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The Poem I Waited For All My Life

THE POEM I WAITED FOR/ ALL MY LIFE

The poem I waited for
All my life,
Came to me in old age
And I write it now-
As if Joy and Sadness
Were what
I was always
Meant to be.

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Where Is The Poem I Have Waited For All My Life?

WHERE IS THE POEM I HAVE WAITED FOR ALL MY LIFE?

Where is the poem I have waited for all my life?
The one poem that would say to me,
“You are a true poet, at last”
Where is the poem
Which would make me be Poetry?
Where?
The years have gone
Have I labored in vain?
The darkness comes
Light will not come again.
I try and I write still
But I will never know
Poetry will live,
But I soon will go.

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I Have Been Writing For All My Life

I HAVE BEEN WRITING FOR ALL MY LIFE

I have been writing for all my life
And soon I will be done
And when I am done
What will be with it all?

You live and you try and you try and you try
And you live as long as you can
And you try, or so you tell yourself, as hard as you can
And what it all amounts to
No one knows.

It is a very very large universe
And I am one small one among the billions who have been here
And the more billions that may be here
And in all the sounds and all the furies
My little words may be quiet as a song that has only the melody of death.

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News to the king, good news for all

'NEWS to the king, good news for all,'
The corn is trodden, the river runs red.
'News of the battle,' the heralds call,
'We have won the field; we have taken the town;
We have beaten the rebels and crushed them down.'
And the dying lie with the dead.

'Who was my bravest?' quoth the king,
The corn is trodden, the river runs red.
'Whom shall I honour for this great thing?'
'Threescore were best, where none were worst;
But Walter Wendulph was aye the first.'
And the dying lie with the dead.

'What of my husband?' quoth the bride,
The corn is trodden, the river runs red.
'Comes he to-morrow; how long will he bide?'
'Put off thy bridegear, busk thee in black;
Walter Wendulph will never come back.'
And the dying lie with the dead.

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One Came For All

Down upon this earthly sand, came in flesh The Son of Man,
He appeared as The Word, this from God is what men heard.
Christ sent The Holy Spirit, so when spoken we could hear it,
And The Spirit in men will lead, as they plant and water seed.

Holy seed that God shall grow, so that all the world can know,
Salvation comes through only one, Jesus Christ His only Son.
Under Heaven is but one name, that men forever will proclaim,
As God’s only true salvation, for each and every earthly nation.

Only in the Son Jesus Christ, can earthly man gain eternal life,
When in Him we’re born of God, upon this present earthly sod.
Eternal death is what’s in store, for all men who reject the Lord,
For all power was given to Him; Christ, who died for all our sin.

Christ is coming back to receive, all of those who truly believe,
To take to Heaven all His own, to the glory of an eternal home.
While wrath abides on everyone, who refuses God’s Only Son,
Who was God’s perfect sacrifice, as He paid sin’s eternal price.

God had paved the way at Calvary, for all men to live eternally,
Where Christ died for all men; so that we could be Born Again.
He came not to judge the world, but with a message to herald,
That man can live forevermore, in Jesus Christ the Risen Lord.

(Copyright ©02/2007)

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Epipsychidion: Passages Of The Poem, Or Connected Therewith

Here, my dear friend, is a new book for you;
I have already dedicated two
To other friends, one female and one male,--
What you are, is a thing that I must veil;
What can this be to those who praise or rail?
I never was attached to that great sect
Whose doctrine is that each one should select
Out of the world a mistress or a friend,
And all the rest, though fair and wise, commend
To cold oblivion-though 'tis in the code
Of modern morals, and the beaten road
Which those poor slaves with weary footsteps tread
Who travel to their home among the dead
By the broad highway of the world-and so
With one sad friend, and many a jealous foe,
The dreariest and the longest journey go.


Free love has this, different from gold and clay,
That to divide is not to take away.
Like ocean, which the general north wind breaks
Into ten thousand waves, and each one makes
A mirror of the moon -- like some great glass,
Which did distort whatever form might pass,
Dashed into fragments by a playful child,
Which then reflects its eyes and forehead mild;
Giving for one, which it could ne'er express,
A thousand images of loveliness.


