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Bronze Glow Horizon - A Nonet

cool waters flow atop river rock
graceful waters caress the sea
gentle autumn winds flutter
seagulls take flight beyond
bronze-glow horizon
and land upon
sandy white
seaside
beach


©2011

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The Waters Of The Pond Are So Silent

the waters of the pond
are so silent

i can hear the ripples
of the boat of death

coming at the side
of this river that bridges

us to the other island
there is feasting over there

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The Woman And The Moon

i have seen this woman
one night bathing in the
cool waters of the river
under the full moon &

she was all alone &
that night i got her name

hidden inside my heart

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Juliana....

on early morning
she walks down the river
leaving all her
coverings on the grass
she wades in the water
naked
as the bamboo trees
bend with the wind
paying homage to her
raw beauty
she plunges into the
cool waters of the river
and the river
takes joy of her body
then she rises
as water drips on her breasts
giving way to her
nipples
as the water cascades down
her abdomen
to her legs

Juliana, the mountain beauty
once i have seen her
under the moon amidst
the trees in the forest
and the virgin hills.

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The Prisoners Of Naples

I HAVE been thinking of the victims bound
In Naples, dying for the lack of air
And sunshine, in their close, damp cells of pain,
Where hope is not, and innocence in vain
Appeals against the torture and the chain!
Unfortunates! whose crime it was to share
Our common love of freedom, and to dare,
In its behalf, Rome's harlot triple-crowned,
And her base pander, the most hateful thing
Who upon Christian or on Pagan ground
Makes vile the old heroic name of king.
O God most merciful! Father just and kind!
Whom man hath bound let thy right hand unbind.
Or, if thy purposes of good behind
Their ills lie hidden, let the sufferers find
Strong consolations; leave them not to doubt
Thy providential care, nor yet without
The hope which all thy attributes inspire,
That not in vain the martyr's robe of fire
Is worn, nor the sad prisoner's fretting chain;
Since all who suffer for thy truth send forth,
Electrical, with every throb of pain,
Unquenchable sparks, thy own baptismal rain
Of fire and spirit over all the earth,
Making the dead in slavery live again.
Let this great hope be with them, as they lie
Shut from the light, the greenness, and the sky;
From the cool waters and the pleasant breeze,
The smell of flowers, and shade of summer trees;
Bound with the felon lepers, whom disease
And sins abhorred make loathsome; let them share
Pellico's faith, Foresti's strength to bear
Years of unutterable torment, stern and still,
As the chained Titan victor through his will!
Comfort them with thy future; let them see
The day-dawn of Italian liberty;
For that, with all good things, is hid with Thee,
And, perfect in thy thought, awaits its time to be!
I, who have spoken for freedom at the cost
Of some weak friendships, or some paltry prize
Of name or place, and more than I have lost
Have gained in wider reach of sympathies,
And free communion with the good and wise;
May God forbid that I should ever boast
Such easy self-denial, or repine
That the strong pulse of health no more is mine;
That, overworn at noonday, I must yield
To other hands the gleaning of the field;
A tired on-looker through the day's decline.
For blest beyond deserving still, and knowing
That kindly Providence its care is showing
In the withdrawal as in the bestowing,
Scarcely I dare for more or less to pray.
Beautiful yet for me this autumn day
Melts on its sunset hills; and, far away,
For me the Ocean lifts its solemn psalm,
To me the pine-woods whisper; and for me
Yon river, winding through its vales of calm,
By greenest banks, with asters purple-starred,
And gentian bloom and golden-rod made gay,
Flows down in silent gladness to the sea,
Like a pure spirit to its great reward!
Nor lack I friends, long-tried and near and dear,
Whose love is round me like this atmosphere,
Warm, soft, and golden. For such gifts to me
What shall I render, O my God, to thee?
Let me not dwell upon my lighter share
Of pain and ill that human life must bear;
Save me from selfish pining; let my heart,
Drawn from itself in sympathy, forget
The bitter longings of a vain regret,
The anguish of its own peculiar smart.
Remembering others, as I have to-day,
In their great sorrows, let me live alway
Not for myself alone, but have a part,
Such as a frail and erring spirit may,
In love which is of Thee, and which indeed Thou art!

