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How I Picture Heaven

How I Picture Heaven by Kenny Davis

How do I picture Heaven?
The great kingdom among clouds
His children, His saints
His angels, rejoicing loud

How do I picture Heaven?
This astonishing, glorious place
Where I pray to have the honor
To gaze upon his majestic face

How do I picture Heaven?
The street paved in gold
Worth more than the richest treasure
Even grander than I was told

How do I picture Heaven?
Beyond light-years away from earth
Beyond mere galaxies away from pain
Even much further away all of the hurt

How do I picture Heaven?
Many mansions made of pearl
Luster brighter than the stars
One that shines across the world

How do I picture Heaven?
Free of worry and strife
No more heartbreak and heart ache
Looking forward to this eternal life

How do I picture Heaven?
On every face, there is a smile
The joy amongst his followers
Can be seen for many miles

How do I picture Heaven?
Land of milk and honey
Sweeter than grain of a sugar cane
And every day is sunny

How do I picture Heaven?
Or should I say, “The land of honey and milk”
With everyone in their marvelous robes
Softer than Egyptian silk
How do I picture Heaven?
Land of joy and bliss
If you are to miss the train
Oh! What a party you would miss!

How do I picture Heaven?
With much dancing around the throne
No ailment, No sickness
No illness or broken bones

How do I picture Heaven?
I was told of a great feast
Food stretching beyond North and South
Further beyond West and East

How do I picture Heaven?
Christ went to prepare a place for me
More glorious than I have heard
I can’t wait to see

How do I picture Heaven?
As the angels spread their wings
Harps and trumpets are to sound
As his many children are drawn to sing

How do I picture Heaven?
Everyone stands in celebration
Forever shielded from the troubles
Forever shielded from the tribulation

How do I picture Heaven?
With amazing sights yet to be seen
More glorious wonders left to witness
For many, will be far beyond belief

How do I picture Heaven?
As the angels’ robes glisten
They shall sing many songs of Zion
All who have ears shall listen

How do I picture Heaven?
The legendary kingdom of glory
The masses, gathered in fellowship
And every day is Sunday morning


How do I picture Heaven?
The mere thought of a world without sin?
Sure hope I don’t end up
Left on the outside, looking in

How do I picture Heaven?
When we are called up into the air
I am doing all I can to go
I hope to see you there!

© November 2010 k.davis

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Heaven Is 10 Zillion Light Years Away

They say that heaven is 10 zillion light years away
And just the pure at heart will walk her righteous streets someday
They say that heaven is 10 zillion light years away
But if there is a god, we need him now
Where is your god
Thats what my friends ask me
And I say its taken him so long
cause weve got so far to come...
Tell me people
Why cant they say that hate is 10 zillion light years away
Why cant the light of good shine gods love in every soul
Why must my color black make me a lesser man
I thought this world was made for every man
He loves us all, thats what my God tells me
And I say its taken him so long
cause weve got so far to come...
But in my heart I can feel it, yeah,
Feel his spirit wow oh woo...
Feel it, yeah, feel his spirit...
I... cant say that heaven is 10 zillion light years away
But if so let all be pure at heart
Just to walk her righteous streets I pray
Let gods love shine within to save our evil souls
For those who dont believe will never see the light
Where is my God - he lives inside of me
And I say its taken him so long
cause weve got so far to come...
No people, where is your god?
Inside please let him be
And I say its taken him so long
cause weve got so far to come...
But if you open your heart you can feel it yeah yeah
Feel his spirit, yeah
Feel it, feel his spirit, wow oh wow...
Feel it, you can feel his spirit
I opened my heart one morning and
I sho nuff could feel it yeah yeah
Feel his spirit yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah
You can feel it, yeah, feel his spirit
You can feel it, yeah, feel his spirit

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Rubaiyat Of A Robin - After Edward Fitzgerald - Rubaiyat Of Omar Khayyam

Jest plays with rubaiyat and, four by four,
unseals for your amusement more and more
verses together thread in rosary
unreeled to bloom till tomb will curtains draw.

Repealed are value judgement and perspective
revealed through standpoint purely introspective,
darkside concealed of moon’s yin-yang shines clear
when we’re in orbit, - option more effective.

Rolled form performs rôle midwife to perception,
sprung tongue in cheek, tweaks sense of imperfection
or willingness to leach between the lines,
impeach entrenched ideas of self-[s]election.

This prose arose as stream deprived of section,
where ‘dip at willwill still sustain inspection,
the current’s sense, at odds with current views
ignores round holes, square pegs, top-down direction.

Here there’s no fear of critics’ peer rejection,
contention treated with due circumspection
intention is to mention for retention
an overview or clue to extrospection.

Life’s curtains are a veil through which few see,
as many haste taste-waste eternity,
mixed up, ignore life fixes finite sum
to/through infinite opportunity.

Can “Truth” exist? all ask, who seek its core,
we, modest, etch our words to sketch the score,
diverse the verses which converge to link
reflections mirrored many times before.

