly raised her from the ground,
And turn'd her small and stag-like head around;
Her pale cheek paler, and her lips apart,
Her bosom heaving o'er her beating heart:
And see, those thin white hands she raises now
To press the throbbing fever from her brow--

In vain--in vain! for never more shall rest
Find place in that young, fair, but erring breast!
He stands before her now--and who is he
Into whose outspread arms confidingly
She flings her fairy self?--Unlike the forms
That woo and win a woman's love--the storms
Of deep contending passions are not seen
Darkening the features where they once have been,
Nor the bright workings of a generous soul,
Of feelings half conceal'd, explain the whole.
But there is something words cannot express--
A gloomy, deep, and quiet fixedness;
A recklessness of all the blows of fate--
A brow untouch'd by love, undimm'd by hate--
As if, in all its stores of crime and care,
Earth held no suffering now for him to bear.
Yes--all is passionless--the hollow cheek
Those pale thin lips shall never wreathe with smiles;
Ev'n now, 'mid joy, unmoved and sad they speak
In spite of all his Linda's winning wiles.
Yet can we read, what all the rest denies,
That he hath feelings of a mortal birth,
In the wild sorrow of those dark bright eyes,
Bent on that form--his one dear link to earth.
He loves--and he is loved! then what avail
The scornful words which seek to brand with shame?

Or bitterer still, the wild and fearful tale
Which couples guilt and horror with that name?
What boots it that the few who know him shun
To speak or eat with that unworthy one?
Were all their words of scorn and malice proved,
It matters not--he loves and he is loved!
* * * * * *
* * * * * *
'Linda! my Linda!' thus the silence broke,
And slow and mournfully the stranger spoke,
'Seat we ourselves upon this mossy bed,
Where the glad airs of heaven wave o'er thy head,
And thou shalt hear the awful tale which ne'er
Hath yet been breathed, save once, to mortal ear.
And if, my Linda--nay, love, tremble not--
Thou shudder'st to partake so dark a lot--
Go--and be happy in forgetfulness,
And take--I'd bless thee if my tongue could bless,'
There was that sudden sinking of the tone
That lingers in our memory when alone,
And thrills the heart to think how deep the grief
Which sues no pity--looks for no relief.
Oh! deep, beyond the feeble power of tears,
Such scene will dwell within our souls for years;
And it will seem but yesterday we heard
The faltering pause--the calm but broken word;

Saw the averted head, where each blue vein
Swell'd in its agony of mental pain;
And heard the grief confess'd:--no, not confess'd,
But struggling burst convulsive from the breast!
'Isbal,' that gentle voice half-murmuring said,
As from his shoulder she upraised her head;
'Thou knowest I love thee. When I came to-night
I had resolved thy future, dark or bright,
Should still be mine--Beloved--so must it be,
For I have broke a fearful vow for thee.
This morning he who calls himself my brother
(Oh! can he be the child of my sweet mother?)
Pleaded once more for him--that hated friend
Whose bride I was to be; I could but bend
To the cold earth my faint and trembling knee,
And supplicate, with woman's agony,
That he would spare me--but an hour--a day--
I clasp'd my brother's knees--that brother said me nay!
He held a poinard to my shrinking heart,
And bade me breathe the vow--
Never in life or death from him to part
Who is--my husband now.
Isbal, we were betrothed; my lips in fear
Pronounced those words--but oh! my heart was here-
Here--in the calm cold moonlight by thy side,
Here--where the dark blue waters gently glide,

Here--in my childhood's haunts, now ev'n more dear.
Than in those happy days, for thou art near.
Yes--while the unheeded vow my faint lip spoke,
Recall'd the echo which thy tones awoke--
Thy image rose between me and the shrine;
Surely the vow before it breathed was thine.
To-morrow's sun proud Carlos claims his wife;
To-morrow's sun shall see my span of life
Devoted unto thee--thy tale can make
No lot I would not share for thy sweet sake;
No--Ere I hear it, let love's fond vow be--
To have no earth--no heaven--no hope but thee!
Now tell me all.'--Again that gentle head
With dewy eyes and flushing cheek is laid
Upon his arm; and with a thrill of pain
The broken thread is thus renew'd again:
'From the first hour I saw thee, on that night
When dancing in the moonbeam's chequer'd light
With those young laughing ones who now are gone,
By this same fountain which is murmuring on;
When my deep groan burst through the music's sound,
And that soft eye went glancing, startled, round--
From that sweet hour, when pity seem'd to move,
I loved thee--as the wretched only love.
Oft since, when in the darkness of my day
I sit, and dream my wretched life away;

In the deep silence of my night of tears,
When Memory wakes to mourn for vanish'd years;
Shunn'd--scorn'd--detested--friendless and alone,
I've thought of thee--and stifled back my groan!
I've come in daylight, and have flung me down
By the bright fountain's side,
Chased with dear thoughts of thee each gloomy frown,
And bless'd my promised bride.
I've come when stormy winds have howl'd around
Over the yielding flowers,
Bending their gentle heads unto the ground,
And thought of thee for hours.
I've come--my Linda knows that I have come
When the soft starlight told
That she had left her haughty brother's home,
And hearts, as dead and cold
As the chill waters of a moonless sea,
For the light dance and music's revelry.
With gay and loving maids; and I have watch'd
Till one by one those soft steps have departed,
And my young mournful Linda hath been snatch'd
To the sear bosom of the broken-hearted!
Linda, there is a land--a far dark land,
Where on this head the red avenging hand
Fell with its heaviest bolts--When watching by
The bitter cross of Him of Calvary

