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From Our Own Galaxy

FROM OUR OWN GALAXY

From our own galaxy
We can no longer see-
The distant Lights-
Eternity.

So in our own Inner Minds
We travel Time as Night
And Happy in our Lonesomeness
Remember God as Light.

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Send from Heaven Again

Send again, Hazrat! from Heaven
The message of justice and toleration!
I can no longer see this hateful hitting
between man and man!

Tell, them Hazrat! tell them all
Who pretend to follow thy divine call,
To love all men as the creatures of God!
And to regard all as the creation of God!

The virtue of Justice and Toleration,
Which was yours and which has made
Half the world to believe in you -
That virtue we have not learnt to value!

The slaves and dupes that we are,
The Queen and Hadith we merely hear!
Despised in the world we are
By disrespecting your commands clear!

The suffering humanity we hate,
But we say: We submit to God Compassionate!

[Translation: Mizanur Rahman]

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When The Day Of Darkness Comes

WHEN THE DAY OF DARKNESS COMES

When the day of darkness comes
And it will come-
And when I can no longer see or feel the world-
When I am gone
Forever gone-
The same flowers and trees
The same sky
The same morning light
The same human dreams
The same loves and hates and sadnesses and joys
The same human condition
Will still be-

When I am no longer here
You will go on as you always have-

O world,
What will I do without you?

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May Lead To Disaster Like Obama From Their Own Creation.

HINDUS PRIDE AND PREJUDICE WITH THE EVIL FORCES,
TO CREATE A PARADISE IN INSIDE OUR GOLDEN BIRD;
WITH A CARNAL DESIRE TO GREED, SEX, VIOLENCE, LUST,
TO CREATE A VAST EMPIRE OF MATERIALIST OBJECT;

BECAME THE DREADED ENEMY BY THE DECISIVE FORCES,
TO PERPETUATE HATRED AND TO CALL THEM INFIDELS;
INSIDE THE PROSTITUTION CENTER HAVING OFFSPRING,
DUE THE EVIL AND POLLUTED HIPPOCRATES SUPERSTITION;

HALF HIDDEN AND HALF PROJECTION OF FALSE IDENTITY,
WHERE ORPHANS BORN FROM THE BROTHEL CONCUBINES;
WERE NOT EVEN ACCEPTED BY THESE PSEUDO MENTALITY,
AS THEIR SINFUL ACTION AND HAVING IT'S REPERCUSSION;

OF DENOUNCING IDENTITY AS THEIR OWN CHILDREN,
HAS RISEN TO CREATE A CULT DECLARING PROSTITUTION;
AS THE PLACE OF THEIR PARADISE WITH HURRAY NIHAMATE,
TO DEFEAT THE TRUTH BEFORE THE CLEAR CUT DECEPTION;

AND THERE BY DECLARING ORPHAN BORN FROM THE VIRGIN,
AS THE SON THE GOD WITH PRIDE TO RULE OVER THE WORLD;
THUS IT IS THE TIME FOR INTERACTIONS AMONGST HINDU,
TO ERADICATE EVIL OF CASTE SYSTEM AND SELF PROJECTION;

AS MOSQUITO, SCORPIONS, SNAKES, COBRA AND PYTHON,
MAY LEAD TO DISASTER LIKE OBAMA FROM THEIR OWN CREATION.

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When You Meet a Man from Your Own Home Town

Sing, O Muse, in treble clef,
A little song of the A.E.F.,
And pardon me, please, if I give vent
To something akin to sentiment.
But we have our moments Over Here
When we want to cry and we want to cheer;
And the hurrah feeling will not down
When you meet a man from your own home town.

It's many a lonesome, longsome day
Since you embarked from the U.S.A.,
And you met some men--it's a great big war--
From towns that you never had known before;
And you landed here, and your rest camp mate
Was a man from some strange and distant state.
Liked him? Yes; but you wanted to see
A man from the town where you used to be.

And then you went, by design or chance,
All over the well-known map of France;
And you yearned with a yearn that grew and grew
To talk with a man from the burg you knew.
And some lugubrious morn when
Your morale is batting about .110,
"Where are you from?" and you make reply,
And the O.D. warrior says, "So am I."

