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The World Does Not Need My Poem

The world does not need my poem
Soon it will not need me-
A few people need me,
They will need me when I am not here-
I will disappoint them by not being here-
It is the last thing in the world I want to do
To disappoint the few who really matter-
But what to do?

I am just another human being
Another mortal on this earth
It is not given to me,
What is not given to anyone else
Even though I so much want it.

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When A Person Does Not Know What

When a person does not know what to do with himself
When a person feels empty
When a person feels everything he had done and everything he can do do is meaningless
When a person is bored
When a person does not know what to do with himself
And wonders why he is on this earth
And how he will endure more of it
When a person does not know what to do with himself
He must do any little thing he can do
To get himself going-
He must wash the dishes or clean the house or take something to eat or take a small walk or read a page
Or do any one of a million or more other small things to get himself going
And once he is going he must somehow go on and on and from this to something else
So that at some point somewhere along the way somehow
He is doing something
Perhaps not that great
But doing something
And in doing something
Perhaps forgetting about himself
A bit
Perhaps.

WHAT DO I KNOW? \AND WHO AM I?

What do I know?
And who am I?
The real questions
I cannot answer
They are beyond me.

And I don't think
I have anything to give
Even in beginning to answer them.

Just another human being
Who has come this way
And soon will be gone
Without ever having answered
The real questions.

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Love does not mean

Love does not mean simply a infatuation
though it is not immoral to have its continuation
it has no price tag or can be put for any valuation
it is bound to succeed even in difficult situation

Love does not mean to remain impressed
it can be desired but not pressed
Love Pulse may send clear signals
you may feel the indication of spring's arrival


Love is clearly seen and is apparent
At any given time it can never be different
It can be felt even if you are not friend
It may endure through out life till the end

Generally free smile is expected for a while
some invitation and company is sought meanwhile
Exchange of few words and proposal for dates arrive
Constant fear in mind disappear and you definitely survive

Beautiful face is always in mind
If not then you make desperate bid to find
Some kind words are expected with full assurance
The quick clearance is desired at once

This is how the love has been viewed
Not much in depth has been studied or reviewed
Normally it is taken as sexual course
If so then it is bound to collapse later on of course

No one may try to budge from their stated stand
At one stage they may try to get rid off and stay on as friend
The reality may push them away and take very far
There will be pen sky for them without stars

No feeling to vent but who has time to hear?
Anguish and pain silently to keep in chest and bear
No reason is seen in shedding the tears
It may pass on resulting in the days, weeks and years


The cruel blow will have to be sustained
The sturdy silence may also have to be maintained
The deep scar created by it may not go away easily
The rest of the life may not be spent that easily

We tend to forget the sanctity of bond
we may be sincere and very fond
It is not enough to prove and last long
some other factors may try to prove us wrong

The lucky persons may be those who really succeed
It may make them happy with their utmost need
The lady luck might have smiled on both
The happiness was bound to come hence forth

As the time pass on and season changes
Nature may come up automatically with new age
The branches may be boomed with colored flowers
As the rain God may slowly bless and downpour

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Im The Man Who Murdered Love

Chorus:
Im the man who murdered love
Yeah! what do you think to that?
Im the man who murdered love
Yeah! what do you think to that?
He was begging on his bended knee
For me to put him from his misery
He hadnt worked at all this century
Said i do a job for all humanity
(repeat chorus)
I put a bullet in his sugar head
He thanked me kindly then he lay down dead
Phony roses blossomed where he bled
Then all the cheering angels shook my hand and said...
(repeat chorus)
Oh! its the middle of the song!
Oh! yeah! oh! yeah!
Im guilty! Im guilty!
Im guilty! yeah!
And then I turned and said
Therell be more pain from broken hearts
And no more lovers to be torn apart
Before you throw me in your dungeon dark
You oughta film me putting statues up in every park
(repeat chorus)
So dear public, Im here to confess
That Im the one who freed us from this mess
Love wont be calling at your address
cos youve never had youll never miss, I guess
(repeat chorus)
If you never ever use it
You know youre gonna lose it
If you never ever kiss it
Howre you ever gonna miss it?
Im the man...