They stood who loved and did believe in Him,
I said, while all around grew dark and dim--'
'Isbal, dear Isbal!' shriek'd the affrighted maid,
'For that dear Saviour's sake--for him who said
He died for sinners--mock me not, I pray--
Oh! yet, beloved, those words of Death unsay!'
She hung upon his bosom, and look'd up
Into those dark wild eyes with grief and fear.
Alas! poor maiden, 'twas a bitter cup
To drink from hands which love had made so dear.
As a knell o'er the river
Flings its lingering tone,
Telling of joys for ever
Lost and gone:
As the murmuring sound
Of a slow deep stream,
Where the sullen shadows round
Reject each sunny beam:
So o'er the maiden's spirit, like a moan,
Falls the deep sameness of that strange calm tone.
* * * * * *
* * * * * *
'I tell thee centuries have pass'd away,
And that dark scene is still like yesterday;
The lurid clouds roll'd o'er each failing head,
The Godlike dying, and the guilty dead:

And awful signs were seen, and I was there--
Woman, I was--or wherefore my despair?
I'll whisper thee--* * * *
* * * * * *
Linda, my Linda! start not thus away--
My brain is 'wilder'd--what, love, did I say?
Forget the words--forget! Eternal God!
Is not this earth the same which then I trod?
Do not the stars gleam coldly from above,
Mocking the lips that dare to talk of love?
I know--I feel it cannot be forgot;
Yet, oh! forsake me not--forsake me not!
Didst thou not bid me tell thee all? oh! rest
Still on this worn and sad and guilty breast;
Whatever sins the eye of Heaven may see,
Its last faint throb alone will end its love for thee!
* * * * * *
* * * * * *
I stood awhile, stifling my gasping breath,
Fearfully gazing on that scene of death:
Then with a shuddering groan of pain I shrouded
My straining eyes, and turn'd, a cowering worm,
To either side where grimly death had clouded
The image of his maker in man's form.
On one low cross a dark and fearful brow,
On which the dews of death are standing now,

Shows black despair:
And on the other, though the eye be dim,
And quivering anguish in each stiffening limb,
Mercy and hope are there!
Then rose the wailing sound of woman's woe
Appealing unto Heaven,
And sinners bow'd their heads, and bent them low,
And howl'd to be forgiven--
And I glanced madly round--One after one
They stole away, and I was left alone--
I--the Undying One, in that dim night!
Oh! words can never tell my soul's affright;
The sickening, thrilling, dark, and fainting fear
That rose within my breast:--I seem'd to hear
A thousand voices round; I could not pray,
But fled in solitary shame away.
* * * * * *
* * * * * *
Linda! thou wilt not think that after this
Dark hour of agony,
A day, a moment ev'n, of fever'd bliss
Could yet remain for me:
But so it was, a wild and sudden hope
Sprung in my heart--if that my life could cope
With sickness and with time, I yet might be
Happy through half an immortality.

I sat at festal boards, and quaff'd red wine,
And sang wild songs of merriment and mirth;
And bade young sparkling eyes around me shine,
And made a guilty paradise of earth.
I built me palaces, and loved to dwell
'Mongst all which most the eager heart rejoices;
Bright halls, where silvery fountains rose and fell,
And where were ringing light and cheerful voices;
Gay gardens where the bowery trees around
Their leafy branches spread,
And rosy flowers upon the mossy ground
Their honey'd perfume shed.
But yet the curse was on me; and it came
Tainting my life with pains like hell's dark flame.
The flowers withered:
One after one
Death's cold hand gathered,
Till all were gone:
And the eyes that were sparkling
With pleasure's ray,
Lay cold and darkling
Till judgment-day.
Lonely and weeping
A few were left,
Of those who were sleeping
Too soon bereft ;

But they soon were lying
Beneath the sod--
And I, the Undying,
Remained--with God!
And the silvery fountains went murmuring on,
But the voices of music and pleasure were gone.
And I could not bear the banquet-room,
Reminding me ever of my doom;
When the purple goblet I tried to quaff,
In my ear there rang some forgotten laugh;
And when the lay I sought to pour,
Voices came round me which sang no more.
Yea! when I saw some lovely form,
I thought how soon it must feed the worm--
And shrank from the touch it left behind,
As if I were not of human kind;
Or that the thing I could not save
Were withering, then, in the cold dark grave.
I wandered through my halls
Broken-hearted:--
Is it my voice which calls
On the departed,
With that stern, sad tone?
Where are, beloved in vain,
Your countless numbers?
May you not wake again

From your dark slumbers?
Am I to be alone?
Oh! let but one return--
One fond one only;
Raise up the heavy urn,
Life is so lonely--
I ask no more of Heaven.
The mocking echoes round,
My words repeating
With their dim dreary sound,
Forbid our meeting--
I may not be forgiven!
Linda! my Linda! those, and those alone
Who have lived on, when more than life was gone;
And being yet young, look to the heavy years
Which are to come--a future all of tears--
Those only who have stood in some bright spot
With those beloved ones who shared their lot,
And stand again in that sweet fairy scene,
When those young forms are as they had not been;
When gazing wildly round, some fancied word
Strikes on the listening spirit, and it seems
As if again those gentle tones were heard
Which never more can sound except in dreams--
Those only who have started and awoke
In anguish'd pain,

And yearn'd (the gladsome vision being broke)
To dream again--
Can feel for me. It seem'd a little day
In which that generation pass'd away;
And others rose up round me, and they trod
In those same streets--upon the selfsame sod
They loved and were beloved: they ate--they laugh'd--
And the rich grape from ancient goblets quaff'd:
But I remain'd alone--a blighted thing,
Like one sere leaf amid the flowers of spring!
My sick worn heart refused to cling again
To dreams that pass away, and yearnings vain.
Thou canst not think how strange:--how horribly strange
It was to see all round me fade and change,
And I remain the same!--I sat within
My halls of light, a thing of care and sin;
The echoes gave me back the wild sad tone
Of every deep and solitary moan;
Fearful I gazed on the bright walls around,
And dash'd the mocking mirrors to the ground.
And when I wander'd through the desert crowd
Of all my fellow-men, I could have bow'd
And grovell'd in the dust to him who would
Have struck my breast, to slay me where I stood.
They shrank from me as from some venomous snake
Watchfully coil'd to spring from the dark brake