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The pilgrimage to Mecca

What holy rites Mohammed's laws ordain,
What various duties bind his faithful train,--
What pious zeal his scatter'd tribes unites
In fix'd observance of these holy rites,--
At Mecca's shrine what votive crowds surround
With annual pomp the consecrated ground,--
The muse shall tell:--revolving years succeed,
And Time still venerates Mohammed's creed.


Nor faint the glory shed o'er Mecca's brow:
Land of the Prophet! known to fame art thou.
Here first in peace his infant hopes were known,
Here fix'd the Chief his Temple and his Throne:
Though from thy gates opposing factions here
With stern defiance drove the gifted Seer;
Yet, sacred City of his love! 'twas thine
To heap the earliest incense on his shrine;
To own the terrors of his conq'ring blade,
And hail with joy the Exile thou hadst made.
Yes--thou art known to fame! to thee, 'tis said,
A voice divine the wand'ring Abram led:
Within thy courts, at his command restor'd,
Blaz'd the pure altars of Creation's Lord.
And hence thy race, for ancient faith renown'd,
Surpassing favour with Mohammed found;
His seat of Empire hence thy walls became,
And shar'd, for sanctity, Mohammed's fame,
Nor strange that hence, with pious gifts array'd,
Thy shrine rever'd the Moslem tribes invade;
Such duteous zeal the Prophet's laws demand,
And fabled raptures of his promis'd land.
For woe to him, who ne'er with awe profound,
At Mecca's shrine, hath kiss'd the holy ground:
For him, denied celestial joys to share,
No blooming Houris shall his couch prepare;
But his the doom, where countless horrors reign,
To feel a dark eternity of pain;
Of deep remorse the bitter tear to shed,
Each hope of Paradise for ever fled.


Behold! one impulse every heart enthralls;
Wide spreads the fervour 'mid Byzantium's walls:--
Where, proudly soaring, frown from Europe's coast
Her regal tow'rs o'er Asia's subject host,
With mingling crowds behold the darken'd lands,
And the wild tumult of assembling bands;
So vast the force, 'twould seem, with ire renew'd,
His warrior train Byzantium's Lord review'd;
From Catharine's sway his captur'd forts to claim,
And dare to vindicate his tarnish'd fame.
Nor less the force, on sandy plains array'd,
Where Memphis once her native kings obey'd;
Where still, in mournful grandeur o'er the waste,
Gigantic Ruin tells of glory past,
And, 'mid the relics of her brighter day,
The haughty Satrap holds despotic sway.
How dense the mass!--from Afric's sultry shore,
Their zealot tribes unpeopled Cities pour;
From Nile's green banks, where fruitful harvests teem,
From Barca's land, unblest by culture's beam,
From barren fields that nature's smiles forsake,
Where Mareotis spreads its stagnant lake,
From plains that once Cyrene's splendour crown'd,
From Acre's walls in glory's page renown'd,--
They come,--Mohammed's flock;--from shores survey'd
By Albion's flag on Calpe's rock display'd,
From Tunis, rais'd on Byrsa's wreck, they come,
And leave in Tripoli their native home.


Slow moves the phalanx deeply-wedg'd; and loud
Exulting sounds proclaim the pious crowd.
And now Arsinoe's stately tow'rs are seen,
Belov'd resort of Egypt's peerless Queen;
Now lofty Moriah's sacred hill they tread;
Now pause awhile by Sinai's mountain led:
Here, as with Israel's woes he sank deprest,
Here Amram's Son th'Almighty presence blest;
Here, while to Jethro's herds his care was giv'n,
Th'afflicted Pastor knew the voice of heav'n;
Saw, as the holy ground with awe he trod,
Reveal'd in flame the glory of his God;
Yet, while the radiance Horeb's brow illum'd,
No eye beheld the burning bush consum'd.