If I were one whom the loud world held wise,
I should disdain to quote authorities
In commendation of this kind of love:--
Why there is first the God in heaven above,
Who wrote a book called Nature, 'tis to be
Reviewed, I hear, in the next Quarterly;
And Socrates, the Jesus Christ of Greece,
And Jesus Christ Himself, did never cease
To urge all living things to love each other,
And to forgive their mutual faults, and smother
The Devil of disunion in their souls.


. . .

I love you!-- Listen, O embodied Ray
Of the great Brightness; I must pass away
While you remain, and these light words must be
Tokens by which you may remember me.
Start not-the thing you are is unbetrayed,
If you are human, and if but the shade
Of some sublimer spirit . . .


. . .

And as to friend or mistress, 'tis a form;
Perhaps I wish you were one. Some declare
You a familiar spirit, as you are;
Others with a . . . more inhuman
Hint that, though not my wife, you are a woman;
What is the colour of your eyes and hair?
Why, if you were a lady, it were fair
The world should know-but, as I am afraid,
The Quarterly would bait you if betrayed;
And if, as it will be sport to see them stumble
Over all sorts of scandals, hear them mumble
Their litany of curses-some guess right,
And others swear you're a Hermaphrodite;
Like that sweet marble monster of both sexes,
Which looks so sweet and gentle that it vexes
The very soul that the soul is gone
Which lifted from her limbs the veil of stone.


. . .

It is a sweet thing, friendship, a dear balm,
A happy and auspicious bird of calm,
Which rides o'er life's ever tumultuous Ocean;
A God that broods o'er chaos in commotion;
A flower which fresh as Lapland roses are,
Lifts its bold head into the world's frore air,
And blooms most radiantly when others die,
Health, hope, and youth, and brief prosperity;
And with the light and odour of its bloom,
Shining within the dungeon and the tomb;
Whose coming is as light and music are
'Mid dissonance and gloom -- a star
Which moves not 'mid the moving heavens alone--
A smile among dark frowns-a gentle tone
Among rude voices, a belovèd light,
A solitude, a refuge, a delight.
If I had but a friend! Why, I have three
Even by my own confession; there may be
Some more, for what I know, for 'tis my mind
To call my friends all who are wise and kind,--
And these, Heaven knows, at best are very few;
But none can ever be more dear than you.
Why should they be? My muse has lost her wings,
Or like a dying swan who soars and sings,
I should describe you in heroic style,
But as it is, are you not void of guile?
A lovely soul, formed to be blessed and bless:
A well of sealed and secret happiness;
A lute which those whom Love has taught to play
Make music on to cheer the roughest day,
And enchant sadness till it sleeps? . . .


. . .

To the oblivion whither I and thou,
All loving and all lovely, hasten now
With steps, ah, too unequal! may we meet
In one Elysium or one winding-sheet!


If any should be curious to discover
Whether to you I am a friend or lover,
Let them read Shakespeare's sonnets, taking thence
A whetstone for their dull intelligence
That tears and will not cut, or let them guess
How Diotima, the wise prophetess,
Instructed the instructor, and why he
Rebuked the infant spirit of melody
On Agathon's sweet lips, which as he spoke
Was as the lovely star when morn has broke
The roof of darkness, in the golden dawn,
Half-hidden, and yet beautiful.


I'll pawn
My hopes of Heaven-you know what they are worth--
That the presumptuous pedagogues of Earth,
If they could tell the riddle offered here
Would scorn to be, or being to appear
What now they seem and are -- but let them chide,
They have few pleasures in the world beside;
Perhaps we should be dull were we not chidden,
Paradise fruits are sweetest when forbidden.
Folly can season Wisdom, Hatred Love.


. . .

Farewell, if it can be to say farewell
To those who . . .


. . .