On the unwary. Fearful--fearful tales
Pass'd on from sire to son, link'd with my name,
With all the awful mystery which veils
A tale of guilt, and deepens its dark shame
They shrank from me, I say, as, gaunt and wild
I wander'd on through the long summer's day
And every mother snatch'd her cowering child
With horror from my solitary way!
I fled from land to land, a hunted wretch;
From land to land those tales pursued me still:
Across the wide bright sea there seem'd to stretch
A long dark cloud my fairest hopes to kill.
I grew a wanderer: from Afric's coast,
Where gaily dwelt the yet unfetter'd black,
To Iran, of her eager sons the boast,
I went along my dim and cheerless track.
O'er the blue Mediterranean, with its isles
And dancing waves, and wildly pleasing song,
By Lusitania's land of sun and smiles,
My joyless bark in darkness sail'd along!
On many a soil my wandering feet have trod,
And heard the voice of nations worship God.
Where the dim-minded Heathen raised his prayer
To some bright spirit dwelling in mid-air,
I have stood by, and cursed the stiffen'd knee
Which would not bow like him to Deity.

Where the proud Ghebir, still at morning hour,
Confess'd a God of glory and of power
In the red sun that roll'd above his head,
There have I been, and burning tear-drops shed.
Where the Mahometan, through ages gone,
In his dark faith hath blindly wander'd on;
Where the incredulous Jew, yet unforgiven,
Still vainly waits the crucified of Heaven;
Where the meek Christian raises to the skies
His clasping hands, and his adoring eyes,
And prays that God--the All-seeing God--will bless
His heart with purity of holiness;
Where rosy infancy in smiles was kneeling,
With murmuring, half-imperfect word, appealing
Unto the giver of all good--where joy
Its tearful thanks return'd, and bless'd the day
When should be tasted bliss which cannot cloy,
And tears in heaven's own light be dried away;
And where the frantic voice of love's despair
Sends forth its thrilling sound, half wail, half prayer;
In every temple, and at every shrine
I've stood and wish'd the darkest worship mine--
So I might see, howe'er the beam mistaking,
Some smile from Heaven upon a heart that's breaking!

''Twas on God's glad and holy sabbath day,
When the wide world kneels down at once to pray,--
When every valley, every mountain sod,
Sends its faint tribute to the mighty God,
And the low murmurings of the voiceless airs
Waft on the echo of a thousand prayers--
I stood on England's fresh and fairy ground.
All lay in dewy stillness far around,
Save the soft chiming of the village bell,
Which seem'd a tale of love and peace to tell.
I stood among the tombs--and saw the crowd
Of Christians enter in;
Each meek and humble head they gently bow'd,
And chased the thoughts of sin.
I watch'd them-one by one they onward pass'd
And from my sight were gone,
The welcome opening door received the last
And left me there alone.
The blood rush'd thickly to my panting heart,
And as I turn'd me sorrowing to depart,
An inward voice seem'd whispering--'Sinner, go!
And with those meek adorers bend thee low.'
I trembled--hesitated--reach'd the door
Through which the pious crowd had ceased to pour:
A sudden faintness came upon me there,
And the relaxing limb refused to bear.

I sank upon a stone, and laid my head
Above the happy and unconscious dead;
And when I rose again, the doors were closed!
In vain I then my fearful thoughts opposed;
Some busy devil whisper'd at my heart
And tempted me to evil.--'Shall the dart
Of pain and anguish (thus I wildly said,)
Fall only on my persecuted head?
Shall they kneel peaceful down, and I stand here
Oppress'd with horror's sick and fainting fear?
Forbid it, Powers of Hell!'--A lowly cot
Stood near that calm and consecrated spot:
I enter'd it:--the morning sunshine threw
Its warm bright beams upon the flowers that grew
Around it and within it--'twas a place
So peaceful and so bright, that you might trace
The tranquil feelings of the dwellers there;
There was no taint of shame, or crime, or care.
On a low humble couch was softly laid
A little slumberer, whose rosy head
Was guarded by a watch-dog; while I stood
In hesitating, half-repentant mood,
My glance still met his large, bright, watchful eye,
Wandering from me to that sweet sleeper nigh.
Yes, even to that dumb animal I seem'd
A thing of crime: the murderous death-light gleam'd

Beneath my brow; the noiseless step was mine;
I moved with conscious guilt, and his low whine
Responded to my sigh, whose echo fell
Heavily--as 'twere loth within that cot to dwell.
My inmost heart grew sick--I turn'd me where
The smouldering embers of a fire still were;.
With shuddering hand I snatch'd a brand whose light
Appear'd to burn unnaturally bright;
And then with desperate step I bore that torch
Unto the chapel's consecrated porch!
A moment more that edifice had fired
And all within in agony expired;
But, dimly swelling through my feverish soul,
A chorus as from heaven's bright chancel came,
Dash'd from my madden'd lips Guilt's venom'd bowl,
And quench'd in bitter tears my heart's wild flame.
The pealing organ, with the solemn sound
Of countless voices, fill'd the air around;
And, as I leant my almost bursting brow
On the cold walls, the words came sad and slow
To me, the exiled one, who might not share
The joyfulness of their prayer.
Sadly I watch'd till through the open door
The crowd of worshippers began to pour;
The hour was over--they had pray'd to Heaven,
And now return'd to peaceful homes forgiven;