Onward the phalanx moves;--yet fear demands
Augmented force 'mid Egypt's trackless sands;
Forbids a scatter'd and defenceless train
Too boldly haste the holy Land to gain,
'Till, to their view in martial pride display'd,
The Sultan's troops confirm securer aid.
They come;--their course along the hills they hold;--
Their glitt'ring arms succeeding files unfold,
And join th'expectant throng;--from all her shores
Her warrior sons collected Asia pours.
Known by his turban green of high command,
The haughty Chief arrays the straggling band:
Proud of his pure descent and ancient line,
Proud of the gifts he bears to Mecca's shrine,
For all their wants his watchful care provides,
His pow'r protects them, and his counsel guides.
Lo! where the chosen guards, in awe profound,
With closing ranks their Sultan's gifts surround,
Where tapestried wonders, to the sight unroll'd,
Mix their rich splendour with the beaming gold,
To music's sounds where denser squadrons move,
And tow'ring lances form a leafless grove,--
Bright with the lustre of the solar rays,--
The crescent standard all its pride displays.
Thou Salem, favour'd once of Heav'n! hast seen
Oft in thy courts the wand'ring tribes convene:
Oft, though in scorn the name of Christ they mock,
Thy sacred walls detain Mohammed's flock.
Yes--Memory there forbids his race unmov'd
Each spot to traverse, of the Lord belov'd;
And purer thoughts the Moslem's heart can fill
On Salem's plain, and Sion's holy hill.


The march resum'd--a thousand ills dismay;
A thousand perils mark the pilgrim's way:
Yet droops he not 'till, far from man's abode,
O'er the long desert lies the trackless road;
'Till o'er the sandy plain's far-stretch'd expanse
The shudd'ring eye extends a hopeless glance.
No flow'ry herbage cheers the aching sight;
No welcome shades a short repose invite;
No smiling culture clothes the arid plain
With grassy verdure or the yellow grain;
O'er the parch'd earth no gath'ring clouds diffuse
The genial influence of their fost'ring dews:
But o'er the redden'd skies and blist'ring sands
The orb of day his fiercest beams expands;
Pours on th'unshelter'd tribes his fiery rays,
And pining nature withers in the blaze.
Sad is the wand'rer's lot, remote from home,
Condemn'd Arabia's desert sands to roam;
Condemn'd, without a friend, without a guide,
To meet that mimic sea's resistless tide.
Oft at the whirlwind's desolating blast
O'erwhelming clouds involve the sultry waste;
And, mocking hope's bright vision, death demands
Full many a victim 'mid the drifting sands.
Oft on their march along the wide domain
The mounted Arab leads a lawless train,
Athirst for spoil;--and oft, as ev'ning fades,
Some peaceful tent the wily chief invades;
With open conflict oft infests the way,
And scatters terror in the blaze of day.


Onward they press;--and if perchance be found
Some gurgling rill which shady palms surround,
Some grassy spot, inviting brief delay,
Impending dangers still forbid to stay:
By the cool waters of the mossy glade,
'Mid the calm freshness of the palmy shade,
They fear to linger;--onward still they press,
'Till Mecca's tow'rs their sight enraptur'd bless.


Yet ere the goal, reveal'd to view, they gain,
Those cherish'd scenes awhile their steps detain,
Where, first victorious o'er opposing foes,
On Beder's height Mohammed's banner rose.
Dear is the spot, and kindling memory there
Pourtrays the Prophet's might, the foe's despair:
There shall the pilgrim oft, with proud delight,
Relate the terrors of that awful fight;
Tell how the Moslem's scanty force, assail'd
By countless hosts, in Allah's name prevail'd;
How, 'mid the battle's rage, to frenzy driv'n,
The routed squadrons own'd the cause of Heav'n.
For there, 'tis said, refulgent to the view,
His flaming sword seraphic Gabriel drew;
The Prophet's band to deathless glory led,
Celestial radiance beaming o'er his head.


Soon as their longing eyes from Beder's height,
Of Mecca's temple gain the promis'd sight,
To errors past awaken'd thoughts return,
And sinful breasts with harrowing anguish burn;
The stings of conscience and remorse they feel,
And gushing tears their penitence reveal.
No more shall now the splendid vest be worn,
The brow no more shall clust'ring locks adorn;
In the pure stream their toil-worn limbs they lave,
And wear the sable garments of the grave.


The hour arrives:--in sorrow's mournful guise,
'Mid the low murmur of repentant sighs,
The phalanx moves;--and Mecca's holy fane,
In marshall'd ranks, receives th'adoring train.
Lo! fifty portals op'ning wide declare
The dazzling glories of that House of Pray'r:
In solid brass a hundred columns shine,
And silver chains each tow'ring shaft entwine.
Yet, while from golden lamps th'unheeded ray
Mocks the full brilliance of meridian day,
While circling splendours fail with awe to move,
The sacred Kaaba claims the Pilgrim's love.
Yet think not there hath pomp a charm bestow'd;
No worthless splendour decks the plain abode,--
The Prophet's dwelling:--woe to all that dare
False vows to breathe or thoughts irreverent there;
Woe to the wretch, from mercy's mansion driv'n,
That dares to doubt the fabled work of heaven!
Oft as assembling hosts the fane invest,
Those darken'd walls the Pilgrim's zeal attest;
And pious hands, as annual rites enjoin,
Replace the sable vesture of the shrine.
Such holy gift, in fair Damascus wrought,
To Mecca first imperial Omar brought;
Such, ere invading hosts their pow'r subdued,
Year after year Egyptian kings renew'd:
Now falls the task on Othman's race alone,
And swells the grandeur of the Sultan's throne.