Vast content, style, a while, united are,
aim at soul stimulation, nothing bar,
to pleasure, treasure, or discard at will
as minds outreach to other minds on par.

Meditating, we shed light on what
tomorrow’s tot may factor into ‘bot’ -
the poet’s lot, forgot, to help all think
ahead of time, enhance life for a lot

Some seek Nirvana, Faith speaks more thanhow”.
Others reject Salvation’s wraith, - w[h]ine “now”.
Verifying facts? Inventing dreams?
Each furrow-burrows with a different plough.

In these short stanzas we shall seek a way
to weed out false philosophies that prey
upon fair truth - if ‘Truth’ be not abstract -
to plant fresh garden, chant beside the ‘Way’.

./.

Wake! though the West still fitfully counts sheep,
the East’s ablaze, there rising rays do steep
the far horizon, phasing stars away
phrased out by Robin Jay and sparrow’s cheep.

A bird soft sings - one robin is enough -
to sway ten trillion stars as ball of fluff
is scored by millions more - cheep’s cheek astounds.
rebounding echoes which their shyness slough.

Earth lends thereto both orbit, ear, at ease
tunes into echo surfing prime rhyme's breeze,
life’s warmth wells from flat fields, rills, rocky tors,
gold bees abound, buzz round some kitten's sneeze.

Eternal silence sleep prevents, world waits
on spider spinning, dawn anticipates,
while we may ask what sense is made of sound
by church and steeple, aisle and green stile gates.

What feelings hound retains for hare he’d chase
and what the hunter for the hound? What pace
finds interest g[r]o[w] when it is mind compound?
What’s real to roundabout when rests its case?

How feels the Tao for circling day and night?
what for the centre feels surround, dark, light?
what of the bounce when words once more rebound
describing robin breasting air in flight?

What feels for fractal any given point?
What feels the oil for King who rites anoint?
What feels for tree the Autumn leaf once browned?
Both throne and leaf soon tumble out of joint.

What reads the clearing into red deer’s [t]race?
May star count light years till return to base?
How may red blood react to heart’s flesh pound
when foreign smokescreen floats round beauty’s face?

Stars seek love’s meaning, spinning hot and cold
on Cause, Effect foretold as orbits fold
around their half-life cycles and around
on ‘always’ as they fight the black hole’s hold.

Bird song still seeks its Way upon Time’s wave,
stars spin off Mankind’s blind, ambitious crave, -
cross star-crossed dream, by mortal sadness bound,
crowned deathbound by a gaping open grave.

Dawn filters fragile memories from the mind,
few surface, most, unconscious, stay confined
behind the film that shadows dreams from day -
which to internal eye is almost blind.

And yet those precious seconds which divide
warm bed from breakfast should not be denied,
once trained, the train of conscious thought turns fey,
rei[g]ns in the lines that let the brain decide.

Though chance the dice of daily choice does load,
no sleep no judgement voices, faulty mode,
a dream or two recalled can during play
let Man rejoice as answers he is showed.

The magic lantern’s locked nocturnal sweep
shows picture flow performance, light or deep,
stays in abeyance waiting till the fray
of daily combat’s waged, unwound in sleep.

For wave on wave of subtle interchange
that nightly entertains, by day seems strange
dissolves beneath a cataract of fact -
packed practicalities and pay, exchange.

Yet pay and practicalities do reap
a barren harvest, bitter tears to weep.
when in the final act ‘les jeux sont faits’, -
then who is mocked upon what moldy heap?

For some dreams stand out crystal clear and stay,
some nightmares ride through fear that fades away
when ‘self’ is drowned in tensions which exact
the working week’s attention, fears allay.

Observe commuters in the early dawn
eyes bleary, weary gait and stifled yawn,
day’s duty done in turn each does return
at night to comfort slight they left that morn.

Most for a pittance serve and thus sustain
a system biased which none may maintain
intact – attacked by innovations that
unchecked track ransack what they entertain.

The moving finger writes, and having writ”
moves on, along, to make The pattern fit,
links dark to light, ignites Time’s spotlight fast,
all once foreseen sets scene for future k[n]it.

This moving finger which directs the write
must fight for flight to rise, not fall through flight,
take not temptation to mistake wood, trees, -
the dotted line should witness not indict.

With this in mind above the daily static
the poet’s pen to writing automatic
steers often on another plane than most –
the host whose ear at times appears erratic.

True poet seldom rhymes with attic, crust,
needs not to cross the tease emphatic, must
as an observer taking vatic pulse
see, seed, foresee, and kneed ecstatic dust.

Poet peeps seeped truth, digs deep within
the reader’s wonderland to underpin
belief in ‘drink me’ magic potion stored
by mind behind [sp]each superficial grin.

Sojourn is our stay where sot and sage,
active, passive, those calm, those who rage,
justice, crime, combine to trace each track,
to ink “I think I act” on passing page.

Leave ‘news’ behind which often disappoints,
progression seldom needs be pushed on points,
though archived meta data may prepare
another world which its own way appoints.