While I--one 'wildering glance I gave around
Upon that sunny, consecrated ground;
The warbling birds, whose little songs of joy
The future and the past can ne'er alloy;
The rosy flowers, the warm and welcome breeze
Murmuring gently through the summer trees,
All--all to me was cursed--I could not die!
I stretch'd my yearning arms unto the sky,
I press'd my straining fingers on my brow,
(Nothing could cool its maddening pulses now,)
And flung me groaning by a tombstone there
To weep in my despair!
* * * * * *
* * * * * *
Long had I wept: a gentle sound of woe
Struck on my ear--I turn'd the cause to know.
I saw a young fair creature silently
Kneeling beside a stone,
A form as bright as man would wish to see,
Or woman wish to own;
And eyes, whose true expression should be gladness,
Beam'd forth in momentary tears of sadness,
Showing like sun-shine through a summer rain
How soon 'twill all be bright and clear again.
I loved her!--
* * * * * *

In truth she was a light and lovely thing,
Fair as the opening flower of early spring.
The deep rose crimson'd in her laughing cheek,
And her eyes seem'd without the tongue to speak;
Those dark blue glorious orbs!--oh! summer skies
Were nothing to the heaven of her eyes.
And then she had a witching art
To wile all sadness from the heart;
Wild as the half-tamed gazelle,
She bounded over hill and dell,
Breaking on you when alone
With her sweet and silvery tone,
Dancing to her gentle lute
With her light and fairy foot;
To our lone meeting-place
Stealing slow with gentle pace,
To hide among the feathery fern;
And, while waiting her return,
I wander'd up and down for hours--
She started from amid the flowers,
Wild, and fresh, and bright as they,
To wing again her sportive way.

'And she was good as she was fair;
Every morn and every even

Kneeling down in meekness there
To the Holy One of Heaven;
While those bright and soul-fraught eyes
With an angel's love seem'd burning,
All the radiance of blue skies
With an equal light returning.
The dream of guilt and misery
In that young soul had never enter'd;
Her hopes of Heaven--her love of me,
Were all in which her heart had centred:
Her longest grief, her deepest woe,
When by her mother's tomb she knelt,
Whom she had lost too young to know
How deep such loss is sometimes felt.

'It was not grief, but soft regret,
Such as, when one bright sun hath set
After a happy day, will come
Stealing within our heart's gay home,
Yet leaves a hope (that heart's best prize)
That even brighter ones may rise.
A tear, for hours of childhood wept;
A garland, wove for her who slept;
A prayer, that the pure soul would bless
Her child, and save from all distress;

A sigh, as clasp'd within her own
She held my hand beside that stone,
And told of many a virtue rare
That shone in her who slumber'd there--
Were all that clouded for a while
The brightness of her sunny smile.
* * * * * *
* * * * * *
It was a mild sweet evening, such
As thou and I have sometimes felt
When the soul feels the scene so much
That even wither'd hearts must melt;
We sat beside that sacred place--
Her mother's tomb; her glorious head
Seem'd brightening with immortal grace,
As the impartial sun-light shed
Its beams alike on the cold grave,
Wandering o'er the unconscious clay,
And on the living eyes which gave
Back to those skies their borrow'd ray.
'Isbal, beloved!' 'twas thus my Edith spoke,
(And my worn heart almost to joy awoke
Beneath the thrill of that young silver tone
'Isbal, before thou call'st me all thine own,
I would that I might know the whole
Of what is gloomy in thy soul.

Nay, turn not on me those dark eyes
With such wild anguish and surprise.
In spite of every playful wile,
Thou know'st I never see thee smile;
And oft, when, laughing by thy side
Thou think'st that I am always gay,
Tears which are hanging scarcely dried
By thy fond kiss are wiped away.
And deem me not a child; for though
A gay and careless thing I be,
Since I have loved, I feel that, oh!
I could bear aught--do aught for thee!'

'What boots it to record each gentle tone
Of that young voice, when ev'n the tomb is gone
By which we sat and talk'd? that innocent voice,
So full of joy and hope, that to rejoice
Seem'd natural to those who caught the sound!
The rosy lips are moulder'd under ground:
And she is dead--the beautiful is dead!
The loving and the loved hath pass'd away,
And deep within her dark and narrow bed
All mutely lies what was but breathing clay.
* * * * * *
* * * * * *

Why did I tell the wildly horrible tale?--
Why did I trust the voice that told me she
Could bear to see beyond the lifted veil
A future life of hopeless misery?--
I told her all-- * * * *
There was a long deep pause.
I dared not raise my eyes to ask the cause,
But waited breathlessly to hear once more
The gentle tones which I had loved of yore.
Was that her voice?--oh God!--was that her cry?
Were hers those smother'd tones of agony?
Thus she spoke; while on my brow
The cold drops stood as they do now :--
'It is not that I could not bear
The worst of ills with thee to share:
It is not that thy future fate
Were all too dark and desolate:
Earth holds no pang--Hell shows no fear
I would not try at least to bear;
And if my heart too weak might be,
Oh! it would then have broke for thee!
No, not a pang one tear had cost
But this--to see thee, know thee, lost!'

'My parch'd lips strove for utterance--but no,
I could but listen still, with speechless woe:
I stretch'd my quivering arms--'Away! away!'
She cried, 'and let me humbly kneel, and pray
For pardon; if, indeed, such pardon be
For having dared to love--a thing like thee!'