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Im The Man Who Murdered Love

Chorus:
Im the man who murdered love
Yeah! what do you think to that?
Im the man who murdered love
Yeah! what do you think to that?
He was begging on his bended knee
For me to put him from his misery
He hadnt worked at all this century
Said i do a job for all humanity
(repeat chorus)
I put a bullet in his sugar head
He thanked me kindly then he lay down dead
Phony roses blossomed where he bled
Then all the cheering angels shook my hand and said...
(repeat chorus)
Oh! its the middle of the song!
Oh! yeah! oh! yeah!
Im guilty! Im guilty!
Im guilty! yeah!
And then I turned and said
Therell be more pain from broken hearts
And no more lovers to be torn apart
Before you throw me in your dungeon dark
You oughta film me putting statues up in every park
(repeat chorus)
So dear public, Im here to confess
That Im the one who freed us from this mess
Love wont be calling at your address
cos youve never had youll never miss, I guess
(repeat chorus)
If you never ever use it
You know youre gonna lose it
If you never ever kiss it
Howre you ever gonna miss it?
Im the man...

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It Takes Two To Tango

It's true, yes it's true
I'm as guilty of the sin as you
I lived through it too
And as you can see it didn't hurt me
You must admit, you helped a bit
It takes two to tango
You know i wasn't alone
It takes two to tango
I remember it still
Drink a toast if you will
This is for the girls who just couldn't see
That my only sin was being me
And this one's for the girls and they know who they are
It's so long ago and i don't know
Now i don't recall all the details of the scene at all
But i had a ball
And learned all the games, forgot all the names
You must admit you learned a bit
This is for the girls who couldn't understand
What it's like to try to be a man
And this one's for the girls and they know who they are
It's so long ago and i don't know
I don't claim to know at all
Who was right and who was wrong
I just don't remember all
All the things that were said
What went on in my head
But it's easy to see that i used you and you used me
This is for the girls who think i've done wrong
Could you really hold a grudge that long
And this one's for the girls and they know who they are
It's so long ago and i don't know who you are

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my world would be worth giving if the last thing I saw was you

If today was the last day I could see…oh baby if you knew
That my sight would be worth giving if the last thing I saw was you

If today was the last day I could ever hear a sound
Baby I wouldn’t give a hell, as long as you would be around

Sweetheart if today was the last day I could feel your touch
I would savor the last moment you hugged me so I wouldn’t care as much

Babes if It happened that someone took my voice away
I wouldn’t care because you know already what I would say

Oh if someday I did something to which you would not agree
It would be okay, because baby I know you would forgive me

Baby, maybe I’m addicted
Just by this love afflicted

Because Maybe, baby this is untrue
But I figure if I never have you, ill never lose you

Or maybe baby I’m over thinking just a bit
Maybe ill never get this message to transmit

Maybe, baby, I just want to stay
Maybe this crush isn’t really going away

Maybe, baby….I might love you
baby if you only just knew
That my world would be worth giving if the last thing I saw was you……

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The World Today Does Not Need A Poem

THE WORLD TODAY DOES NOT NEED A POEM

The world today
Does not need a poem

It exists as it exists
Satisfied in itself
Happy, at peace.

It needs nothing
And wants nothing.

It is rich and easy
Bright and blessed.

The World today does not need a Poem,

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The World Does Not Need Another Poem Of Despair

THE WORLD DOES NOT NEED ANOTHER POEM OF DESPAIR

The world does not need another poem of Despair-
Complaint-
The world needs Kindness Joy Love Hope.

And who will give it to them?

Somewhere else young voices begin to be heard
While the old and sad fade away.

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The World Does Not Wait/For A Poem It Will Never Listen To

THE WORLD DOES NOT WAIT

The world does not wait
For a poem it will never listen to
Silence is easy to bear.
My poem
Small as it is
Soft as it is
Shakes no great world to its foundation.
Little lines
Little lives
Great love
And it need not be registered at all.

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The World Does Not Know The Way Out Of Its Own Death

The world does not know the way out of its own Death-
Nothing can stop it-
It may take a long time
Longer than we will be here to see
But nothing can stop it-

The world does not know the way out of its own death
Nothing does-

Its all going to be gone
Goodbye or no goodbye-

And neither you nor I
Can stop it.