Joy follows through where intuition points,
for its zen flesh and bones, provides the joints, -
masters the world’s attention, iceberg tip
invents to crown our surface race appoints.

True erudition: - intuition’s wink
responding to the cues that help mind think
beyond tryst rendez-vous of time and place
can trace-scan span which Past and Future link.

So be it wide, or hide-out's tiny chink
through which soul spies the skies without a blink,
there is no chaser, chaste, or chase but pace
as Poet's dream streams past Man’s teeming brink

Yet answers in themselves must be allied
with intuitions acting as a guide
interpreting the runes that won’t betray
effects and causes, each identified.

The fourth dimension’s secret passageway
has hidden exits, entrances, thus may
be breached by forces magic which attract
fey instincts, set foreknowledge on its way.

Fate's ball no question makes of Ayes and Noes
but here or there as strikes the fancy flows
and [s]He that toss'd it down into the field,
[s]He knows about it all ~ [s]He knows ~ [s]He knows! '

Pill cant fulfill the will to understand,
nor spirit chart heart’s flair fantastic fanned, -
no drips let slip but sip the rapture rich
through sharing in a manner under...hand.

Though taking can attract the underhand,
and leave soul wrack, the lack can then expand
as time feeds need to flood Hurt’s tear filled ditch, -
the sods or stone there thrown let Promised Land

at last appear as vision clear can tear
away the veils of this world’s wails and wear
a halo bright to fight off night begun, -
web spun which one MUST cut not run, aware!

Awake, aware, no vision e’er should be
one-sided, - clear should steer, with energy
to focus on holistic insight wide,
perception prizing authenticity.

Perception ends must bend to mend what then
may be free reinvented to extend
to new dimensions things that first appear
too distant, incompatible, to blend

conceptions potent. These procede to lend
stability to an equation which must send
beyond our ken when a message formula
has integrated Time in hidden trend.

Invention is extension catalysed
or role reversal, vistas reapprized,
what complicated seemed is later seen
as simple step towards a goal disguised.

Dream-innovation themes explores, sends shoots
to test fond dreams beyond both insight, roots,
the route seems open, ready, preprepared
by past and future playing, in cahoots.

Where both left brain and right can intertwine -
invention, innovation, - from design
mind tunes to innate patterns which possess
no walls “to grasp this scheme of things” divine.

All quests for knowledge spur adventures we
must turn to profit, - opportunity
magically evolves to solve at last
inherent challenge s from sea to sea.

In evolution’s bark much mystery
exists few mark, and fewer seem to see,
for timing innovation oft contains
an element of synchronicity

that crucial changes duplicates to tune
mere mortals’ fortunes who beneath the moon
might otherwise miss portals pointing through
reef shoal to [b][r]each soul’s goal of blue lagoon.

Therein stands both circumference and points
or one point cardinal which priest appoints?
is there a bible code convergency
or waiting cusp which promise disappoints?

Each generation in its turn believes
Earth’s mysteries may surface ere it leaves,
that synchronicities will watershed -
or shed true light, - yet each the next deceives.

For rhyme and reason often are withheld
till time and season pass, their winter knelled,
true timing is essential where the mind
must channel forces from the future welled.

Who would evolve must choose from many doors, -
each offers either fame, or blame, doom draws,
each offers health or wealth, advance or pause, -
must think the link between effect and cause.

What fame is, what is doom, though, who forsees?
what choice reject, what opportunities
take for, or take as, granted, who can tell?
Time twists or tows each current man would seize.

What matters, and to whom? What gravities
apply when anti-matter equals tease
conundrums which a life-long paradox
entertains until all memories

are atomised upon a karmic breeze,
blown willy nilly till, like honeyed bees,
they bumble on towards a homely hive,
they stumble on till patterns by degrees

from angles wide frame, focus, offer keys
for who between the lines can read, and these
the waft and weft of substance may discern -
may draw the line dividing wood from trees.

So grasp that moving finger as it writes
wait not on Time, but tune to timing – flights
of fancy twin with chance advance spun once,
which may not seed again, feed dreams’ delights.

There is no world to hold but one to share,
there is no word in bold, no blank to spare,
there is no end and no beginning, none,
but just a line which seeks expansion where

vibration is the tune to rune the play
responding to a ripple interplay.
Response but not Reaction is the key
which liberates those give and take gainsay.

The meanings take and give are often lent
by those who blind behind their screens, lie bent, -
if on the ball then toss you call shall be
a legacy which ALL may represent!

Ambitions are but empty boasts to bind
Man to what he too soon must leave behind.
when curtain’s rung, act’s over, - all admit
wrung hands cant cancel Fate once Fate’s defined.

Though most would Fate defy, few have begun
to find replies behind spun night and sun,
jails cannot hold who, bold, must freedom seek,
depart from self from start till journey’s done.

Discovery of central launching pad,
overcomes dams, artifice, to add
diversity to knowledge, tolerance, -
aims reconciled when game spins good from bad.