The universe wears a smiling face
As you spill your talk of the old home place;
You talk of the streets, and the home town jokes,
And you find that you know each other's folks;
And you haven't any more woes at all
Ad you both decide that the world is small--
A statement adding to its renown
When you meet a man from your own home town.

You may be among the enlisted men,
You may be a Lieut. or a Major-Gen.;
Your home may be up in the Chilkoot Pass,
In Denver, Col., or in Pittsfield, Mass.;
You may have come from Chicago, Ill.,
Buffalo, Portland, or Louisville--
But there's nothing, I'm gambling, can keep you down,
When you meet a man from your own home town.

* * * * *

If you want to know why I wrote this pome,
Well . . . I've just had a talk with a guy from home.

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Louisa May Alcott

From Our Happy Home

From our happy home
Through the world we roam
One week in all the year,
Making winter spring
With the joy we bring,
For Christmas-tide is here.

Now the eastern star
Shines from afar
To light the poorest home;
Hearts warmer grow,
Gifts freely flow,
For Christmas-tide has come.

Now gay trees rise
Before young eyes,
Abloom with tempting cheer;
Blithe voices sing,
And blithe bells ring,
For Christmas-tide is here.

Oh, happy chime,
Oh, blessed time,
That draws us all so near!
'Welcome, dear day,'
All creatures say,
For Christmas-tide is here.

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We Must Learn We Can Detach From Our Burdens

Within these vessels kept that are our temples,
Sacred.
Although treated with neglect.
We should clear the debris each day with faith.
With prayer to be forgiven.
And a desire to be cleansed,
Of addicting temptations.
On a daily basis.
In respect of the life that has been given.

It isn't easy feeding on teased wishes.
To satisfy that which temporarily pleases.
Or to maintain our insights,
To be kept full with light.
Instilling our hearts with brightness...
Day and night!

But if a routine becomes part of our appetites,
Our journeys will benefit.
Decreasing that which is wrong.
With a clarity of that,
Which sheds more light on the right.
To heighten our minds with enlightenment.
With an acknowledgement that comes to comprehend this...
We do not sit alone in our anguish!
And,
We must learn we can detach from our burdens!

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We Go Out From Our Closed Doors

we go out from our closed doors
we watch
from their windows

not just a dropp of rain
a frozen fern
a haggard stone
a cloud of doubt
an iron curtain
a broken tendon
a very thin man
a hard pair of gloves

we shall see birds of the same feathers
men of character
women of passion
flowing rivers
wide mouth of the seas

we shall see a choir of angels
we shall see the face of God

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Love Song From Our Life - Wael Moreicheh

LOVE SONG FROM OUR LIFE
ARE THE LIFE UNLIMITED OR CAN NOT RETURN BY MUSIC
OF GARDEN ROSE ARE GREEN TEA PARTY BEST FROM SEAS OF MODERN AMERICA SO HEART OF DARKNESS TOUCH OLD WHITE HOUSE BY BOSTON REVOLUTION ARE WE
BRITISH SOULS OR OCEAN LOST HIS MASTER LIKE
ROSALIDA SONGS
ARE WE FOR ALL HUMANITY OR FOR HALF QUARTER
MR PRESIDENT THANK YOU FOR STRUGGLE
FOR ALL HUMANE CAN DO LIFE MORE BEST
FOR
BARACK OBAMA PRESIDENT UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
WAEL MOREICHEH

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Sung from our souls

Sung from our souls


In the sun we'll be one
a Kurt Cobain
who ended pain
a Marvin Gaye
who had to pay
the priced father's son

You and me reality
Oh brother brother
who does bother
what do we wrong
when moods too strong
is black then all we see

When we're diving deep
the rivers are growing
impules overflowing
in peaceful dreams we see
a road and destiny
that's risen us from sleep


Madrason 10-02-2008


'All in all is all we all are! ' Kurt Cobain; in dedication.