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Who Does Not Really Want To Write The Best Poem In The World?

yes, a five-star poem.
the one fit for first prize
awards, the one that will
make you famous
worldwide,
who does not like to
go on tv? read that famous
poem personally.

me? sorry i don't.
i am tired writing the best poem
of my life
been writing for years
i can imagine
trying to fit in
with the most famous ones
dead and alive
but i know i can never write it
because i can't
because i don't
because i do not have any reason
to write it.

i love to write.
AND that is foremost.
that is final. nothing ambitious.
nothing to change your world
or this world or that world
nothing to influence another
indonesian or turk
or swedish or
anybody or anything

what advantage do i get
when i say i just love to write
when i say i do not want to write the best poem in the world?

nothing, except the joy of having
to make the deep breath
in my life.

air that fills my lungs
and make me dream and make me sleep
longer than you do.

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The Morning Light/ Does Not Remember The Night

THE MORNING LIGHT

The morning light
Does not remember the night.
It opens the day
It makes us want to live again
It says
The whole world is waiting there for us
If we will only walk out into it.

The morning light does not remember the night
It gives us hope again
God bless the morning light
And life which begins again each day.

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The Child Who Does Not Recognize His Mother

when his mother comes
he does not utter the word mama
the mother tells him
Me, Mama, and hugs him
but he wrestles her away
he grabs a ball and throws it away
and he chases it
he falls on the ground
and shouts for help

his mother rushes to help him
removes the dirt from his shirt
and calms him down

then the boy utters the word at last
Mama
the mother smiles and kisses him

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There Is This Man Who Does Not Know Where To Go

there is this man who does not know where to go
his wife left him
and his children had already disregarded him

there is this man who does not know anymore how to live
no one cares
about his baldness, his wrinkled skin, his rambling thought
gnarled, whorled,
his arms do not know what to hold
his soul has no anchor
his mind whirls
his hopes all burned
he is ashed
but not gone

people laugh at him and twist their faces at his back
there is still a place for him in the roof of my empathy
he takes shelter here and on this last threshold his fears
at least, are gone momentarily

we shall touch him and we shall watch how he shall quiver

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The Last Thing You Said

So may people have heard me cry
Since that terrible day when you said goodbye
So many dark corners have heard me say
How the light has gone out since you went away
Everyones heard of how you left me again
Everyones heard about my so-called friend
They tell me Im a fool, but I dont hear a word
cause the last thing you said was the last thing I heard
How many times Ive tried to talk to my heart
But it wont even listen since you tore it apart
I have to tell myself theres only one thing to do
Try and find someone else and forget about you
I know she doesnt mean a thing in the world
I waste my hours with another girl
She says she loves me so but I dont hear a word
cause the last thing you said was the last thing I heard

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The Last Thing On My Mind

Its a lesson too late for the learning
Made of sand, oh its made of sand
In the wink of an eye my soul keeps on turning
In your hand, in your hand
Are you going away with no word of farewell
Will there be not a trace for me to find
Well I could have loved you better
I didnt mean to be unkind
Oh you must know it was the last thing on my mind
As we walked all my thoughts they are a tumbling down down
Round and around, round and round
And underneath I hear the subways trumblin
Underground, underground
Are you going away with no word of farewell
Will there be not a trace left behind
Well I could have loved you better
I didnt mean to be unkind
You know that was the last thing on my mind
Youve got reasons of plenty for going
This I know, this I know
For the weeds have been steadily growing
Please dont grow, please dont grow
Are you going away with no word of farewell
Will there be not a trace left to find
Well I could have loved you better
I didnt mean to be unkind
You know that was the last thing on my mind

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The Last Thing On My Mind

Its a lesson too late for the learning
Made of sand, made of sand
In the wink of an eye my soul is turnin
In your hand, in your hand
Are you going away
With no word of farewell
Will there be not a trace left behind
Oh I couldve loved you better
Didnt mean to be unkind
You know that was the last thing on my mind
As we walk along my thoughts are tumblin
Round and round, round and round
Underneath our feet are someplace rumblin
Underground, underground
Are you going away
With no word of farewell
Will there be not a trace left behind
Oh I couldve loved you better
Didnt mean to be unkind
You know that was the last thing on my mind
Ive got reason a plenty for goin
This I know, this I know
The weeds have been steadily growin
Please dont go, please dont go
Are you going away
With no word of farewell
Will there be not a trace left behind
I couldve loved you better
Didnt mean to be unkind
You know that was the last thing on my mind
Are you going away
With no word of farewell
Will there be not a trace left behind
Oh I couldve loved you better
Didnt mean to be unkind
You know that was the last thing on my mind
You know that was the last thing on my mind