I will not, as most dedicators do,
Assure myself and all the world and you,
That you are faultless -- would to God they were
Who taunt me with your love! I then should wear
These heavy chains of life with a light spirit,
And would to God I were, or even as near it
As you, dear heart. Alas! what are we? Clouds
Driven by the wind in warring multitudes,
Which rain into the bosom of the earth,
And rise again, and in our death and birth,
And through our restless life, take as from heaven
Hues which are not our own, but which are given,
And then withdrawn, and with inconstant glance
Flash from the spirit to the countenance.
There is a Power, a Love, a Joy, a God
Which makes in mortal hearts its brief abode,
A Pythian exhalation, which inspires
Love, only love -- a wind which o'er the wires
Of the soul's giant harp
There is a mood which language faints beneath;
You feel it striding, as Almighty Death
His bloodless steed . . .


. . .

And what is that most brief and bright delight
Which rushes through the touch and through the sight,
And stands before the spirit's inmost throne,
A naked Seraph? None hath ever known.
Its birth is darkness, and its growth desire;
Untameable and fleet and fierce as fire,
Not to be touched but to be felt alone,
It fills the world with glory -- and is gone.


. . .

It floats with rainbow pinions o'er the stream
Of life, which flows, like a . . . dream
Into the light of morning, to the grave
As to an ocean . . .


. . .

What is that joy which serene infancy
Perceives not, as the hours content them by,
Each in a chain of blossoms, yet enjoys
The shapes of this new world, in giant toys
Wrought by the busy . . . ever new?
Remembrance borrows Fancy's glass, to show
These forms more . . . sincere
Than now they are, than then, perhaps, they were.
When everything familiar seemed to be
Wonderful, and the immortality
Of this great world, which all things must inherit,
Was felt as one with the awakening spirit,
Unconscious of itself, and of the strange
Distinctions which in its proceeding change
It feels and knows, and mourns as if each were
A desolation . . .


. . .

Were it not a sweet refuge, Emily,
For all those exiles from the dull insane
Who vex this pleasant world with pride and pain,
For all that band of sister-spirits known
To one another by a voiceless tone?


. . .

If day should part us night will mend division
And if sleep parts us -- we will meet in vision
And if life parts us -- we will mix in death
Yielding our mite [?] of unreluctant breath
Death cannot part us -- we must meet again
In all in nothing in delight in pain:
How, why or when or where-it matters not
So that we share an undivided lot . . .


. . .

And we will move possessing and possessed
Wherever beauty on the earth's bare [?] breast
Lies like the shadow of thy soul -- till we
Become one being with the world we see . . .

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A Song For All

A dream lets out a clarion call
For a song for all - you and me.
A song for all is sometimes not to be sung.
It needs no singer nor any music.
A song for all needs no listener either.
It`s often heard from within.

A song for all is often silent
As no torrents thereof transmounts the minds.
A song for all sometimes cristalises into a mute babe.
Then it cries for our care later.
A silent wave of a song not sung
Craves for an entry into our spirit stubborn.

The notes firm for a life time
Make the song unsung a nightingale sweetly dumb.
Your breath substantiates a life`s tale.
If I miss to feel it, I miss to hear a song.
Dear mortal enlightened, have a mind
To breathe your song into my indifferences.

A song sung for ourselves for once
Will make the cuckoo nostalgic ever,
And she will come to our dwelling places
To absorb the new notes unlearnt earlier.
A song for all may be a dream,
But its mute riches have no reverses.

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All My Life

All my life, without a doubt I give you
All my life, now and forever till the
Day I die, you and I will share
All the things this changing world can offer
So I sing, Id be happy just to
Stay this way, spend each day, with you
There was a time, that I just thought
That I would lose my mind
You came along and then the sun did shine
We started on our way
I do recall that every moment spent
Was wasted time but then I chose to lay it on the line
I put the past away
I put the past away
I put the past away
All my life, I will carry you through
All my life, between each hour of the passing days
I will stay with you
There was a time, that I just thought
That I would lose my mind
You came along and then the sun did shine
We started on our way
I do recall that every moment spent
Was wasted time then I chose to lay it on the line
I want this all my life
I want this all my life
I want this all my life
I want this all my life
I want this all my life
I wanted this all my life