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A Place From Our Childhood

There is a place from our childhood;
we like to visit now and then,
to recapture our youth,
through the years that has slipped away.
A place that has a magic touch,
even through the years it has changed.
A place where sunshine,
still dances on the water
of rippling waves.
Where the wildlife still gather,
free from harm.
A place of solitude,
where you can find
a little peace of mind.
A place within a city that has not
been strangled by any human hand.
Somewhere you can while time away,
with dreams of another day.

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An Ode : While From Our Looks, Fair Nymph, You Guess

While from our looks, fair nymph, you guess
The secret passions of our mind;
My heavy eyes, you say, confess
A heart to love and grief inclined.

There needs, alas! but little art
To have this fatal secret found;
With the same ease you threw the dart,
'Tis certain you can show the wound.

How can I see you, and not love,
While you as opening cast are fair?
While cold as northern blasts you prove,
How can I love, and not despair?

The wretch in double fetters bound
Your potent mercy may release;
Soon, if my love but once were crown'd,
Fair prophetess, my grief would cease.

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Sonnet: Our Duty To God?

At last, the Truth has dawned upon your heart,
That prayers of your siblings, kith and kin,
Can finish things the way we want from start;
Our earthly struggles, surely help us win.

The ways of God are wonderful and strange;
He won't forsake the righteous ones, He made;
Man must not from His holy Will estrange,
But keep Commandments, love Him as He bade.

When we are back in track in Heaven's race,
Nothing on earth disturbs our aim divine;
God gives each one the Will and needed grace;
To reach in style, Heaven's finishing line.
Yet, many things, God expects one to do;
Before His gates are thrown open to you.

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Things That Slip From Our Very Hands

water drips from our hands
no amount of cupping catches it

air escapes from our mouth
whatever lip closing you make

no matter what you do
memories slip like water like air

things precious friends so dear
love like diamonds

no one keeps them forever
the reality is in the cascading and losing and disappearing

i could have loved you more and keep you forever inside my heart
reality is not with us like air like water like memories evaporating
from our human senses

nothing lasts forever
the eternity you talk about when we kiss
the promises after love

we call these all lies
mystical mythical, that my love, my darling, is the truth.

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To Flee From Their Own Willfulness

Will there be a scramble for lifeboats and flights,
When the seriousness of life...
Finally dawns in those minds that have blinded truth,
From their eyesight.
Will the absence of logic instantly find common sense?
And where will folks go,
To flee from their own willfulness...
That implemented the spreading of a successful ignorance.

Will people stop to pack luxuries,
In leather bound suitcases and branded designer bags?
And where will they take their 'priceless' items...
To isolated islands where the beaches are free of oil slick?
And where will they take their mindsets that are somewhat sick?
As they seat aboard exclusive spaceships,
Heading to other planets in beliefs...
To repeat their wickedness will bring to them relief!

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From Our Every Walk In Nature

From our every walk in Nature we learn every day
And though many of her secrets from us she hides away
She often does surprise us she always surprises me
And every day in Nature there's something new to see
Some of the birds of Nature we know them by their song
The white backed magpie and the blackbird and the pied currawong
Sparrows chirping on the bushes as on the path you walk along
Yes even by their voices one should not get them wrong
I've learned much from Nature and my wonder of her grow
And yet so little of her ways I know that I do know
Yet in my every walk in Nature and they've not been a few
I never fail to feel amazed and learn something new
The honeyeaters chirping on the flowering bushes by the pathway
And for a walk in Nature it is a pleasant day.

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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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Our Affair

What a perfect night
Secrets lights up the sky
Like fireflies do
There's nothing but a silky hope
That old opiate
Between me and you
Don't look now
We're just about there
We're just one little breath away
From our affair
From our affair
Don't move too fast
Don't run scared
We're just one surrender away
From our affair
Don't you feel like
You're coming down with something
Some great fancy flu
Don't you feel like you're
Coming down with me
And it doesn't get sicker than you
Don't you feel like this is the really good part
Where it's still up in the air
The perfect romance is never
Stated or sated, deflated or fair
Don't admit it yet
And don't stop saying your prayers
We're just one little heartbeat away
From our affair
From our affair
There's a light in my window
And a little red ladybug in my hair
Just one turn down an empty street
Away,away, away
From our affair
From our affair
There's a white-hot desire
Of which I am pleasantly aware
Just one more "wait a minute baby"
Away, away, away, away
From our affair
From our affair
From our affair

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As Dew On Grass Sleeves No Longer Stiffening In The Wind - Moments From The Orange World - After Reading Kenneth Patchen

.
for Bruce and Patti
happily singing in their chains by the sea...