Too many spend their time on Earth asleep,
dont dare to dream, dont dream to dare, in keep
secure enclose the flame they claim astray
until that dread appointment all must keep.

The pilgrim staff that half directs the play
itself in pawn is to each coryphée
who for a spell puts on a little act
‘till Lethewards is sunk’ with no cachet.

Time is not blood but bud that inner light
may nourish, bring to flourish [st]ring delight -
the road soul takes makes light of 'here' and 'now',
realities are tease to freeze insight!

Dreams thresholds are where strangely side by side
Past, Present, Future, somehow coincide.
Tomorrow’s cake with flour of Yesterday
is [k]needed by Time’s hands, whose flowers abide.

Dreams with fresh dreams collide, ideas explode,
most petty, but some able to decode
the active grain from static chaff and weigh
imponderables within the mind’s geode.

Like ripples in reverse that override
the ‘natural order’, time-trap thrust aside,
Time’s warp and weft implode, and inklings spray
ink jets which think they playrights are world-wide.

No need for sundry saint or lotus sect,
to paint these coloured verses circumspect,
where joy and rainbow aim to blackout grey, -
no soul knows faintness which would self perfect.

But self no sense retains if for a year,
ten, or ten thousand is our sojourn here,
THE question lingers, will not go away,
once gone what will become of all held dear?

Once gone what sun will other eyes reflect,
what son to what fair bride will genuflect,
what ring upon which groom or fiancée
will glow, will grow, to comfort or protect?

Dismiss all doubts, advance, evolve, elect
a path regardless what all else select, -
free spirits seek no quarter dont display
uncertain, undue or unearned respect.

“Unto thyself be true” yet never fear
to undo prejudice, the way is clear,
there’s none so blind as will not see! ” yet each
deserves a passing sigh, if not a tear.

Formality must never intersect
a mind that’s open, tolerant, direct, -
yet tolerance is not a takeaway
excuse for man’s refusal to reflect.

Though there’s an inner conscience to obey
it must be sound, not papier maché, -
respond to Future, not to Past react,
reflect, reject excuses for delay

We draw upon a framework long foretold.
All groundless fears are ground to make new mould,
where energy is timeless - yesterday
tomorrow’s future could today enfold.

What lit that spark to differentiate
Mankind from ape, the eater from the ate?
matched energies that fuse, refuse to prey,
refusing fusion fuses primal state.

Ignore all who a moment are extolled,
who when the wheel turns are as rough rogues roled,
reject role models, and by conscience backed
mistrust bland fads and carpets red unrolled.

Work thus towards a future faraway
knit Time to rhyme with rhythm's calming lay,
and thus outplay time’s croupier who’s stacked
the odds against enlightenment’s entrée.

Beware ideals that feel not, hot and cold
would blow upon ideas which, uncontrolled,
could open up new vistas and convey
new patterns for Life’s petals to unfold.

Beware Religion’s dogmas, those the State
instils to brake or break the will to wait
upon a world unbound which won’t obey
blind power plays, would Man emancipate.

The door of Hope may ope to spirit bold,
to find the scope that cant be bought or sold,
for equal opportunity why pray -
each would more equal be in luck or gold!

For equal opportunities dont stay
untamed by use some make which most affray, -
The West’s religions and the East’s are sacked
by vested interests which the piper pay.

Though some there are who through true flair do float,
and there are some with multi-coloured coat
who help adapt and keep an even keel, -
most overboard do fall when rocks the boat.

Oh! fragile our environmental note
blown by el ninõ to, fro, remote.
climatic change climactic range does test, -
today’s mistakes tomorrow’s fate denote.

Who seeks desires must stoke the fires which
inspire to higher levels, somehow stitch
the links which join ‘[s]he thinks, [s]he acts’, enhance
the chances of ‘success’, avoid all kitsch!

For entertainment services somehow
an inner wilderness where ‘buy, buy now! ’
is seen as compensation by minds void
avoiding questions such as ‘why? and how? ’

Forhow? and why? ’ must search the living past
to learn, mark and digest, its net deep cast,
while indigestion does consumption brand
with captive hand throughout our land so vast.

Time is a theme as current now as ever,
a pattern waved by youth who’s brow knows never
time beats out timeless hopes, till in dismay
age ploughs life under foot to chain links sever.

Time calls the tune, the moon with gravity
pulls in the seasons, yet the cherry tree
reblossoms every April come what may,
as May returns to [sp]ring time’s verity.

Time cows both Pauper, King, the simple, clever,
pleas disallows ‘spite advocate’s endeavour,
weighs souls with feathers, smiles at disarray,
from Life’s bough one more apple plucks forever.

The Tree of Life evolves as day by day,
fresh changes ring the seasons’ roundelay.
Though many sicken, most are trouble wracked,
the same would kill to lengthen their short stay.

There is a tide in the affairs of men
which, taken at the flood” is Fate’s amen: -
“take then the current when it serves, ” some say,
why worry? What will be, will be again.