Stretch'd on the holy ground, with loud acclaim,
Thrice call the pious crowds on Allah's name:
Allah il Allah! whose divine command
From Chaos bade creation's charms expand;
Allah il Allah! to whose sovereign nod
Creation bows,--the true, the only God!
Then, on the ground still humbly stretch'd, they raise
The song of gladness in Mohammed's praise:
Tell how the Lord with mighty arm upheld
His chosen Prophet 'mid the battle-field;
From foes and perils gave his soul release,
And crown'd his labours with perpetual peace.
'Twas thine, they cry, illustrious Chief! to soar,
Where seraph Hosts th'Eternal Word adore;
In Heav'ns pure streams to wash thy sins away,
And earth revisit cleans'd from error's clay;
Twas thine to taste the bliss without alloy,
To mark the bright futurity of joy;
And teach thy flock delights in Heav'n prepar'd,
For Moslem faith the triumph and reward.
There 'mid luxuriant shades, in tranquil rest,
Shall verdant swards by weary limbs be prest;
There, 'mid the spacious hall, or cool retreat,
Ambrosial feasts th'awaken'd sense shall greet;
And, from the eager lip withheld no more,
Their purple tide nectareous vines shall pour.
And there the Houri, fair angelic maid,
In rosy smiles of innocence array'd,
The beauteous minister of bliss shall prove,
And breathe around a Paradise of Love.
Such are the fix'd rewards, the promis'd joys,
To strike the sense Mohammed's creed employs;
Such the seductive arts, that still maintain
O'er half the world unfading error's reign.


Not such the zeal, mistaken and o'er-wrought,
Not such the rites by true devotion taught;--
Vain empty duties;--not by these alone
Shall Christ's disciples for their sins atone;
Nor hope the Author of their Faith to please
By barren pomp and showy gifts like these:


Fount of Eternal Life! how far more dear
In thy pure sight will steadfast Faith appear;
How far more precious, through the mortal strife,
The guiltless conscience, and unspotted life!
Thee, Son of God! on God's right hand enthron'd!--
(Who once on earth the form of manhood own'd,
For us who suffer'd, and for us who bled,
Mute as the peaceful lamb to slaughter led,
Who took the bondage of the world away)--
With grateful hearts we worship and obey:
Thou to lost mortals hast Redemption giv'n,
And dying hast restor'd our forfeit hopes of Heav'n!

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When You Are With Them

the guy beside you
is cross-eyed, and he is
lonely, and he lives alone in his house
with his puppy and he asks you where he can buy
the best dogfood in this little town,

sitting beside this guy is a short, fat man, and he
is a philosopher, and he is ugly and his belly is as big
as a baby whale, and he is asking if there is a way to find
happiness along this famous beach resort

both of them are projecting the idea that they are not happy
and that they are looking for a way to get happiness
to know where it can be found,

he did not find it with his puppy and neither did the other
one find in the complicated phisophical precepts

we are seated inside a bar and it is six o'clock in the evening
we are looking over the sea separated by this glass wall

i remove my shorts and shirt, i keep my white swimming trunk on
and i told them: let us have a plunge in the cool waters of the blue sea.

i do not have a puppy and i am tired of any philosophical discussion.

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Three Verse Passages From A Prose Meditation

On verdurd trees ye silver blossoms grow
Whose leaves atop their perfect whiteness show
& faintly streak with stains of red below
The western breeze steales ore ye shady grove
to sigh near roses as insnard by love.