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All My Life

I've been waiting for someone to come into my life
Who would bring me joy and give me pleasure
I have taken chances on romances once or twice
And I found that in my heart it's you I treasure

You and only you can make me feel the way I do
You and only you can make it better
You and only you can do the freaky things you do
And I'm so into you and that's forever and ever

All my life
My love's been waiting for you
All my life
My heart's been waiting too

All my life:

I've been wishing on a star
I've been praying on my knees
I've got some sly and sexy tricks to show you
Most of all I'll give you anything boy that you need
To keep you right here by my side
I know you
I'll show you

You and only you can make me feel the way I do
You and only you can make it better
You and only you can do the freaky things you do
And I'm so into you and that's forever and ever

All my life
My love's been waiting for you
All my life
My heart's been waiting too
Don't you know I need you
And adore you
All my life I'll give to only you

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A Love For All Seasons

There's no truth in the rumour
That's all I want to say
There's no room for manoevre
Make sure that it stays
A love for all seasons
October was a drag
Damn it all
You and I were fools
Overcast and sad
Winter blues
Allowing us to cool
When it's grey I know all I want to do
Resort to make-believe
There's no truth in the rumour
That's all I want to say
There's no room for manoevre
Make sure that it stays
A love for all seasons
January comes
Steely blue
Nothing seems to rhyme
With all the noise of spring
Passion wakes
Cos' we hear summertime
When it's grey I know all I want to do
Resort to make-believe
There's no truth in the rumour
That's all I want to say
There's no room for manoevre
so Make sure that it stays
A love for all seasons...
October comes around
As it does
But this time we're prepared
You and I can go
To love land
There's a sunset to be shared
When it's grey I know all I want to do
Resort to make-believe...
There's no truth in the rumour
That's all I want to say
There's no room for manoevre
So Make sure that it stays
There's no truth in the rumour
That's all I want to say
There's no room for manoevre
So Make sure that it stays
A love for all seasons
yeah, a love for all seasons
I said it
January, February, March April,
May, June July,
I love you
August, September,October, November,
I love you, yes i will..
oh cheers
yeah octuber was a fire
and in to 9:00 to 3:00 I love you
both

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Two Idylls From Bion The Smyrnean

I

Once a fowler, young and artless,
To the quiet greenwood came;
Full of skill was he and heartless
In pursuit of feathered game.
And betimes he chanced to see
Eros perching in a tree.

'What strange bird is that, I wonder?'
Thought the youth, and spread his snare;
Eros, chuckling at the blunder,
Gayly scampered here and there.
Do his best, the simple clod
Could not snare the agile god!

Blubbering, to his aged master
Went the fowler in dismay,
And confided his disaster
With that curious bird that day;
'Master, hast thou ever heard
Of so ill-disposed a bird?'

'Heard of him? Aha, most truly!'
Quoth the master with a smile;
'And thou too, shall know him duly-
Thou art young, but bide awhile,
And old Eros will not fly
From thy presence by and by!

'For when thou art somewhat older
That same Eros thou didst see,
More familiar grown and bolder,
Shall become acquaint with thee;
And when Eros comes thy way
Mark my word, he comes to stay!'

II

Once came Venus to me, bringing
Eros where my cattle fed-
'Teach this little boy your singing,
Gentle herdsman,' Venus said.
I was young-I did not know
Whom it was that Venus led-
That was many years ago!

In a lusty voice but mellow-
Callow pedant! I began
To instruct the little fellow
In the mysteries known to man;
Sung the noble cithern's praise,
And the flute of dear old Pan,
And the lyre that Hermes plays.

But he paid no heed unto me-
Nay, that graceless little boy
Coolly plotted to undo me-
With his songs of tender joy;
And my pedantry o'erthrown,
Eager was I to employ
His sweet ritual for mine own!

Ah, these years of ours are fleeting!
Yet I have not vainly wrought,
Since to-day I am repeating
What dear lessons Eros taught;
Love, and always love, and then-
Counting all things else for naught-
Love and always love again!