'...do not grieve, therefore, those who are lost to you;
they were ever so to themselves...'
- Kenneth Patchen - from 'There Is One Who Watches'


I've lost my way and wait for signs.
Distant signal fires indicate 'wait here'.
No gate ahead. The iron dogs hungrily await
all who approach edges of the orange world.
Best to settle in, grin at stinking Death who is
sinking into the ground winking at me as if to say,

You will soon sink. You will soon sink.
Who do you think you are or were?
Step forward if you dare.

I've observed how furred things give up without much complaint.
They've grabbed often enough and so Death grabs back.
They sigh or call out in their animal way, Son of a b*tch!
but in the end they relent and they sink leaving only their
pink tongues spread out over the dawn as if to say...as if to say...

I blink in the dark looking at edges distant fire.
I wink back at Death who has left only a bony hand
on the ground where He waits just beneath.
How trite He is but it does the job, conveys His trap clearly.
When dawn tongues awake licking dew from my face,
and my fears, I shall raise both my hands, too,
as if to say...as if to say...

And flaunting these two hands to Death's one, and with flesh,
I shall walk away the way I came having done with burning signs
and a night's work of waiting, my presence taunting the dogs,
Death baiting as if He has forgotten one hand upon the dirt.
We have flirted, Death and me. Not the kind of company
I like to keep preferring furred things to winking bones,
Death's head all teeth and no whistle. But I earn my pay.
I walk away, my own tongue licking.

*

I can barely contain myself arriving back at camp.
She waits dreaming shyly in our tent, a Bedouin soul bending
gently over the wells in Her keeping on Gentler Hill.
I shall lick Her face then. I shall not tell Her how
I have survived the night with Death at my feet, the taunting
signals over there at the edges, iron dogs alert.
I shall not hurt Her with knowledge of this orange world,
all the dark things within it. I shall not take Her roughly
to me but softly settle beside Her where she breezes as dew
on grass sleeves no longer stiffening against the wind.

I shall bring Her in as a fisherman brings
in his boat softly singing a fisherman's tale,
his throat a song-sore nocturne rocking night waves,
beacons ashore flaring where his Love lies sleeping
awaiting conjectures, his folding, folding into Her
gently suspiring guesses -

'Is my love away at sea, at sea,
dark as wine presses as he will
surely press me?

O drink from the wells I tend -
I earn my pay - and away with
ocean roaming! '

Distant lights demur sure in their beckoning.
Sudden he turns singing boat and heart to shore,
starfish near at hand yearning beyond foam..
Dawn tongues slowly raise up land-sunken houses,
stilled curtains in darkened windows not yet stirring.

Nearing, he shall not shake the dew from his cloak but gather
as much as he can to bathe Her - feet, hands, those parts
Death cannot sink into, but he can. And life will continue on.

As will the other, his lost brother of the inland tent
now gratefully at rest forgetting the ever orange world,
edge fires signaling unseen until dark,

and then the dogs,

and Death's hand,

and then back to work again.

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Moments From The Orange World

Here is a poem which partakes of 'harvest' - death, dreams, love, dirge and demi-urge, the task of harvesting consciousness from unconsciousness, from the clash and claw and cling of opposites, each has their tasks, the dogs on the edge of the orange world, Death, too, has it's purpose rendering from that which nascently exists and is coming to be to not be again. Selves and part-selves are birthed/deathed to incarnate myriad possibilities of being which is the human experiment, each is a harvest returned to fallow ground. Each is a murmur, a sound expressed then passing into stillness. And myth.

Murmur: '(A) to make the sound mu mu or mumu, to murmur with closed lips, to mutter, to moan...(B) to drink with closed lips, to suck in...' - Liddell & Scott, Greek-English Lexicon,1897 ed.