The waves pushed on by waves in mountains ly
Mixd with ye clouds ye Parent waters fly
& the cross'd winds roar hideous in ye sky
The east & west the south & north contend
While the vexd sea beneath is neithers friend
Above ye winds below the billows Jarr
& nature is become the seat of warr

Look how ye silent waters stealing by
With such smooth motions as deceive our eye
Returns ye pleasing pictures of ye sky
There shines ye sun with imitated rayes
her borrowd light ye paler moon displays
& ye cleare heavens wear an azure face
So lett thy temper due composure find
By all the modest rules that bound ye mind
That Whether fortune with a storm assails
Or Courts thy wishes with indulgent gales
No passion interpose a cloud between
But on thy bosome undisturbd within
May natures God & natures form [be seen]

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Life Is Like A Flower, A River, A Ripple Of The Sky

life is like a flower
tell me, like is like a river, tell me,
life is like a ripple of clouds in the sky, tell me

i tell you, the flower blooms and wilts, the river flows and dries, the ripple
of the clouds in the sky drifts, and travels and sees a lot

and then fall into rain
and seeps to the ground and nowhere to be found

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Do You Like My Verse?

yes, the diary, of some events though too personal about some
rifts between brothers, my brother and i,
am so patient, till the end, though i am older and mild mannered always
seeking to understand the gap of
ten years, practically he belonging to another strange generation
while i keep my mouth shut
my mind open to him: as i reduce him to prose and elevate him
further to poetry, and i am glad you like
this poetry of brothers reaching a conciliation
like some great movies
about brothers karamazov
and their anna kareninas or yes, yes, lady chatterly's
or emma
you never know grace, unlike tina she is not a brown dog
but the brown prima donna of my life

love lost and brothers fighting over some little wars of their hearts
do not attempt to understand
this is purely a private matter of the bastasa family,
rocky maribujoc, roots of molave trees, some streams of consciousness
always coming to my mind

a diary, a poem, a story that i want to tell
maybe tomorrow, or may be not at all, it will cost me a lot of pain
some unbearable lightness of my being
sadness, and hidden laughters stored for another year
like wine, well more of like, vinegar actually

oh, wasting your time, as i do waste mine, on words
maybe wisdom of saying what we want to say in our minds
like a river flowing and we intend to just watch
and not take the plunge

the plunge, the way we get wet, the way our bodies
fit with wet clothes all together revealing some hidden private parts
that other may find too flimsy

well, as i am telling you, this is my poetry, a flow, a river running steadily
to the deep blue sea
and yes,

shall we take the necessary plunge
just to check if we really know how to swim how to survive and not just

write poetry hoping that they may believe our quest for sincerity
and then let me still ask

if you like my verse, a stream of unconsciousness still coping up
what to do
with our messy lives

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April

Pale season, watcher in unvexed suspense,
Still priestess of the patient middle day,
Betwixt wild March's humored petulance
And the warm wooing of green kirtled May,
Maid month of sunny peace and sober grey,
Weaver of flowers in sunward glades that ring
With murmur of libation to the spring:

As memory of pain, all past, is peace,
And joy, dream-tasted, hath the deepest cheer,
So art thou sweetest of all months that lease
The twelve short spaces of the flying year.
The bloomless days are dead, and frozen fear
No more for many moons shall vex the earth,
Dreaming of summer and fruit laden mirth.

The grey song-sparrows full of spring have sung
Their clear thin silvery tunes in leafless trees;
The robin hops, and whistles, and among
The silver-tasseled poplars the brown bees
Murmur faint dreams of summer harvestries:
The creamy sun at even scatters down
A gold-green mist across the murmuring town.

By the slow streams the frogs all day and night
Dream without thought of pain or heed of ill,
Watching the long warm silent hours take flight,
And ever with soft throats that pulse and thrill,
From the pale-weeded shallows trill and trill,
Tremulous sweet voices, flute-like, answering
One to another glorying in the spring.

All day across the ever-cloven soil,
Strong horses labour, steaming in the sun,
Down the long furrows with slow straining toil,
Turning the brown of clean layers; and one by one
The crows gloom over them till daylight done
Finds them asleep somewhere in dusked lines
Beyond the wheatlands in the northern pines.

The old year's cloaking of brown leaves, that bind
The forest floor-ways, plated close and true-
The last love's labour of the autumn wind-
Is broken with curled flower buds white and blue
In all the matted hollows and speared through
With thousand serpent-spotted blades up-sprung,
Yet bloomless, of the slender adder-tongue.