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The Last Thing I Need Is You

Oh hey, what a glorious day it's been,
Oh lord, look at the mess I'm in.
My car broke down,
So I waited for a shuttle bus,
It never came, instead, I got the rain...
I broke a hill, I chipped a nail, I lost the dog, How could I feel?
On days like this, on days like this...
The last thing I need is you,
And your black-and-white-views,
Pushing me over,
Making a bad day worse
When ???????????
Hey why can't you see, on days like this,
The last thing I need, is...
Do you ????? what a ????? it's been?
Oh yeah, laugh at the mess I'm in
Hey, what a cheerfull old place to be,
The doctor said, that it's not good for me.
I broke a tooth, I torn my shirt
I lost the zip, of my favorite skirt,
Then you told me... that I was a bore in bed.
The last thing I need is you,
And your black-and-white-views,
Pushing me over,
Making a bad day worse,
What are you, a curse?
Hey why can't you see,
On days like this,
The last thing I need, is...
papapapapa...
papapapapa...
papapapapa...
papapapapa...
The last thing I need is you,
And your black-and-white-views,
Pushing me over,
Making a bad day worse,
What are you, a curse?
Hey why can't you see,
When I'm in a rush, or lost in a cue,
When I need a break, The last thing I need is...

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The last thing I have, to offer you

Not long back
I was standing tall with
My branches spread
Upwards, downwards and
In all directions sideward

It was green all around my trunk
My leaves glittering in the bright sun
They fell just after winter
Only to strike again with full vigour

I used to blossom in yellow
With pendant like red dots in the middle
And my flowers shared in secret
The whispers of young lovers in my town
Some offered my flowers to their gods
And felt blessed by the divine
These flowers attracted insects
And colourful butterflies
Who returned intoxicated
Totally nectar drunk

I bore cherry red fruits
They were feast to sparrows
Squirrels and crows
Children of the town
Squeezed my fruits
And enjoyed the sweet flesh
Coated over the big seed inside

My branches housed nests
With young birds waiting for
Their mother's return to feed them
And my thin branches helped
These young birds launch their
First flights under their mother’s guard

At times over my dark rough bark
Snakes ran up to the nests
To prey on the eggs and young ones
I was happy never once these snakes succeeded

My roots were ever busy
Tapping soil nutrients and
Sending them up to each of my tip

My leaves waved and ensured
Regular flow of oxygen rich cool air
Adding comfort to those who chose
To rest a while beneath my mammoth shadow

It was all pleasure for me
To see many around me in comfort
With whatever I can offer to them

All these came to a sudden end
When an unkind lightning struck me
I received the shock of my life
A hot wave ran through the entire me
From the top to the root bottom

And what happened
All functions in me
Came to an abrupt end
My leaves turned yellow and brown
To leave me and they fell in silence
My branches dried and turned black
The fruits did not ripe
I started drying up with no more
Supply of water from the ground

I am stark naked standing like a
Threatening skeleton
Birds, insects and people
Do not visit me
Am I turning useless

But let people know I have some thing
Also to offer
Delay further not and cut me
Burn me and enjoy the warmth
Of my heat and of my burning heart
The last thing I have, to offer you

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Patrick White

Flowers Are The Clocks Of The Light

Flowers are the clocks of the light.
Spring grey. Clouds. Half smoke, half crocus.
The rivulets are carrying last November's leaves away
like long lines of ants bearing the gnostic gospels
of the snow thawing into a spiritual life of water
back to the shrine of their colony
to be chewed over by the divines
masticating the mystery into something
like an edible orthodoxy of mystic impiety.

My heart is a bruised apple with purple blood today.
Neither passionate, nor aloof, clinging
nor unwilling to let go if that's what I must do.
One foot on shore. One in a lifeboat.
O what funny bridges we make as if
we were trying to balance the axis
of heaven and earth upon our nose
like the calves of giraffes learning to walk on stilts.
But there you go. What are you going to do?
That's the way it seems.
You've got to look up and stick your neck out
if you want to graze on the stars.
Same way with dreams. You've got to
risk waking up if you don't want to lose them.