'In such cases myth is the truth of fact, not fact the truth of myth.' - Kathleen Raine, 'On the Mythological, ' Defending Ancient Springs'

'The repressed value contains transformative energies and a consciousness of its own...' - Charles Ponce

'The Saviors do not lend themselves to art successfully: they are outside the pale, beyond, as incomprehensible in their love as in their example. They have never become incorporated in the blood stream. Forsaking the world, they become as the idols they sought to destroy. This is human perversity. Throughout the ages it displays itself in the individual life, and now and then it bursts forth in cosmic waves of futility and self-destruction.' - Henry Miller in an essay on Kenneth Patchen


As Dew On Grass Sleeves No Longer Stiffening In The Wind
- Moments From The Orange World - After Kenneth Patchen

'...do not grieve, therefore, those who are lost to you; they were ever so to themselves...'
- Kenneth Patchen - from 'There Is One Who Watches'

I've lost my way and wait for signs.
Distant signal fires indicate 'wait here'.
No gate ahead. The iron dogs are waiting over there
to chew all who approach edges of the orange world.
Best to settle in, grin at stinking Death who is
sinking into the ground winking at me as if to say,

You will soon sink. You will soon sink.
Who do you think you are or were?
Step forward if you dare.

I've observed how furred things give up without much complaint.
They grab often enough so Death grabs back.
They sigh or call out in their animal way, Son of a b*tch!
but in the end they relent and they sink leaving only their
pink tongues spread out over the dawn as if to say.

I blink in the dark looking at edges distant fire.
I wink back at Death who's left only a bony hand
on the ground where He waits just beneath.
How trite He is but it does the job, conveys His trap clearly.
When dawn tongues awaken licking dew from my face,
and my fears, I shall raise both my hands, too, as if to say.

And flaunting these two hands to Death's one, and with flesh,
I shall walk away the way I came having done with burning signs
and a night's work of waiting, my presence taunting the dogs,
Death baiting as if He has forgotten one hand upon the dirt.
We have flirted, Death and me. Not the kind of company
I like to keep preferring furred things to winking bones,
Death's head all teeth and no whistle. But I earn my pay.
I walk away, my own tongue licking as if to say.

I can barely contain myself arriving back at camp where
She waits dreaming shyly in our tent, a Bedouin soul bending
gently over wells in Her keeping on Gentler Hill.
I shall lick Her face then. I shall not tell Her how
I have survived the night with Death at my feet,
the taunting signals over there at the edges, iron dogs alert.
I shall not hurt Her with knowledge of this orange world,
all the dark things within it. I shall softly settle beside Her
where She breezes as dew on grass sleeves no longer
stiffening against the wind.

I shall bring Her in as a fisherman brings
in his boat, softly singing a fisherman's tale,
his throat a song-sore nocturne rocking night waves,
beacons ashore flaring where his Love lies sleeping
awaiting conjectures, his folding, folding into Her
gently suspiring guesses -

Is my love away at sea, at sea,
dark as wine presses as he will
surely press me?

O drink from the wells I tend -
I earn my pay - and away with
ocean roaming!

Distant lights demur sure in their beckoning.
Sudden, he turns singing boat and heart to shore,
starfish near at hand yearning beyond foam for depth.
Dawn tongues slowly raise up the land-sunken houses,
stilled curtains in darkened windows not yet stirring.

Nearing, he shall not shake the dew from his cloak but gather
as much as he can to bathe Her - feet, hands, those parts
Death cannot sink into but he can. And life will continue on.

As will the other, his lost brother of the inland tent
now gratefully at rest forgetting the ever orange world,
edge fires signaling unseen until dark,

and then the dogs,

and Death's hand,

and then back to work again.

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Overwhelmed By My Own Inner Feeling

OVERWHELMED BY MY OWN INNER FEELING

Overwhelmed by my own inner feeling
The poems come to me today-
They say:
“Life is so much more
than we will ever say or know’
They say,
“Beauty is greater than any song I have”
They say,
“Walk humbly with God.
You too are like a wind
Which though it waken the world for a moment
Will pass by as if it never was.”

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