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Plants grow for all.

Man grows on plants and animals.
Animals grow on plants and animals.
Germs grow on all the three.
Plants grow for all the three.
10.07.2010

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Almost Home

(the reivers)
Walking on the water in a van
Tryin to think of everything I can
But its getting very late,
And these tapes dont sound too good
And my body just dont feel
The way I wish it would.
I was driving when I heard you call my name.
It was not like before not quite the same
Its too late to be much good and I might as well confess
That I have not got the nerve to borrow cigarettes.
When Im almost with you music tries to play,
When Im almost home I almost hear you say,
It would be all right if we could run away.
Deciding things for all my life
No one ever tells you when or why
But my heart cant seem to tell me
What would satisfy my mind
So I jump into the van one more time

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Farewell To The Old Year, 1863

Farewell, old year, 'the bourne' is near,
'Whence traveller ne'er returneth'-
Passing away from time for aye,
Thy life-light faintly burneth.


Farewell, old year, dark shapes of fear,
Grim spectres pale and gory,
Flitting around, with moaning sound,
Tell us thy sad war story.


Farewell, old year, we do not fear
Republic or Imperial-
If war inclined, they both shall find
We're rather tough material.


Farewell, old year, thy past career
Hath given both gloom and gladness;
Thou gave us peace, but no decrease
In human crime and madness.


Farewell, old year, the pall and bier
Thou saw us oft attending,
And heard oft-times the merry chimes
Of birth and wedlock blending.


Farewell, old year, a voice we hear,
How solemnly it falleth-
'All flesh is grass,' prepare to pass,
Ere long the Master calleth!


Farewell, old year, thy knell we hear
Through Time's dark arches sounding;
Wrapt in thy shroud, a dense, dark cloud
Thy solemn bier surrounding.


Farewell, old year, we still have cheer,
Though tinged with doubt and sorrow,
We leave thy urn and gladly turn
To give new year good morrow.

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What If It Was Your Child

I saw a child yesterday sitting on a corner, tears
streaming down its face, and I stopped to ask
why and the child replied, “no one likes me,
they laugh at me and say I lie, but I don’t lie.”

I walk away after leaving a hug and some words
of encouragement, but as I walked home I said,
“thank God it was not my child.”

Today thousands starved to death because they
had no food. Some ones little girl, some ones
son, but my child ate well.

I turned off the television news and I said, “thank
God it was not my child.”

Every day it seems there is more tragedy, more
horrors, children dying, abused and killed, and it
seems nothing is done to change these things, but
my child is safe, warm and fed.

So when I go to sleep at night I pray and say,
“thank God it was not my child.”

This morning someone screamed at my child and
when I in anger started to reply I thought of Jesus on
the cross, his father watching as he suffered and died
at the hands of the very ones he came to save and I
walked away and prayed, “thank God it was not my
child.”

So my friends the next time you are upset over some
wrong you feel has been done to your child, think of
all the wrongs in the world and should you feel the
need for revenge remember, Jesus could have called
all the angels in Heaven for help but instead he cried,
“father forgive them they know not what they do.”

And God said, ” what if it was your child? ”