I've wandered off from the carnage
of my doomed holy war of one with my heart
into a peaceful valley where I can sit
on a glacial skull of prophetic rock
and sheathe my sword in the wound I drew it from
like fire from the ore of a crippled dragon
that walked with a limp out of the war
weary of winning these honourable surrenders
like Jacob wrestling with the angel in the way.

Soft here. Easy on the eyes. A gentle touch.
The air on the verge of tears and the trees
about to see who's a skeleton and who's a survivor.
Who made it through the winter, and who
dreamed they died in their sleep and did,
and who, the ghost amputee of the limbs they lost.
I have a mindful heart and a warrior's compassion
for lost lovers, friends, suicides, martyrs, heretics,
neglected gods, defrocked saints, those
who fell half crazy on the broken panes
of their own clarity, committing hara kiri
on the splintered plinths of their own love-crossed stars.
One-eyed artists riding a pair of red bicycle glasses
in a high-wire act without safety nets
like a dropp of dew on a spider's thread
trying to lay the first cable of a suspension bridge
they hope will follow them across the impassable abyss,
offering themselves up like uncertain sacrifices to oblivion.
Big-hearted poets who scattered their works
like the apple bloom of hidden orchards
as their eyes waxed wide-eyed
as a harvest moon into late October
and wound up being gouged by slumlords
in squalid apartment rooms
with an atlas of cracks in the windows,
dunking the hard crust of the bitter life
they were given back in return
for breaking the bread of their souls with strangers
even as they bled to death like a goldrush
and all that was eventually left were the nuggets
of the hearts of coal they dunk in their tears
to make them more palatable
when the Hesperides burn out
the last of their radiant diamonds
and all that's left of their sidereal lyric
is written in the braille of black holes
that comes up snake-eyes on the dice
they've carved from their starless skulls.
And painters whose visions fell from the sky
like rain on the eyelids of dirty windows,
like stars who were washed out
like nocturnal watercolours they painted in tears
like hot cinders from the unradiant world's
way of seeing things with its eyes closed.
Those whose flame burned
like the hydrogen blue of a wild iris
and then disappeared into the perfected heat
of their spiritual immolations, and those,
who scattered their ashes like morning doves on the wind
as if they were breaking their bodies
like loaves and fishes among the flowers
thronging up the hillside like the jester-caps
of the wine-stained trillium
getting drunk with nuns in white.

Just want to let my starmud settle in a puddle.
Look at a few clouds for awhile, the crowns of the trees,
notice the deepening red of the upper branches of the birch
reaching out like thermometers for the sun
and how they look so much like ground willows
raised up high on a marble obelisks and altars
like a blood offering to the sky.
I'm at rest for a moment like the nadir of a bell
in its arc of sadness and bliss, life and death,
one breath and the next, neither heads nor tails
of the copper penny of the moon on the horizon.
And from here I can see the Elysian Fields of the Blessed
littered with the corpses and bones
of my companions and fellow aspirants
the spirit knows as its own.
And I mourn the loss of so many heroic children,
so many glorious losers, determined clowns,
all the lost pages of the books of crazy wisdom
that died like the rainbow bodies
of sages and gardens in their own arms
like the new moon in the embrace of the old.

These are my war dead. These
are the crosses and poppies of blood I kneel before.
These are the ones for whom my tears,
my sorrow, my blessing, my heart is shaped
like a dropp of dew at the tip of a blade of stargrass,
ready to fall at the slightest quaking of an insight
into the intimate beauty and cosmic cost of their sacrifice
not for what they believed, but in what
they tried to make come true without knowing
what it was until it appeared before them
like a child with a piece of bread in her hand,
pointing with the other to the birthstar she comes from.

These were wishing wells of clean water in a dry land.
These were people whose skulls were lunar grails
they offered up to the ailing kingdom
and said, here, drink until I'm empty.
These were people of plenty who walked
in rags and scars, poverty, exile and despair
only to be crucified at the stake like scarecrows
in the starfields of their expansive hearts
come to harvest in the hand of Virgo
like the autumnal equinox of a generous soul.