In the warm noon the south wind creeps and cools,
Where the red-budded stems of maples throw
Still tangled etchings on the amber pools,
Quite silent now, forgetful of the slow
Drip of the taps, the troughs, and trampled snow,
The keen March mornings, and the silvering rime
And mirthful labour of the sugar prime.

Ah, I have wandered with unwearied feet,
All the long sweetness of an April day,
Lulled with cool murmurs and the drowsy beat
Of partridge wings in secret thickets grey,
The marriage hymns of all the birds at play,
The faces of sweet flowers, and easeful dreams
Beside slow reaches of frog-haunted streams;

Wandered with happy feet, and quite forgot
The shallow toil, the strife against the grain,
Near souls, that hear us call, but answer not,
The loneliness, perplexity and pain,
And high thoughts cankered with an earthly stain
And then the long draught emptied to the lees,
I turn me homeward in slow pacing ease,

Cleaving the cedar shadows and the thin
Mist of grey gnats that cloud the river shore,
Sweet even choruses, that dance and spin
Soft tangles in the sunset; and once more
The city smites me with its dissonant roar.
To its hot heart I pass, untroubled yet,
Fed with calm hope, without desire or fret.

So to the year's first alter step I bring
Gifts of meek song, and make my spirit free
With the blind working if unanxious spring,
Careless with her, whether the days that flee
Pale drouth or golden-fruited plenty see,
So that we toil, brothers, without distress,
In calm-eyed peace and god-like blamelessness.

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Does Your Past Travel With You

Does your past travel with you to where-ever you go
In your thoughts do old friends stop by to say hello
Do you go to the pub for the beer and sing song
With you from the past memories have come along
Do you hear the babble of the clear mountain rill
As it journeys on down from the foot of the hill
On to the great river that flows to the sea
Your past you take with you in your memory
Fond memories of your younger years you do recall
For your white and brown jack russell terrier you throw the tennis ball
Which she fetch and dropp at your feet to throw to her again
A memory a whole lifetime for to retain
Does your past travel with you to where-ever you go
In your thoughts do old friends stop by to say hello?

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Ante Aram

Before thy shrine I kneel, an unknown worshipper,
Chanting strange hymns to thee and sorrowful litanies,
Incense of dirges, prayers that are as holy myrrh.

Ah, goddess, on thy throne of tears and faint low sighs,
Weary at last to theeward come the feet that err,
And empty hearts grown tired of the world's vanities.

How fair this cool deep silence to a wanderer
Deaf with the roar of winds along the open skies!
Sweet, after sting and bitter kiss of sea-water,

The pale Lethean wine within thy chalices!
I come before thee, I, too tired wanderer,
To heed the horror of the shrine, the distant cries,

And evil whispers in the gloom, or the swift whirr
Of terrible wings - I, least of all thy votaries,
With a faint hope to see the scented darkness stir,

And, parting, frame within its quiet mysteries
One face, with lips than autumn-lilies tenderer,
And voice more sweet than the far plaint of viols is,

Or the soft moan of any grey-eyed lute-player.

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Our Journey to the Sea

I need no label, tag, or some kind of tattoo
Engraved on my skin
Just call me friend or best as I prefer
To carry you on to our journey

Glide my hands now to strum the river to sing with
The birds and winds whistling through… and through
The branches of trees that leaves no notes to follow
Far and beyond the majestic call of the sea

Remain on my lap as you watch the glorified love
The world - over and under the sea - has put first
The great seagulls - to welcome you from above -
The Beethoven of the sea

The coral reefs that curtained the ocean stage
Will soon unveil the dimming sun to present
The acrobatic acts of the dolphins
And the flights of flying fishes

From the trail fins of sharks approaching
To the sea-floor-dance of the sailboats
That brought the joyful waves far-reaching
The applause of sea lions and the penguins' wings

Back to the mouth of the river, now my friend
I‘ll take you home once again
Where the mirror awaits to greet you once more
The smile you had misplaced before

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It's Love

Song

Hold on
If only for one more night
Take hold of me
And take flight
It's now or never!
Take my hand
Come fly with me
Up into the heavens!