'I wrung the drops from off my brow;
I sank before her, kneeling low
Where the departed slept.
I spoke to her of heaven's wrath
That clouded o'er my desert path,
I raised my voice and wept!
I told again my heart's dark dream,
The lighting of joy's fever'd beam,
The pain of living on;
When all of fair, and good, and bright;
Sank from my path like heaven's light
When the warm sun is gone.
But though 'twas pity shone within her eye,
'Twas mingled with such bitter agony,
My blood felt chill.
Her round arms cross'd upon her shrinking breast,
Her pale and quivering lip in fear compress'd
Of more than mortal ill,
She stood.--'My Edith!--mine!' I frantic cried;
'My Edith!--mine!' the sorrowing hills replied;

And the familiar sound so dear erewhile,
Brought to her lip a wild and ghastly smile.
Then gazing with one long, long look of love,
She lifted up her eyes to heaven above,
And turned them on me with a gush of tears:
Those drops renew'd my mingled hopes and fears.
'Edith!--oh! hear me!' With averted face
And outspread arms she shrank from my embrace.
'Away!--away!'--She bent her shuddering knee,
Bow'd her bright head--and Edith ceased to be!
She was so young, so full of life,
I linger'd o'er the mortal strife
That shook her frame, with hope--how vain!
Her spirit might return again.
Could she indeed be gone?--the love
Of my heart's inmost core!--I strove
Against the truth.--That thing of smiles,
With all her glad and artless wiles--
She, who one hour ago had been
The fairy of that magic scene!--
She, whose fond playful eye such brilliance shed,
That laughter-loving thing--could she be cold and dead?--
I buried her, and left her there;
And turn'd away in my despair.

'And Evening threw her shadows round
That beautiful and blessed ground,
And all the distant realms of light
Twinkled from out the dark blue night.
So calmly pure--so far away
From all Earth's sorrows and her crimes,
The gentle scene before me lay;
So like the world of olden times,
That those who gazed on it might swear
Nothing but peace could enter there.
And yet there lay ungrown, untrod,
The fresh and newly turned-up sod,
Which cover'd o'er as fair a form
As ever fed the noxious worm.
There, but an hour ago--yea, less,
The agony and bitterness
Of human feelings, wrought so high
We can but writhe awhile and die,
Troubled the peace around; and sent
Wild shrieks into the firmament.
How strange the earth, our earth, should share
So little in our crime or care!
The billows of the treacherous main
Gape for the wreck, and close again
With dancing smiles, as if the deep
Had whelm'd not with eternal sleep

Many and many a warm young heart
Which swell'd to meet, and bled to part.
The battle plain its verdant breast
Will show in bright and sunny rest,
Although its name is now a word
Through sobs, and moans, and wailing heard;
And many, mourn'd for from afar,
There died the writhing death of war.
Yea, ev'n the stream, by whose cool side
Lay those who thirsted for its tide,
Yearning for some young hand of yore,
Wont in bright hours with smiles to pour
The mantling wine for him whose blood
Is mixing with the glassy flood--
Ev'n that pure fountain gushes by
With all its former brilliancy;
Nor bears with it one tint to show
How crimson it began to flow.
And thus an echo takes the tone
Of agony: and when 'tis gone,
Air, earth, and sea forget the sound,
And all is still and silent round.
And thus upon each cherish'd grave
The sunbeams smile, the branches wave;
And all our tears for those who now are not,
Sink in the flowery turf--and are forgot!

* * * * * *
* * * * * *
And I return'd again, and yet again,
To that remember'd scene of joy and pain:
And ev'n while sitting by the early tomb
Of her who had deserved a better doom,
Her laughing voice rang in my ear,
Her fairy step seem'd coming near,
Until I raised my heavy eyes:
Then on the lone and desert spot I bow'd,
And hid my groaning head, and wept aloud.'

The stranger paused--and Linda gently wept
For him who lived in pain--for her who slept;
And clung to him, as if she fear'd that fate
Would strike him there and leave her desolate.
He spoke--and deaf her ear to all below,
Save the deep magic of that voice of woe!

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Thomas Hardy

My spirit will not haunt the mound

My spirit will not haunt the mound
Above my breast,
But travel, memory-possessed,
To where my tremulous being found
Life largest, best.

My phantom-footed shape will go
When nightfall grays
Hither and thither along the ways
I and another used to know
In backward days.

And there you'll find me, if a jot
You still should care
For me, and for my curious air;
If otherwise, then I shall not,
For you, be there.

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I will not write an enigmatic poem to annoy the casual reader

I will not write an enigmatic poem
to annoy the casual reader
Nor will I write a jonquil one
as in some ornamental garden
set on a long forgotten shore

Nor yet a poem oleander like
those daffodils or buttercups
some sailors say they saw
on Far East Indian isles

But I will write a poem to burst
The polished bubble of the era
A poem to slam the
very ethos of the age
But not today I think because
Today, today, is for oranges

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The Price Of Water

The little lake, not far from the houses, has been
dry for years and is full of thistles and rubbish.
By, what was its shore, the sad rest of a rowboat
I remember it was blue, and someone had nicked
its oars; for firewood I take it. I used to row in
this lake in the evening catching trout.

When the moon made the lake into shimmering
silver my heart got quite wobbly by the beauty.
Last week I crossed the lake on my scooter, it was
not easy I lost my balance and was badly stung,
gasped for air, felt as drowning in a dry lagoon.
In the future the new commodity will be water.

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The Step

The time has come to take this step.
I know it's real I will not fret.
I know your love is mine to get.
I'll prepare myself to get you back.
So you'll see I'm no slack.
In all the things you really want.
You need and cherish.
I'll never let these perrish.
Through leaps and bounds our love is found.
With each step we take we feel the pound.
Our hearts are beating with the sound.
Of the words of love with blessed token.
The bond we share cannot be broken.
Let's take this step in harmony.
Finding what we both can be.
All the things that set us free.
Let's take the first step, it's what we need.

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The Pleasure Of The Thought

A cat lays stretched out, contented on a wall,
The Farmer's Boy comes whistling down the lane,
One cockerel now proclaims his morning call,
And day begins to make swift way again.

Then others enter now upon this scene,
As to their daily duties they attend,
Some goats are tethered on the Village Green,
And the Miller, slowly starts, his flour to blend.

Three dairymaids with tasks to do, now run,
To cows, who await, their creamy milk to yield,
And as the dawn now welcomes in the sun,
It beams, from all the heavens, this land to gild.

What a pleasant picture here for us is wrought,
Leaving one with all the pleasure of the thought.