To be, or not to bethe question’s put,
who cares if skin be ivory or soot?
Life’s caravan wends on its weary way,
and tramples generations under foot.

Why put the questions ‘How, Why, Where, and When? ’
Embrace Life’s lease with vigour, grow, and then
depart contented, welcome dont outstay, -
yet leave a trace another race may pen.

Life’s not a prison, but a holiday
to be enjoyed as long as spotlight’s ray
can light emotions which remain intact
untainted by applause at matinée.

Each innings may be karmic interlude,
a turn to bat, return to feast or feud,
another cycle pedals into play -
yet insight’s lacking, - though for thought leaves food.

While black holes funnel light as on they spin,
whole galaxies in flight are spiralled in,
a mirror image universe can stay
without reflection waiting, sure to win.

Yet victory, defeat, are notions crude,
for Time as maestro may reverse each mood,
though anti-matter threatens us today
tomorrow all’s forgotten, sense elude.

One hole one cubic mile could hold someway -
sum total of Earth’s biomass at play
today, and, yes, the figures are exact,
and highlight life’s fragility bouquet.

We come to birth through labour, in the nude,
for bed and board we labour while, pursued,
by fears invented to set fears at bay,
in turn we’re boarded up, then bored for food.

Dust into dust’s absorbed which knows not sin,
nor cares a fiddle for a toothless grin.
Good, Evil, both are absent from a play
that ends before its ready to begin.

Through time some after conquests vain pursued,
still others, patient, stood in line and queued,
alike for those who’d pray and those who’d prey,
before too long one gong, - then exits cued.

Yet there were those by high self-pride imbued,
and those there were who after hermits sued,
and when the sun rose later where were they? -
hay making for another multitude...

Each spirit is a time-strapped castaway
upon Earth’s island, routeless émigré, -
yet Pot and Potter both are carbon b[l]acked,
seek clay’s perfection ere half-lives decay.

Fair blooms enjoy before the petals fall,
in all draw trumps ‘til trumpets curtain all,
life is curtailed, once hailed our strength is spent,
Time thirsts to swallow all in hollow hall.

So quickstep through the dance, uncertain ball,
and pleasure take in all things, great and small,
tomorrow? Spend tonight in merriment -
who knows when sorrow knocks, what may befall.

Why care a fig for bowler, bat or ball,
an innings independent live, in thrall
to no false prophet, priest or sect hell-bent
on making fear a breeding ground, - forestall

attempts to bind the mind to concrete slings,
to rabble rousers or the cause of kings,
temptation which would substitute rich cream
for wholesome water, fetters for free flings.

Seek not to barter best for better things,
nor fret about what freedoms future brings,
each karma drifts towards a downy dream
furled in the feathers of Time’s fleeting wings.

Ignore what others term Time’s wanton stings,
live for today, the heaven here that sings
heartstrings hearking darkling dreams agleam,
nor jealousy espouse, nor golden rings.

We’re born, we breath, we suffer, then we die,
in vain most seek to know the reason why, -
the finite to the Infinite appeals
but seldom gains the ghost of a reply.

We breath, we seethe, impatient, then we sigh,
so few stay snug, - complacent, ‘neath the sky,
Divinity the Book of Judgement seals
without appeal to heal or rectify.

Who, bold, would Death’s cold clutches e’er defy
soon stalls for storm or worm makes all comply, -
Eternity? - a changeling who conceals
Tomorrow, whate’er that may signify…

From birth to earth we struggle to explain
our loneliness, or seek to entertain
ideas of genes which constantly [r]evolve
round links of change, eternal karmic chain.

As nothing stands to wax that will not wane
add naught to nothing, who can count Man’s gain?
You from the past stem, passed your eyes dissolve, -
can fallen angels ever rise again?

One wick to trick flow stop and go, then snuff,
one lick at lollipop, then pop! – enough.
Take smooth with rough, for chronologic puff
one blast blows fast away, discarded bluff.

One wicket innings batting off the cuff
an eyelid’s batting measures buff to buff
returned, no halfway-house to purge
what ‘might have been’, hair-splitting, tough is tough!

The hair dividing reason from insane
remains a concept too few can retain,
the flame of fame flares, gutters, who’ll explain
the reasons for each season’s pride and pain?

Perfection is Time's mirage breeding fame,
a passion hot and sot, too soon turned tame,
a mummy which, once aired, melts down to dust,
consuming candle, moth, self-feeding flame.

All tombstones call two tunes, ‘I left, you came! ’
all we discover covers mortal shame,
cause and effect rolled dice but both went bust –
insisting each the other was to blame.

‘Cause’ and ‘Effect’ combine as on its way
Chance chimes advance whose rhymes appear today
unclear as if transparency requires
both distance and reflection for life’s play.

Yet loaded are the dice of interplay,
leaden weighted, fêted for a day,
dissatisfaction spurs an onward dance
as stage stage follows on Life’s stage at bay.

Little we learn and even less retain,
leaves willy-nilly blown, where all would gain
election entry to a higher state, -
ambitions empty, aims and means as vain.