What we leave behind,
The darkness and fears,
The love and the lust
We leave not only us

We take flight
We hold on
Embracing the sky
Exchanging our love!
Our souls are forever mixed
Into one
It's love
It's love
Across the universe

Tonight our darkness becomes
The fate of the world
The shimmer in your eyes
The passion in your heart
Take flight
With me
Hold tight
If only for one night
Our bodies hit the floor
No more will we feel pain
Tonight we will love


Talking:
(Everybody join hands
Everybody love your brother
Kiss your mother
And come together in peace with others
Don't hold back your tears
Cry together as one
Let no race or indifference get inbetween
Hold on tight
Let the love flow between us all)


All across the universe
All through our hearts
All together as one
All together!

It's love
It's love
Across the world
Taking its flight
Embracing our hearts
Everyone join together as one
Connect our hearts as one
Embrace the love together!

poem by Report problemRelated quotes
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Autumn In July

It was a cool July and it was dusk.
The gentle winds that blew,
brushed the Autumn of your hair.

And a mist, as like in Autumn, touch
your face, as I stood still.

I could not help but wonder, as in Autumn,
are the bees yet in their hive; snuggled
closely, in their Autumn winter bed.?

An Autumn sun, hid behind the clouds above.
It knew not of this July, only of Autumn, in the air.
It knew of flowers drooping, their brightness,
now fading and curled. It knew of falling leaves,
and colors still so bright. A lone tree against a colored
sky, seemed naked in this July. With all of
this, and some to go, it must be Autumn, for this I know.

What of the woman, with the hair of Autumn?
Her eyes of Autumn color and colored clothes
the same. It can not be July, for
Autumn is abound.

Autumns every where. Circling sparrows in sky
above, swoop down, in hunt, for the final seeds
of Autumn. How could this be July,
or have the sparrows lost their way?

Surely, this is Autumn, for the chill is in they air.
And, isn't that an Autumn grass, below that
old oak tree? As the gentle Autumn winds,
carry silence for the day.

Now the mist of Autumn, are falling drops of rain.
No, not a shower in July, but an Autumn day,
now cast in gloom, against a steel gray sky.

Autumn, shall never be the same, since
that Autumn day in mid July.

poem by Report problemRelated quotes
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Autumn In July

It was a cool July and it was dusk.
The gentle winds that blew,
brushed the Autumn of your hair.

And a mist, as like in Autumn, touch
your face, as I stood still.

I could not help but wonder, as in Autumn,
are the bees yet in their hive; snuggled
closely, in their Autumn winter bed.?

An Autumn sun, hid behind the clouds above.
It knew not of this July, only of Autumn, in the air.
It knew of flowers drooping, their brightness,
now fading and curled. It knew of falling leaves,
and colors still so bright. A lone tree against a colored
sky, seemed naked in this July. With all of
this, and some to go, it must be Autumn, for this I know.

What of the woman, with the hair of Autumn?
Her eyes of Autumn color and colored clothes
the same. It can not be July, for
Autumn is abound.

Autumns every where. Circling sparrows in sky
above, swoop down, in hunt, for the final seeds
of Autumn. How could this be July,
or have the sparrows lost their way?

Surely, this is Autumn, for the chill is in they air.
And, isn't that an Autumn grass, below that
old oak tree? As the gentle Autumn winds,
carry silence for the day.

Now the mist of Autumn, are falling drops of rain.
No, not a shower in July, but an Autumn day,
now cast in gloom, against a steel gray sky.

Autumn, shall never be the same, since
that Autumn day in mid July.

poem by Report problemRelated quotes
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New York... Not In Autum

It was a cool, July, and it was dusk.
The gentle winds that blew,
brushed the Autumn of your hair.

And a mist, as like in Autumn, touch
your face, as I stood still.

I could not help but wonder, as in Autumn,
are the bees yet in their hive? Snuggled
closely, in their Autumn winter bed.?

An Autumn sun, hid behind the clouds above.
It knew not of this July, only of Autumn, in the air.
It knew of flowers drooping, their brightness,
now fading and curled. It knew of falling leaves,
and colors still so bright. A lone tree against a colored
sky, seemed naked in this July. With all of
this, and some to go, it must be Autumn...Autumn...
Autumn, for this I know.

What of the woman, with the hair of Autumn?
Her eyes of Autumn color and colored clothes
the same. It can not be July for
Autumn is abound.

Autumns every where. Circling sparrows in sky
above, swoop down, in hunt, for the final seeds
of Autumn. How could this be July,
or has the sparrows lost their way?

Surely, this is Autumn, for the chill is in they air.
And, isn't that an Autumn grass, below that
old oak tree? As the gentle Autumn winds,
carry silence for the day.