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Rose And A Honeycomb

(Talk) - Mike
The rose
Verse 1 - Nate & Shawn
How I love to smell
She kisses me so well (She kisses)
Unlike anyone I've ever known (You're the best)
Knew there was no other who
Listen it's time up
But I see right now I was deadly wrong (I was wrong)
Scent is ohh so strong
Feel like an animal
'Cause I can smell it through the phone
Soft like silky petals
All over my skin
Still yearning for the honey
That I've been missing (I've been missing)
Chorus
The love I've been waiting for all my life
Has rendered my soul helpless
Whether in bloom or a taste I consume
My rose and a honeycomb (My rose and a honeycomb)
The love I've been waiting for all my life
Has entered my heart with grief
Can't think of a reason
Taste and smell when in season
My rose and a honeycomb
(Talk) - Mike
The honeycomb
Verse 2 - Wanya, Shawn & Nate
Sweet and tantalizing
It just stays on the rising
Everytime her eyes address my name
So hard to keep composure
'Cause she's taking over
Fills my every fantasy
(Tastes just like heaven) Tastes just like heaven
Can't feel my knees
Like my precious rose
She attracts too many bees
(Talk) - Wanya
Sometimes I wish I never knew her
I meant some people knew her
But I need the sticky love that she gives to me
Chorus
The love I've been waiting for all my life
Has rendered my soul helpless
Whether in bloom or a taste I consume
My rose and a honeycomb (my rose and a honeycomb)
The love I've been waiting for all my life (all my life)
Has entered my heart with grief (entered my heart)
Can't think of a reason
Taste and smell when in season
My rose and a honeycomb (honeycomb)
Bridge - Nate, Shawn & Wanya
Oh how I wish I could choose
Be ashamed to fight for love and then lose
So I'll taste as I smell
I can't choose the whole world
My rose or my honeycomb
But if one day I am found
And be forced to let one wear the crown
If we are to do this
Neither one would be missed
My rose and my honeycomb...
Chorus
The love I've been waiting for all my life
Has rendered my soul helpless (so helpless)
Whether in bloom or a taste I consume (whether, my rose)
My rose and a honeycomb (my rose and a honeycomb)
The love I've been waiting for all my life
Has entered my heart with grief (entered my heart)
Can't think of a reason
Taste and smell when in season
My rose and a honeycomb (and a honeycomb)
2nd Bridge - Wanya
She's my rose
She was my rose
See I love loving her
She mkes me feel like a man
Oh my honeycomb
Make me feel like a man
Chorus
The love I've been waiting for all my life (she was the sweetest)
Has rendered my soul helpless (thing that God could ever send to a man)
Whether in bloom or a taste I consume
My rose and a honeycomb
The love I've been waiting for all my life (I've been waiting for)
Has entered my heart with grief (entered my heart)
Can't think of a reason
Taste and smell when in season
My rose and a honeycomb (my honeycomb)

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Bostich

Chorus:
Standing at the machine every day for all my life
Im used to do it and I need it
Its the only thing I want
Its just a rush, push, cash
(chorus)
Standing at the machine every day for all my life
Im used to do it and I need it
Its the only thing I want
Its just a rush, push, cash
Rush, push, rush, push, rush, push, rush, push
Standing at the machine every day for all my life
Im used to do it and I need it
Its the only thing I want

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Bostich

Chorus:
Standing at the machine every day for all my life
Im used to do it and I need it
Its the only thing I want
Its just a rush, push, cash
(chorus)
Standing at the machine every day for all my life
Im used to do it and I need it
Its the only thing I want
Its just a rush, push, cash
Rush, push, rush, push, rush, push, rush, push
Standing at the machine every day for all my life
Im used to do it and I need it
Its the only thing I want

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Sleigh Ride

(Leroy Anderson/Mitchell Parish)
Ohhh just hear those sleigh bells jinglin'
Ring-ting-tingling too
Come on it's lovely weather
For a sleigh ride together with you
Outside the snow is falling and friends are calling, "Yoo hoo."
Come on it's lovely weather for a sleigh ride together with you
Giddy-up, giddy-up let's go
Let's look at the show
We're riding in a wonderland of snow
Giddy-up giddy-up its grand
Just holdin your hand
We're gliding along with the song of a wintery fairy land
Our cheeks are nice and rosy and comfy cozy are we
We're snuggled up together like two birds of a feather would be
Let's take the road before us and sing a chorus or two
Come on it's lovely weather for a sleigh ride together with you
There's a birthday party at the home of Farmer Grey
It'll be the perfect ending to a perfect day
We'll be singing the songs we love to sing without a single stop
At the fireplace while we watch the chestnuts pop... pop! pop! pop!
There's a happy feeling nothing in the world can buy
When you pass around the chocolate and the punkin' pie
It'll be nearly like a picture print by Currier and Ives
These wonderful things are the things we remember for all our lives
These wonderful things are the things we remember for all our life
Just hear those sleigh bells jingling, ring-ting-tingling too
Come on it's lovely weather for a sleigh ride together with you
Outside the snow is falling and friends are calling, "Yoo hoo!"
Come on its lovely weather for a sleigh ride together with you
It's lovely weather for a sleigh ride together with you, yeah...
*giggle*