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On Our Broken Boat The Harsh Light Will Not Break

.
'Others the same - others who look back on me because I look’d forward to them, What is it then between us? ...What is the count of the scores or hundreds of years between us? ' - Walt Whitman


On our broken boat the harsh light will not break.
We see our day clearly as we can.
Tell the night, now it's here to stay, that

once I glanced the sleeping youth, legs against the wall,
felt a pall descend upon us here,
this boat lancing the bay waters darkly.

Some to books then, the priest to his sad, effeminate stare.
I can no longer envy those of the black cloth
so bend and tie the shoe.
We shod our feet against what long loss of motion,
eyes downcast or boldly returning the stare?

Beneath each eye there's some familiar look we refuse.
We map our way to sleep in the palms of shy or frightened hands.
.

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Prepare the world for the pleasure of being fair

Many a people do not live
They are just alive
It is not, believe, not a lie
But as true as the blue sky

Not that they can’t try
They are always lost in a cry
Over spilt milk and fry
Their enthusiasm in thoughts dry

Never take that this does mean
That they are weak and mean
They are as strong and clean
As each one in any clan

Make them understand and feel that

My things are mine
And they are like a mine
Unexplored and a lot remain
To be discovered and made fine

And that

My things are much more
Than what surface above the floor
Rigorous search brings them to the fore
As exercise only makes you sweat more

Teach them how to be assertive
Help them become sensitive
Quite sure, they grow positive
Productive and thus effective

The ultimate is to make everyone share
The things, they think, are rare
And only for them, and to prepare
The world enjoy the pleasure of being fair

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They Don't Think So-The Rationale of Robert

I am a bad person
At least I have done bad things
I admit it.
Lied, hurt others, cheated
and things worse.
yes, I know.
All bad.

But I don't really believe that I
am a bad person.
I am a good person
who has done bad things.

Most I am sorry for;
some I am not as much
as I should.

But what am I to do?
A good person
trapped by my own bad deeds.
Should I flagellate
repent, confess?
But why?
The deeds were bad, not I.

A really good person could see that
and forgive me.
A bad person can not and will not.
So, I guess they are bad just like me.

Now that leaves the good people
who see that bad deeds are not me
and forgive.

They even may forget.
But the fact they able to do that
makes me feel inferior.

They think they are better than me
and that is bad.
So, if they make me feel bad
then they are not really good people.

So, you see the whole world is just like me
even if they don't think so.

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Bleeds Through: The Truth Will Not be Silenced

Strength and fortitude is my message friends
Tonight we have gathered in this stuffy inn to wage war
Ironic though it be we are practitioners of peace
Our enemies have lived for too long
Our corrupted government has run its course
Now us, The Middle
Comprised of apprentices, journeymen, artisans, and masters
We will not let the Bushwahzee and pious government to reign
Now we fight
Fight as well by our trade
Grab your tools, paper, canvas
Let the arts sing of our heroism
Shall the paper show our retribution to the corners of Europe
Be that all constructs wage revenge and ill tidings
Strength and fortitude amongst us friends
If we divide an hold personal dwellings that linger dear,
Our conquest is forfeit
Bravery my countrymen, our people call for saviors
A New Regime
Lead by the middle to save all lower and equal
Go now all of you time is short and needed
By this time soon can we all rise as equal French
Go now and save all that can be saved
Strength and fortitude
Strength and fortitude
May God help us all

March 14,2012

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The Harbor

crumple me to lost my self and tear my heart into
piece, that will make me strong again to settle in your
harboring heart

you come like wind in the sky, whose whispering
wings echo in a luring fairy, who wanted to be free
in the castle, full of misery, and now that the sea
face its beauty, please take me in the land where
my heart will be free

what the world has to offer made myself, when
nothing lifted me to high as my self esteem
goes down i know nothing but to hold you, seems
to easy but it’s to freaky, now that i touch and
the weather move to see that the harbor i've
give the hundreds of day where my soul shout
it with joy

take my boat to the promise harbor i dream, nay!
you dropp me to stay of where i stand, but the vessel
of heart may paddle the wave that loves you, beyond
the wind that never stop

oh! beautiful harbor, come as i see my boat tired
to wiggle in your side that is easy, as wind blew
away from thee, yet! i know that you will not leave
will you anchor my lap in your table at the bottom of
the sea, for when i die, you will not forget me

now is the time to make me safe, in the bedside
of the shore, surely you will find me sleeping in your
memory, wait until dawn, for the sea breeze
make it sure, forever more i am always in allure

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i will not be fooled by Prudence

i have seen the old man
die. His face spell regrets
and no matter how the funeral
make-up artist stretched
his slips, he never formed
a smile.

I know him.
He was during his younger days
a very prudent man
He observed strictly the codes
of restraint
and refused an offer of
looseness and being
free.
He prays a lot
and reports to God
all his misgivings.
He was a handsome young man
and women adored him
But he only had one wife
one woman all in his lifetime
who never sired
him a child.
This was his prime
misfortune.
He was erased from
the genetic tree
Forever.

His wife died ahead of him
and He prayed a lot
not to betray her
even when
more women still
are willing to sleep with
him.

For after all despite his age
he was still a man
with a lovable face.

Then suddenly he died.
Absurd. He died in sleep
A happy death perhaps without
the accompanying torture
of pain and
waiting.

But no matter what,
his face in that coffin
never shows
a hint of the joy
of eternal
peace, that inevitable
rest.

I know him
He has a misgiving.
He was fooled by Prudence.
He was a slave of
His own morality always fearing
what society may name him after.

He died a lonely man.
Erased by time.
Fooled by his own Prudence.

I look at him before he was buried.
And i made a promise with him.
I am not a fool and i will not be fooled
to suffer the same fate he had.

I will choose looseness.
Happiness. The one which is always free
Unrestrained by anyone else's code of Morality.
Subjective, as i have always known
it to be.