Sitting pensively here before the gates
of the realms they've entered, it's for these,
I wrap my blood like a robe of silence,
like the gentle mantle of this approaching spring
over their shoulders to keep their memory
alive, warm, hauntingly near and eternally human.
These, for whom my heart grows mute
as this long loveletter I've been writing all my life
knowing by the time it finishes me
all those I would have sent it to will be gone,
gone, gone, gone, altogether gone beyond.
But like any war memorial without a heart of stone,
I am a happy and a sad thing simultaneously
to celebrate the indefensibly human divinity
of these who sprang up like poppies in the grass
and spread their spirit like wildfire
in a rage of renewal that proclaimed
the spiritual innocence of our births and deaths,
evangels standing at the sacred forks of rivers
with nothing to say about salvation in passing
but keep on flowing your own way
flawlessly to the sea that receives and seats
everyone below the salt in the lowest place of all
before it raises them up again to fall
like snow on the blue hills
of a deciduously spiritual mindscape.
These who didn't labour in iron chains
but beaded the light and the water into
a necklace of eyes on the loom of a spiderweb.
As if a jeweller had shown us how
to make dreamcatchers out of our tears.

No. Stone will not do to mark the passing
and return of the water birds to the zeniths and nadirs
of these northern lakes I'm peacefully marooned among
like the shattered pieces of two way mirrors
that put an abrupt end to the conscious interrogation
of their own shadows, reflections, echoes and ghosts
like a spiritual form of espionage
as enlightenment slowly dawned upon them like a firefly
that revealed they already had the answers
to their deepest questions
even before they knew what to ask.
Even before it's wholly dark out, the nightwatchman
is lighting up the sky with stars.

Yes. It must be nothing less than life itself
that honours these whose spirits leaped up playfully
like a gust of stars to blow on the flames.
Their names must be written on the wind
with the occasional ink blot of a crow to keep things
spontaneously unavoidable, as fallibly unpredictable
as they lived their lives on the wing
feathered by the fires of life.

So I live my lives, I die my deaths,
I suffer my wounds and my joys,
my eurekas, hallelujahs, my wonders
my masha Allahs, my oi veys, my inspirations,
the barnyard airfields of my mediocrity
with the wingspan of a kite afraid of heights
hanging on for dear life to something grounded
like an ostrich with its head stuck in the stars.
I rise from the ashes in the urns of my burnt-out genius
like a phoenix with the endless afterlives
of a recurring comet wondering
what it's the sign of this time, what message
does it carry like a loveletter or a warning
not meant to take itself too seriously, and to whom
is it addressed if not as a tribute to these
who have adorned and deepened the darkness
and intensified the light by colouring outside the lines
of the taboos of their homeless madness
standing on the thresholds of their beings in transit
like the unacknowledged orphans of what they're becoming?

I observe the branches of the birch,
I taste the ancient breeding of the light
in the plush syrups of the bleeding maples.
I listen for the night bird in the green room
getting ready to sing its heart out
at its debut appearance in the spotlight of the moon.
I watch the sapling aspens shaking nervously
as they recite their new leaves to the wind
at their very first poetry reading
and in a startled rush of heron's wings
I can hear the one-handed applause of the ghosts
of the more seasoned trees of an old growth forest
that once stood here in the midst of life
as lyrical once, as vulnerable once, as these.

I can see death's door ajar ahead of me.
I come to it out of the dark
like a befuddled bat to a porchlight.
How many lives before have I sat here
transcendentally defeated by the better part of me
and watched the stars slowly emerge like eyes
out of the peacock green silk of the sky
like the ghosts of ancient mulberry blossoms
unfolding their poems like the sails of paper boats,
messenger butterflies with secret love notes
written like starmaps to their otherworldliness
in the indecipherable mother-tongue of all holy books.

Antares, Arcturus, Aldebaran, Betelgeuse,
among all these big ripe red stars,
I'm characteristically human enough
to have realized a long time ago,
even before the volcanoes did,
compared to their radiant enormities,
my life's just another blood stain
among many on the darkness
that can't explain themselves
or account for where they've been,
what they've seen, or counter-intuitively why.
Or who spilled the wine on the sun.