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The Poem I Waited For All Day

THE POEM I WAITED FOR ALL DAY
THE POEM I WAITED FOR ALL DAY

The Poem I waited for all day
Came only in the evening
Instead of green and gold
Its grey was ready for black.
Life is that way
We wait and wait
For the sudden dawn of beauty
And somewhere else preparing
In another way
The sudden blindness comes.

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Patrick White

For All The Seers And Seekers Out There

For all the seers and seekers out there,
all you bright seeds on a blind wind
looking for a vision of life you can root in
and express yourselves like willows in the moonlight
to the night creek nearby that listens
when you cry out in mystical bliss
at the surprise of waterlilies gathered at your feet
to catch a taste of the same essence that makes you weep,
deep inside, inside, inside, look there for paradise,
where the stars are dazzled by your eyes
that don't fade away in the blazing like Venus at dusk.

Looking for the spirit with the spirit
like a breathless wind looking for the wind
to give it mouth to mouth resuscitation
is a snake with its tail in its mouth
enchained to its own liberation.
Is a candle in the sun living on borrowed light
when it's already well-provisioned with its own shining
for the long nights in the heart
of an unknown radiance within?
Long nights on the high slopes
of the world mountain you're sitting on alone
like a pauper with kingly second thoughts
about abdicating the ancestral throne of your ego.

For you who are not stuck
like a false idol the size of your thumb
through a three and a half pound brain of starmud.

For you who are not voidbound by your freedom,
or cower in the shadows of your solitude
afraid to read the messages that flower under your doorsill
from anonymous admirers passing in the hall.

For those of you who learned to read and write
in an alphabet of loveletters waiting for a reply
that could answer them all like a return address on the silence.

For you who have taken the splinters of a shattered mirror
out of your eye and replaced them with stars
that have gone on giving light long after
the chandeliers of light-winged sorrows
have stopped waltzing in three four time with their
club-footed candles for the night.

Follow this goat bell up the high dangerous trails
where even overcoming your fear of heights
isn't enough courage to guarantee your footing
and I'll show you the jewelled hoofs of the wild horses
kicking up the dust of stars on the open plains
of an inconceivable spiritual vastness where wishes are horses
and beggars do ride and you can hear the jingling
of constellations like the wind-chimes of Spanish spurs
that get under your skin where the spiritual junkies shoot up
like selflessly motivated thorns of starlight
potent enough to keep them high for the rest of the lives
on the antidote they derive like the milk of human kindness
even from the toxic serums of the most dangerous mystical snakes
that have ever poled danced like a winged caduceus
around the axis of the most habitable planet you've ever been inclined to.

Whether you're a blissed-out gardenia of God
or just another double agent doing espionage for the Devil
to see when the next whirlwind of revelation
is going to sweep you up like a chimney spark
into a maelstrom of cosmic events against your will,
look at how the radiance shining out
from the clear void of an unknown light source deep within you
illuminates heaven like the moon in your window
as surely and truly as it does the prophetic skulls of hell.

And this is the point I've been missing
and trying to make simultaneously throughout this poem
like a tattoo starred on my forehead
that leads me like a lantern into deeper and darker spaces
than any abandoned shrine in a sacred wood
I've ever existed in before like a swallow
among the quake-proof columns of the trees.

We're all three-winged songbirds under the leaf-cluttered eaves
of the temples we brought with us like spiritual refugees
overstepping the bounds and borders of ourselves
like prodigal sons and daughters on the thresholds of exile.

And each of us weaves, after our own fashion,
on a loom of lunar wavelengths of shadows and light,
a crown of thorns we leave with wings
like the mangers of the earthbound killdeer and English skylarks
after we've cracked the koans
of the cosmic eggs we were born from.