Now the mist of Autumn, are falling drops of rain.
No, not a shower in July, but an Autumn day,
now cast in gloom, against a steel gray sky.

Autumn, shall never be the same, since
that Autumn day in mid July.

poem by Report problemRelated quotes
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A Day Like No Other...

It was a cool July and it was dusk.
The gentle winds that blew,
brushed the Autumn of your hair.

And a mist, as like in Autumn, touch
your face, as I stood still.

I could not help but wonder, as in Autumn,
are the bees yet in their hive; snuggled
closely, in their Autumn winter bed.?

An Autumn sun, hid behind the clouds above.
It knew not of this July, only of Autumn, in the air.
It knew of flowers drooping, their brightness,
now fading and curled. It knew of falling leaves,
and colors still so bright. A lone tree against a colored
sky, seemed naked in this July. With all of
this, and some to go, it must be Autumn, for this I know.

What of the woman, with the hair of Autumn?
Her eyes of Autumn color and colored clothes
the same. It can not be July, for
Autumn is abound.

Autumns every where. Circling sparrows in sky
above, swoop down, in hunt, for the final seeds
of Autumn. How could this be July,
or have the sparrows lost their way?

Surely, this is Autumn, for the chill is in they air.
And, isn't that an Autumn grass, below that
old oak tree? As the gentle Autumn winds,
carry silence for the day.

Now the mist of Autumn, are falling drops of rain.
No, not a shower in July, but an Autumn day,
now cast in gloom, against a steel gray sky.

Autumn, shall never be the same, since
that Autumn day in mid July.

poem by Report problemRelated quotes
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Autumn In July (rated in group)

It was a cool July and it was dusk.
The gentle winds that blew,
brushed the Autumn of your hair.

And a mist, as like in Autumn, touch
your face, as I stood still.

I could not help but wonder, as in Autumn,
are the bees yet in their hive; snuggled
closely, in their Autumn winter bed.?

An Autumn sun, hid behind the clouds above.
It knew not of this July, only of Autumn, in the air.
It knew of flowers drooping, their brightness,
now fading and curled. It knew of falling leaves,
and colors still so bright. A lone tree against a colored
sky, seemed naked in this July. With all of
this, and some to go, it must be Autumn, for this I know.

What of the woman, with the hair of Autumn?
Her eyes of Autumn color and colored clothes
the same. It can not be July, for
Autumn is abound.

Autumns every where. Circling sparrows in sky
above, swoop down, in hunt, for the final seeds
of Autumn. How could this be July,
or have the sparrows lost their way?

Surely, this is Autumn, for the chill is in they air.
And, isn't that an Autumn grass, below that
old oak tree? As the gentle Autumn winds,
carry silence for the day.

Now the mist of Autumn, are falling drops of rain.
No, not a shower in July, but an Autumn day,
now cast in gloom, against a steel gray sky.

Autumn, shall never be the same, since
that Autumn day in mid July.

poem by Report problemRelated quotes
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Mid July? Or Not

It was a cool July and it was dusk.
The gentle winds that blew,
brushed the Autumn of your hair.

And a mist, as like in Autumn, touch
your face, as I stood still.

I could not help but wonder, as in Autumn,
are the bees yet in their hive; snuggled
closely, in their Autumn winter bed.?

An Autumn sun, hid behind the clouds above.
It knew not of this July, only of Autumn, in the air.
It knew of flowers drooping, their brightness,
now fading and curled. It knew of falling leaves,
and colors still so bright. A lone tree against a colored
sky, seemed naked in this July. With all of
this, and some to go, it must be Autumn, for this I know.

What of the woman, with the hair of Autumn?
Her eyes of Autumn color and colored clothes
the same. It can not be July, for
Autumn is abound.

Autumns every where. Circling sparrows in sky
above, swoop down, in hunt, for the final seeds
of Autumn. How could this be July,
or have the sparrows lost their way?

Surely, this is Autumn, for the chill is in they air.
And, isn't that an Autumn grass, below that
old oak tree? As the gentle Autumn winds,
carry silence for the day.

Now the mist of Autumn, are falling drops of rain.
No, not a shower in July, but an Autumn day,
now cast in gloom, against a steel gray sky.

Autumn, shall never be the same, since
that Autumn day in mid July.

poem by Report problemRelated quotes
Added by Poetry Lover
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