And I'm more than well aware
of the concentrated intensity
of the needle-eyed focus
I've been trying to thread my life through
like this night creek flowing before me
like an oilspill on the moon,
like a sacred syllable smuggled
through the lapis lazuli bull-gates
and up the emergency backstairs
of the polyglot towers of PsychoBabylon
where the faithful are called to prayer in tongues.
In the beginning was the Word.
And it was a nightbird singing in the dark.
It was an image of everything that can't be said,
Imagination trying to render the likeness
of an imageless space, the features of a face
that lets you see the stars in her eyes
as the mutable signs of her ineffability
shining through the dark matter of a veil,
even as you're mixing
complementary colours on your palette
like a stained-glass soul to give your life
to what you cannot see. Even in
this morgue of dead gods, this eyeless reality
arrayed in all its creative potential before us,
the dark abundance of the plenum-void,
or however you want to picture or not,
what else could it be, given we're all born
out of our own image of love
with the playful hearts and minds of artists
with the aesthetic tastes
and spiritual genius of children
transfixed by starfish in the morning
well within reach of their shining.
All artists are lunar orphans
that have been left on the stairs
of the last shrine of idolatry
before reality leaves them speechless and deaf.

And how many times have I come here
just to watch my mind painting
in the light and time
of this mystically specific life
my thoughts, emotions, intuitions,
my clarities, the occultations of my fireflies
trying to get a fire started
out of the dry kindling of lightning
I've piled up like a pyre
for my imminent sky burial
like waterbirds lifting off the lake
in a shower of eyes and insights scattered
like seeds and broken rosaries from their wings
to turn into all other things like spring
returning to its myth of origins.
Or a singer alone on the road, homesick
for the silence he broke into with his song
like the pebble of the moon
thrown into the quiescent pond of the world.
Like the call of Canada geese high overhead at night
returning empty from the land of the dead
having delivered their charges successfully
without looking back retroactively upon the past
to see if they were still being followed or not.

But then, again, who isn't walking
in the footsteps of ghosts who went on ahead of them
on some forsaken shore somewhere?
And I've been mistaken often enough to admit it,
I've sat here on my stony throne sometimes
in this abdicated kingdom,
in the middle of this boneyard
of courtly fossils in the darkness
of the La Brea Tarpit in a black out of stars
at the end of my own tunnel vision
when I looked at things in a dark mood
through the third eye of my orbiting telescope
and all I could see was endless space
with a widow's ashes smeared on its face,
not the chromatically abberated rainbows of rosier lenses
with more of a two-eyed outlook on things
that swim into their ken like cults
of shepherd moons that outnumber
the schools of fish than I've ever seen on Neptune.

Just the salt flats of a future that's not much good
at growing flowers and stars,
but has a knack for keeping things from going bad.
And I whispered suggestively into my left ear
that's not a reason green enough to go on living.
There's no food for thought in the ashes
of the Alexandrian Library of the dead.
There's no harvest, there's no end of the world
stored like grain in the empty urns
and back amphorae of the new moon
bobbing like cormorants on the mast
of a shipwreck Atlantean fathoms below the waterline.
And remembering a dead poet friend of mine,
thought old age is the year of the locusts,
though he didn't live it that way
well into his nineties and beyond.
And finding nothing up ahead to give it forward to
gave my future up to living it for people like him
as if it were no less theirs than mine,
only to realize as I progressed backwards in time
the return journey through the zodiac
I've made of the stations of my life
is so much more spiritually vital than the first
that wasn't quite as down to earth
as this one where solid things seem
like mere shadows of the picture-music
streaming like the Road of Ghosts through
a sad nightmare we're all glued to
like constellations of black dwarfs to flypaper
compared with these translucent masterpieces
inspired by the song of a hidden nightbird
empowered by the singular longing
of the candle it keeps lighting up and blowing out,
like the eternal flame of the synteretic spark
looking for enlightenment
with a white cane in the dark.