We fly away home like ladybirds and dragonflies
whose house is on fire and kids are alone
to have it burned into us like a prison tattoo
that enlightenment is just as white
on the dark side, as it is black on the light.

And though you were to look like billions of fireflies
for millions of lightyears, you'll never find enlightenment
up ahead of you because it will never be found
anywhere other than behind and beside you
where it's always been from the beginningless beginning
like a shadow that's been following you
on the blind side of your third eye that set out
the moment it first opened up to you like a flower to the stars
to look for the other two like a shepherd
looking for lost goats on the altars
of the unblooded sacrificial mountains of the moon.

You just have to look at the stars
and feel them staring back at you on the inside
with the same inconceivable wonder at why and what you are
as you return the light that was given to you back to them
realizing every insight into the nature of life,
every word, every star, every bird, firefly, every
lighthouse and clocktower of the moon
is a sign of mutual greeting that can't be ignored.

For those of you who cry for the earth that is moved
by the same agony you are, as if you were born
to be its tears, its wounds, its scars,
to suffer like flowers for the beauty you aspire to.

For those of you whose seeing
will become the substance of the world tomorrow
though you should lose your eyes for it today
like apple-bloom, for the sake of the root of the light within.

For those of you who are always seeking
the things that belong to all of us, the dreams
the visions, the insights, the perfect expression
of what we have to say to the silence
that's always listening to us
talking to ourselves like a sleepwalking stream
or a wild grapevine putting out tendrils
like Korans of Kufic script and Books of harvest Kells.

May your labour come to love you like a bad habit
that's grown fond of you over the years
because you made an art of your life
that brought the merciless desert to tears
to see how even a delusion or a mirage
with a big enough heart and a taste for compassion
that gives it an eye for how sublime beauty really is
as deep as the watershed at the bottom of a wishing well
it turned into the moment it cried on behalf
of everyone's efforts to make themselves
in all the glory of their schemes, dreams and delusions
streaming out behind them in victory parades
put on by their own minds
like the emperor's non-existent clothes
for knowing how to turn a defeat into a celebration,
come true to life. The seeking life. The seeing life.

The just life like dry oak on a good fire.
The life of thought that eventually forgets
what there is to think about. The wasted life
whose gifts were mistaken for flaws in its character,
The anonymous life of a spiritual blood donor
that sent a single red rose to a dead child
and restored her back to life. Life returning to life
like crocuses and killer whales through the ice,
seeking itself out in every corner of our lives,
and under the stones of our own starmud minds
lodged in the earth like meteorites
that once flashed across the sky like insight
from an unknown radiant i
in the eye sockets of prophetic skulls
as if strange new life forms were going on in there
it knew nothing about and was dying to see.
And who knows? Maybe even something
unspeakably precious it thought was lost for good.

And most especially a life that feels life
has shapeshifted it into the dupe of its own ideals,
that all its disguises and deathmasks were removed
like painful tattoos only to reveal a rodeo clown
dressed in a barrel with a red poppy for a cape in its hat
to draw the bull away from the rider that's down.

To feel like a clown in all your actions
to judge by the crowd's reactions,
but to put your life on the line anyway
as a funny kind of sacrifice that saves the hero
you risked as much to rescue, as he did
to put you in harm's way when he faltered.

And you embodied the human condition with compassion,
running away as a way of coming to the rescue,
without realizing, as you laughed at yourself,
it doesn't get anymore divine than that.
Trying to get a smile out of the bull
you're running before on someone else's behalf
in a funny hat with an artificial flower
is a sublime act of devotion
and the truest form of worship
from the human divinity in each of us to another.

Because getting up after life's been struck to its knees,
is how everything grows, even when its roots
are watered by delusions and its butt gets kicked up
into the grandstands of the amused demons and angels,
that funny little dejected flower in a rodeo clown's hat
that steals the show like the Buddha's purse
to buy the Buddha a horse to get back up on,
regardless of what you, the bull, the Buddha,
his purse, the horse or the thrown rider feel,
still blossoms from the heart it's rooted in for real.

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