Lotus blossoms for a season’s spell,
lends perfume to a transient breeze to tell
some unknown sentience XX XY walked
before the midnight came to fill Time’s well.

Like dust blown topsy-turvy by Life’s storm
we whirl around, try vainly to transform
the currents into channelled flow to ward
Time’s blow while Time grins, waiting, true to form.

Life is a chain we hope spite hope to be
linked to some future Eden, - fallacy,
myth entertained by mutual consent,
by nightfall there is little left to see

except some stray leaves, litter on the grass,
which twirled with second thoughts that quickly pass
beyond all recognition – ‘good’ or ‘bad’?
New dawn, no trace remains, - another fa[r]ce.

Life leads to Death as day feeds into night,
lost is the battle, though the will to fight
may in itself self-justifying seem
when in and of this world we’d weed out fright.

The wide world spins round claim and counter-claim,
the ebb and flow of which may leave no name
until the will of man ‘n’ times discussed
goes digital within a matrix game.

In what brash pride was rash Atlantis drowned?
Where are the countless kingdoms which, discrowned,
and sceptreless, whose [t][h]race Time’s washed away
have foundered ‘neath the [w]aves, remain unfound.

What wound Time’s train and whither is it bound?
What bound Time’s chain which daily is unwound?
What will remain, retain a final s[w]ay
when Doomsday's last refrain has echoed round?

What futures has the spun past run aground?
What spider’s web is dewly weighted, wound
around what timed flies fleeting as they stray
towards what echo waiting to rebound?

What unplumbed ocean trench in sleep profound
feels turmoil in its entrails underground,
prepares to dwarf Mount Everest one day,
leave all its snowbound secrets, weather ground,

What rock of ages can withs[t]and Time’s hound? -
yet what of Time when all but ultrasound
has been forgotten, slate wiped clean away,
when none are left ‘tomorrow’ to confound?

Tomorrow is an abstract merry-go-round
which whirls upon itself, self gendered stound,
it onward hurls, and twirls, companionway
and ladder leading to itself, unfound.

That strip of mind which separates the known
from the unknown seems desert now, but sown
the seeds of knowledge are, where, latent, lay
some stock of wisdom grafting flesh to bone.

I dreamed a dream, - no wine glass stood beside
no flask half-full, half-empty, - bona fide
a book of verses breadloaf was, and, nay,
no dulcimer, no damsel, surfed Time’s tide.

There was no need for Internet or phone,
there was no greed for gold, no grief, grey groan,
no bead strings, no strings tied, and no decay,
no scythe to tithe tomorrow for Death’s own.

Here ends a brief attempt to take a leaf
from Time the thief, and yet there is no brief,
no leitmotif to savour save the act
that offers in its way some slight relief...
'Alike for those who for TO-DAY prepare
And those that after some TO-MORROW stare.'

20 March 1995,25th April 2005,5 December 2006 minor modifications 20 March 2010 robi03_0754_fitz01_0001

Rubaiyat of a Robin © Jonathan Robin – after Edward FITZGERALD Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam

See below mirrored exerpt from opening stanzas after introduction


WHAT IS REAL TO ROUNDABOUT REEL
Mirrored excerpt from Rubaiyat of a Robin

Wake! though the West still fitfully counts sheep,
the East’s ablaze, there will wise rays rise steep
from far horizon, phasing stars away
phrased out by Robin Jay and sparrow’s cheep.

A bird soft sings – one robin is enough –
to sway ten trillion stars as ball of fluff
art scored by millions more – cheep’s cheek astounds,
rebounding echoes which their shyness slough.

Earth lends thereto both orbit, ear, at ease
tunes into echo surfing prime rhyme's breeze,
life’s warmth wells from flat fields, rills, rocky tors,
gold bees abound, buzz round some kitten's sneeze.

Eternal silence sleep prevents, world waits
on spider spinning, dawn anticipates,
while we may ask what sense is made of sound
by church and steeple, aisle or green stile gates.

What feelings hound retains for hare he’d chase
and what the hunted for the hound? What pace
finds interest g[r]o[w] when it is mind compound?
What’s real to roundabout when rests its case?

How feels the Tao for circling day and night?
what for the centre feels surround, dark, light?
what of the bounce when words once more rebound
describing robin breasting air in flight?

What feels for fractal any given point?
What feels the oil for King who rites anoint?
What feels for tree the Autumn leaf once browned?
Both throne and leaf soon tumble out of joint.

What reads the clearing into red deer’s [t]race?
May star count light years till return to base?
How may red blood react to heart’s flesh pound
when foreign smokescreen floats round beauty’s face?

Stars seek love’s meaning, spinning hot and cold
on Cause, Effect foretold as orbits fold
around their half-life cycles and around
on ‘always’ as they fight the black hole’s hold.

Bird song still seeks its Way upon Time's wave,
stars spin off Mankind’s blind, ambitious crave, -
cross star-crossed dream, by mortal sadness bound,
crowned deathbound by a gaping open grave.