So. Yes. For me, for them, for people
it will be ten thousand lifetimes
before we embrace again at zenith
when the sun shines at midnight,
and the wide-eyed lunatics
follow the moon like a cult to the dark side
to see what she's been hiding from them
like a black pearl in her other hand.
So, yes, yes, even now that my tears fall
way more often than they ought
or I should even remotely like,
I give my assent to them all like spring rain
on the withered stars and rusty spearheads
of the brown New England asters.
I live it like a living memorial
to future generations yet to come
of what it was like to be human
in a makeshift Eden of desiccated tree limbs
where sacred water snakes
once sang in their green boughs like birds.
I live it for them like the spontaneous flightplan
of an heretical root fire
spreading like a phoenix
through the valley of death
in a frontal assault of fireflies
going off like fireworks in all directions at once
as if the easiest way
to storm the walls in the way of anywhere
and enter by the right gate, is to live
the way these did each in their own good time,
no matter the ferocity of the species-killing meteors
that were hurled against them like the Perseids.
Or the eviction notices they couldn't ignore
that were slipped like razorblades
across their thresholds of pain
to vacate the premises of their biospheres
by such and such a moment on a Mayan calendar.
And in spite of all that, in the face of the fate
that befell them like wild apples
in a windfall of last year's trees,
live it even now at this late date through me
like a legacy of surrealistically enlightened madness
that can always find something to celebrate
about walking around on the earth for their sake
cherishing my insignificance in an unworthy world
just to see in whatever I turn my eyes to
what a jewel of awareness that truly is.

I see the uprooted tree where lighting
decapitated the head of the Medusa.
I see the crocus in its cap
more like two hands folded in prayer
trying to keep warm over a small golden fire
than I do the pope of flowers.
I smell the fragrance of decay
in the damp, green moss of a funeral home
clinging to the cliches of its emotional condolences
like wigs on a skull waiting for a hair transplant
of red columbine with its blonde roots showing through
like the sun peeping through the eyelid of a crimson dusk.
I break off a blood-stained horn of sumac
and savour it like the taste
of a lemon-flavoured couch
I spit out of my mouth like high-protein lint
at the bottom of an empty pocket
that knows how to survive in the woods
without having to live for itself.

My hand caresses the water
like the wing of a loon on a moonlit lake
that isn't waiting for its return.
I pity a dead squirrel with eye-sockets
that have been gouged out like white meat
from the shells of black walnuts
and I can feel compassion whelming up
in the eyes of the dead who can see this through me
like a death mask I place on their faces
eyebrow to eyebrow with this vision of life
I'm living like a lifeboat in the aftermath of theirs.

Compass needles like infinite directions of prayer
among the abandoned pagodas of the pine-cones
waiting for fire to awake the sacred seed syllables
they've hidden under their eyelids
to raise them up to renew the world again
like evergreens in a towering wilderness,
like morning doves hidden under the eaves
of their crumbling temples,
or a nightbird such as me
with a star in its beak
like a lost earring of the moon
it's retrieved like a holy word
from the mindstream
its shining was once returned to
like a silver tribute to the river.

Venus and Jupiter going down in the west.
Saturn and Mars rising late in the east.
Love, power, pensive sorrow and war,
the lifelines of the least of us
flowing like dynasties of blood and tears
down the world mountain,
out of the melting hills
into the new seabeds of these
who were magnanimously blessed by the moon
realizing as they approach the deltas of the dead
they're finally at peace with themselves
like a poet sitting on the banks
of a woodland stream in the early spring
sleepwalking through everyone else's dreams
not as someone who made a vow over a deathbed,
not as mere words mouthed breathlessly
like ghosts dissipating into the chilly dead air,
but the heart of a nightbird returning
to the lyrics of an ancient repertoire
it can't help but remember and sing
like an overture of picture-music
as a prelude to the pagan advent
of the ancestral recurrence of a prophetic spring.

Stars like nocturnal waterlilies soon
crowding the banks of the Milky Way.
A moonrise of lustrous bubbles in Pisces
like fish swimming in the reflected treetops,
singing along with the boundless birds
that nest like a choir of homeless voices
returning like the dead in vital bliss to their roots
like a fire sign to the living
from these who were interred like ashes
in the urns of a phoenix
born with the wingspan
of an autumn sumac that went down in flames
like the names of the noblest of these
who were moved like Luna moths and Icarian comets
to risk flying too close to the sun,
to burn the flightfeathers of their imaginations
like love letters expiring in the heretical fires
on a pyre of broken wands and empty pens
of what inspired them the most to write
in the indelible inks of the human spirit
read like a secret message of invisible desires
over the a fire in a script of cursive smoke
like spring returning like words and birds
to the lyrical mouths of lonely, holy ghosts
trying to put an earthly picture-music
like flesh back on bones of the flutes
of their ineffable spiritual longing
to sing for the unattainable like the high note
of an inconceivably sustainable table of contents.

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