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Saul turns Paul: The Road to Damascus

Blinded by a brilliant light,
On the road to Damascus,
Saul of Tarsus, on horse-back
Heard the voice of Jesus Christ:
‘Saul Saul, why persecute me? ’
‘Who are you? ’ Asked Saul at once.
I am Jesus Christ and Lord! ’
Saul saw Christ in apparition!
Others saw the light as well,
But couldn’t hear the divine voice!

Hit by the bolt of light from sky,
Saul fell from his horse-back to ground;
The voice bade him enter city,
Where he would be told what to do;
For three days, Saul remained just blind
And did not eat and drink ever!

Ten years’ younger than Jesus Christ,
Saul annihilated Christians
Whenever, wherever, he could;
He never had seen Jesus Christ.

A disciple, Ananias
Had a vision in Damascus;
To go to the house of Judas
And to restore the sight of Saul.

Ananias did as he was bade;
Something like scales fell from Saul’s eyes;
His sight was restored by God’s will
Ananias then baptized him;
He regained strength after eating;
God chose him as His instrument
To spread His name among Gentiles!

Cured by Ananias, he was
Baptized into Christianity;
From Saul of Tarsus, Pharisee,
Was born an Apostle of Christ;
Paul took his newer Latin name,
An ardent Christian, Apostle.
From youth, he knew how to make tents!

His New Testament Epistles
Became a founding voice of faith
And proved that sins can be absolved
Through faith and grace of Jesus Christ!
God forgives any sin of man,
No matter how grave it could be;
Except against Holy Spirit!

Orthodox Hebrew of Tarsus,
Saul journeyed to Damascus,
To seek and arrest Christians there!
Having witnessed Stephen stoned –
The first Christian martyr Saint!

Saul repressed disciples of Christ
At Jerusalem and elsewhere
Arresting and chaining them all,
Forcing them into blasphemy!
He laid siege to the Church!

Paul learnt the Gospel from no man;
It was revealed to him by Christ;
The grace of God had chosen him
To preach the Gospel to Gentiles;

To Paul in trance-like state, God spoke
And sent him on a mission far
To preach the Word to Gentiles all;
To open their eyes from darkness to light
To turn them away from satan;
Receive forgiveness for their sins.

St. Paul wrote epistles in Greek;
He was martyred (beheaded) in Rome.
June’08 – Jun’09 is ‘Year of St.Paul!

Copyright by Dr John Celes 7-15-2008

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Mitt Romney = FORMIDABLE FOE & THE MAD DOGS OF MAN = 2012

FORMIDABLE FOE

America is the birthday cake of Earth
As the ants march from every direction.
Thank God for all who have sworn to defend her
Serving with love, honor, pride, and affection.


Since the first day George Washington marched off to war
There have been those who have wished our demise.
Their hatred, fueled by jealousy and greed
Was defeated by our brave and the wise.

Once again, we must face a formidable foe
Who have pledged by their God to destroy us all
Misusing their faith as an excuse to kill
As for a worldwide jihad, their leaders call.

Some say we should try to appease them
For if we resist, they'll hate us even more.
But the David's among us shall cast our stones
Defeating them, as it was done before.

SATAN'S HORDE SHALL BE REMOVED

Overrun with war and uncontrolled leaders
Our world becomes more dangerous each day.
Dishonest politicians, criminals and the media
Survive by their falsehoods at play.

Bible believers preach, that the end is near
Our world as a whole is beyond reform.
God will eradicate all which is wicked
By His fire of eruption and storm.

To evil's victory, I will never concede
May its supporters anguish in hell.
By the grace of God and the power of faith
The goodness of man will prevail.

What we accomplish is heaven's measure
As patriots respond to the threats of man.
Protect and defend what we love till death
As the soldiers of Satan arise from the sand.

THE MAD DOGS OF MAN

Wherever dwell the mad dogs of man
There is corruption, plunder and hate.
In every city, town, or village
Those who promote distrust deserve their fate.

All are born as an innocent child
Till mislead by others along the way.
God has always loved His children
Though it breaks His heart when they stray.

The mad dogs of man never repent
For they have no sense of shame or sorrow.
Worshiping dominance and the dark side of life
Abusing victims as if there were no tomorrow.

God gives us the will to sin no more
And to overcome evil unwilling to cease.
The mad dogs of man must be stopped
Who murder, rape and destroy world peace.

Samson, Solomon, and David
Were chosen by God to stand tall.
They faced great odds and the fear of death
Refusing to ignore their call.

The time has come for the good men of Earth
To band together to restrain the horde.
Standing firm against tyranny where it exists
Putting the mad dogs of man to the sword.

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Patrick White

Bland Perfidy, You Will Not Master Me

Bland perfidy, you will not master me. I shall
cultify my resentment into a an insurrection of one
and feed you like keys to the fireflies in the zoo.
And the black lions savage you like a fake rose of blood.
I shall write about the colours of the flowers you abused.
The lethal spreading of your goodness like manure
over a garden that hasn't bloomed since childhood.
The way you've gagged the mouth of the sun
with toxic clouds that don't remind you of anything.

Distractive lie, polluted moonlight, I shall
turn the oranges on your breakfast table
you write about in grisaille, into the black dwarfs
of imploding stars, ambush your newsreels
and sword dance on your grave in a wreath
of stinging nettles just to hear you howl once
like a real poet when I rip the stitches out of your heart.

How will you angle your toes like a misstep in a dance
when you hear the harpsichord of shattering glass
as I throw the moon through your window
and watch it bleed like a beer bottle in a street fight?
Nuclear winter in a wasteland, the dawn
of a new species of fire with poetry in its glands.
A violet wind will sweep you like mirages off the sidewalk
into the dunes of the shad flies of North Bay,
and even the thieves who've come to melt
your gold death mask down into nose rings
won't bother to exhume your pyramid
like a publishing house not worth breaking into.