--
Crowned deathbound by a gaping open grave.
cross star-crossed dream, by mortal sadness bound,
stars spin off Mankind’s blind, ambitious crave, -
bird song still seeks its Way upon Time's wave.

On ‘always’ as they fight the black hole’s hold
around their half-life cycles and around
on Cause, Effect foretold as orbits fold,
stars seek love’s meaning, spinning hot and cold.

When foreign smokescreen floats round beauty’s face?
how may red blood react to heart’s flesh pound
may star count light years till return to base?
what reads the clearing into red deer’s [t]race?

Both throne and leaf soon tumble out of joint.
What feels for tree the Autumn leaf once browned?
What feels the oil for King who rites anoint?
What feels for fractal any given point?

Describing robin breasting air in flight
what of the bounce when words once more rebound?
What for the centre feels surround, dark, light?
how feels the Tao for circling day and night?

What’s real to roundabout when rests its case,
finds interest g[r]o[w] when it is mind compound?
and what the hunted for the hound? What pace
What feelings hound retains for hare he’d chase
by church and steeple, aisle or green stile gates,
while we may ask what sense is made of sound
of spider spinning dawn anticipates,
eternal silence sleep prevents, world waits …

Gold bees abound, buzz round some kitten's sneeze,
life’s warmth wells from flat fields, rills, rocky tors,
tunes into echo surfing prime rhyme's breeze,
Earth lends thereto both orbit, ear, at ease.

Rebounding echoes which their shyness slough.
art scored by millions more – cheep’s cheek astounds,
to sway ten trillion stars as ball of fluff -
a bird soft sings – one robin is enough.

Phrased out by Robin Jay and sparrow’s cheep.
from far horizon, phasing stars away
the East’s ablaze, there will wise rays rise steep
Wake! though the West still fitfully counts sheep.

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Light Years

** sitting watching stars exploding
Building blocks that make
This world go round
On some distant planet cluster
Future gazing, no sight or sound
Sitting godlike mother nature
Now immortal, on my own
Light years from home
* light years from home
Light years from home
Crimson shades of evening glimmer
Across the counts of earth below
Shield your love like buried treasure
And all the secrets that you hold
Let them go
And as the daylight
Brings the morning
I reach out for you
Anaesthetic for the heartache
Now Ill never feel alone
Light years from home
(* repeat 2 times)
(** repeat)

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Light Years

I'm looking down from a precipice
I hear a roar from behind
The whole world's pushing
To let them pass
I think they'd best wait in line
I'm in the eye of a hurricane
I wait for mountains to fall
The world comes thundering down again
But nothing gets through these walls
I've waited light years for this moment
I've waited light years for you
I'm out there watching the sun come up
And I've got nowhere to hide
The world keeps on pushing
Just to get a look
But I'm not stepping aside
Forces have met to bring me here to you
Nothing on earth can keep me from the truth
Now the eternal flame at last burns bright again
The wait was not in vain
Now that I've found you
The storm is raging around us all
A shelter forms in my mind
The world keeps pushing upon my door
But I won't let them inside

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Patrick White

It Took Me Light Years To Trust My Voice

It took me light years to trust my voice
to say things my thoughts had to catch up to
like the unrehearsed understudies of hidden harmonies
making their presence manifest in the way
their dark matter bent space and made the words move
into place like water finding its own equilibrium.
The discipline, then, was not to interfere,
but listen when the wind turns the Byzantine green
of the Russian olives silver in the turmoil of its passage.
To pour yourself out of the mirror like the tear
of a weeping telescope when the Milky Way
gets in your eyes like the smoke of a hundred billion stars.
Or the ghost of a summer radiance
summoned to a seance of mediumistic fireflies
trying to fill in the gaps on their spiritual starmaps.

Last night's full moon has sliced off
part of its waning earlobe shrinking
as it ascends from cantaloupe orange
to a pitted plum of cadmium yellow value eight.
I'm standing in a gravel driveway outside a storage shed
in the industrial part of town, my back turned
to a floodlight in a riot of insights that act like
frenzied insects, and I'm looking for stars
through the feathered ribs and scales of clouds,
toned by a copper moon rise in a cool acetylene sky.

The moon is rising over the roofs of a parking lot
full of transport trucks, and the contrast
makes the view even more surrealistically poignant.
Intensely so when I spot Arcturus burning
solely on its own in an immensity of peacock blue sky
turning Prussian blue and indigo
over a garishly lit garage that specializes in transmissions
and smells like an abattoir of oily orchids
sacrificed like sacred bulls in garlands
on the altar of a pneumatic car lift
where eternity intersects time as history.

Twenty feet from the driveway
to the perfectly latticed wire fence
sequestered on a reservation of useless land,
a pharmacopeia of every weed that grows wild
in southern Ontario, huddled on the crest
of a bull-dozed hill fort in self-defence.
And in one quick swathe of the bush-hog,
stunted runt versions of the same plants
blooming like symbols of underground resistance,
common mullein, tansy, Queen Ann's Lace, vetch,
viper's bugloss gone out like pilot lights on a gas stove,
and the sabre cuts and slashes of the tall grasses
waving green banners from their slender masts
and unbroken aerials as fragile as a heron's legs.