By the immutable coincidence of the contradictories
because you did not breathe life into the drowning
and fed your mouth in the mirror before you
even heard the child-faced birds dying in the trees outside,
I shall use your skull as a doorstop in a hurricane
to keep the backdoor open to the weatherfronts of the furies
that are mustering under your windowsill,
black holes without an event horizon.
And the unapproachable night air we let out
of your mythically inflated tires will be saturated
with the oracular apostasies of hostile prophecies,
and your proverbial dropp out and crawl all the way back
into your anthology of nepotistic verdicts
that are afraid to tell the judge what they really think.

I see how you slaughter the playful intensities of life
by throwing bad meat down the wells of the muses
and the effluvia of your poems contagious as radioactivity
slyly insinuating yourself into the drinking water.
The spider I wear like an eye patch on my third eye
wants to get you out of the way of the sun
like the slag and cinders of orbiting dirt
you kick in everyone's face like a meteor shower
that fizzled out even before it took the plunge.

Someone's got to tell you like a warning from your shrink
you've got the emotional wingspan of a scenic calender
for places to be when you're reading out west
they give away for free in a real estate office.
I want to chew on a wad of your heart to see
if its' really gum or not, and if it is
I'll cut it out of my hair with the same scissors
you use to clip and paste the spinal cords of your poems.
I want to stick C-4 to your incisors
as if I were blowing up a bridge in preoccupied Toronto
and see if anything explosive might come out of your mouth.

Fire-swallower in a circus morgue, hic sunt dracones,
snakes with wings, flame-throwing wiverns
angered by the desecration of their shrines
and fangs like flowering scalpels rooted in their jaws.
Gratuitous infirmity. Termites in the foundation.
Too much straw in the haystack to go looking for
your needle of identity pointing true north
to a vast pristine land of squalor and drugs.
The quicksand cornerstones of your unzippered fixes.
Moonrise and sunset on the blacklists of your eyelids.
I should compile a hive of killer bees
and when I'm talking to you without a grant
charge admission to the Eleusinian Mysteries
of how to write without a camera or a mirror,
and start a buzz that would leave you
with nothing unmagnanimous to say
about the dangers of pouring curdled honey
into a wound as raw and vicious as you are dull.

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Please Wake up to the Factors That Have Created Such an Education Mess; Our Education System is Fundamentally Flawed

Our leaders have determined that everyone should have at least an undergraduate degree. So we push students during their prime years of study to become Jacks of all trades. While the Germans make their students into experts in particular professions.

What has Wisdom Education got to do With Regular Education and Why the German Education Model is Superior and More Effective Than the American Model?

We provide generalized knowledge in many fields while the Germans train most into becoming specialists in particular fields. Our students end up having knowledge while their students become knowledge; capable of generating wealth. Wealth is like wisdom and like wisdom wealth is nothing on its own, it exists in different entities other than wealth. Mostly wealth is created through 'becoming' the expert in a particular field. Professionals are the ones who create wealth for themselves and for the government; while most of the nonprofessionals miss the bus and are at least partly dependent on the welfare system. Instead of being an asset they drain the government coffers.

We have this famous expression, 'Jack of all trades' and master of none. This is exactly what our education system accomplishes! It is a much bigger crisis than we realize. Our leaders have determined that everyone should have at least an undergraduate degree. So we push students during their prime years of study to become Jacks of all trades. While the Germans use this prime time to make their students into experts in particular professions.

One prospers by being an expert in some particular field. What is a nonprofessional undergraduate degree good for? Not much as every single job in society needs expertise. Most under graduates end up with low level jobs. Why do we need to graduate them with unpayable debt and diminish our government finances?

The student debt is now 1 trillion,70% of which is more or less wasted. Plus we saddle those students with the most debt, the ones who are most likely to default. For the rest of their lives they feel the burden of being in debt, frustrated with not being able to make enough money to survive let alone pay their student loan. Imagine if these very students had been educated into becoming professionals.

We are so eager to push every one to become an undergraduate that we ignore the fact that some will never even be able to become Jacks of all trades. A large chunk take 6 to 8 years to graduate and still others never graduate and remain saddled with huge student loans. Less than 25% graduate in 4 years. Why do we need such a looser education policy?

The aim of education above all is to provide an opportunity to the student to become more than self sufficient, to become rich so the government does not need to provide assistance and the government can collect taxes.

We can set a more ambitious goal to make every student capable of becoming wealthy. Education has to be specifically designed to make the student rich and the government richer through collective income tax.

Just image if we put in place an even better system than the German education system. Successful education means creating citizens that earn money for themselves and for the government. Education is as much for life as it is for the economy. The economic impact of education in our country is a big disaster.

We need serious education reform. The vast majority who struggle with their studies are emotionally unprepared to focus on their studies. This is where my wisdom education comes in, it provides focus, patients, love of learning, responsibility, in fact it provides all the attributes of wisdom to regular education. We can not only take the subnormal students and make them into normal students we can make the majority into super normal students. We need to make the student professionally wise as well as emotionally wise. Wisdom is essential for both living a life and making a living.

We must make our students into professionally wise wealth making machines.

Please Google:

http: //www.einnews.com/pr-news/662136-the-difference-b etween-wisdom-and-knowledge? v=XDNwLpUxtm/vBQNp36m8WBnNhamk

http: //education.einnews.com/pr-news/660003-wisdom? v=XDNwLpUxtm/vBQNp36m8WBnNhamk

Can Happiness Be Bought? - World News Report Sajid Khan

Love. - brainwizard Sajid Khan

Pure happiness is an innate property of the pure self. By explaining pure happiness we explain the whole works of what is involved in the pure self.

We have added our own refinements to the traditional emotional healing processes. We teach wisdom education through 'Pure Happiness Seminars' and 'Pure Love Therapy'. There is much room for improvement and we need to develop new routes to wisdom education by finding ways for teaching all individual attributes of wisdom.

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