Beauty and utility in a coincidence of contradictories
where abstractions haven't been multiplied
beyond necessity. The earth turns as it always has
and the moon and Arcturus move accordingly
as the Summer Triangle emerges from the cloud-cover
like the brain child of a birdwatcher
with a taste for myth and mathematics.

Perennializing events in a trivial frame of reference.
And just as the bugs have their communal rapture
in the light, I stand here alone gazing at the stars
trying to see my way into other worlds
by closing the distance with the intensity
of my overwhelming wonder and longing to know
if there might be some poet out there tonight like me
watching the moon rise over bucolic machines
and the space needed to sustain them
at the expense of the trees and weeds and wildflowers
as he's mystically weirded out by the relative parity
of disparate elements in an impersonally unified field.

And he like me, Arcturus, the trucks, the weeds
and the moon among them, living the ambivalent beauty
of an eternity that breaks its truce with time
once and awhile, to adorn what's been defiled,
and let unity come forth by itself to forsake the difference
in a voice of its own the storage units trust
like the sacred syllable of a lock on mundane things
alloyed like haloes and horseshoes of stardust and rust.

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Patrick White

I Should Be Light Years Away From Here By Now

I should be light years away from here by now.
Too full of shadows. Encyclopedic sorrows
that keep updating themselves. Artistic ordeals
that return me to the world stranger than I was.
More alone. With my indeterminate talent
for living through things like arrows pushed
all the way through to the other side. I should be
out of this raving asylum any day now.
I should be released like a beast from a zoo
by a lightning storm that gnawed its way through the bars.
My last attachment in this zendo of mirageless monks
a rope in the basement, so as not to discourage the kids.

When is enough, enough? Go ask Plato,
or better yet, Plath, Essenin, Mayakovsky, Lao-tzu,
or that ingenuous adolescent down the street
who shot himself in his parents' laundry room
when his girlfriend said he wasn't fun enough?
Proved her right. Gouged his parents' hearts out.
Me? I thought I could shine for the eyeless.
I thought I could make something out of the starmud
of my middle-aged childhood, that honoured my mother.

One time I knew all the names of the stars
in four languages and all their symbolic meanings.
I taught myself algebra on my grade six summer vacation.
One time I could be grinding pyrex parabolic mirrors
with carborundum and a razor blade and a lightbulb
and a catalogue of diffraction patterns to smooth out
the angstroms for ten inch reflecting telescopes
on equatorial mounts, and the next, lighting
a gang leader from Hong Kong up with a jar of gasoline
to get him and his buddies to stop burning cats
or bashing their eyes out with baseball bats
in my Pacific Rim neighbourhood. A Kafkaesque disadvantage
in a cat fight. But I always had this little black pearl
of hope in my heart to go back to like a new moon
that said the spring is bitter, but things are going to get
better sooner than you think. Green apples
still give me gripe. And they're fallacious when they're ripe.

Translated Euripides, the Gallic Wars, the Greek Anthology,
seeded thousands of paintings on the wind
like surrealistic milk weed pods from the l0lst Airborne,
and written more poems than even I can remember
that sit stacked in boxes by the thousands in the studio closet
like the segments of a column I haven't assembled yet
to commemorate my campaign against mediocrity
that no one's ever heard of yet. Pyrrhic victory
that would have cost as much to lose
as it took to win these spray-painted laurels of tin.

Was a time I worried about myself as an individual
in relation to the tradition of a university literary curriculum
but now there are no individuals and to judge
from what doesn't get read of the great dead
it's at least honourable to be acquainted with,
put a poppy and a stalk of wheat on their graves,
no tradition either. Just these club meds of verbiage
when the butterflies land on the lips of their drinks
like cocktail umbrellas. Rimbaud's eternal cry
of protest against against the calcined fossils
of poetry booking a reading in the Burgess Shale
realities ahead of time. Merd! Merd! Merd!
Like a serial killer stabbing someone to death.

Nothing vatic about the random action of molecules.
No hidden harmonies of earth buried in the astro-turf.
No roots on the plastic flowers, no urgent necessities,
no emergency transcendence, no panicked search
for exits and entrances when the house is on fire,
No mottled fools hoping to bump into a holy grail,
No myths like the Mafia to back every word up
with an offer you can't refuse. Nothing portentous
as a comet in the flaring of a matchbook
of phosphorus red orchids with daring red eyes.

Dearth. Vacuity. The cynical gratuity
of the gnostic gospels of comic books
no one's going to read on their way to the grave.
The dependent tolerance of institutional paternalism
bringing the mountain down on everyone's heads
in an avalanche of awards and grants
that block the road between Terrace and Prince Rupert
as dawn breaks up like ice on the Skeena,
to make sure its forms are quisling enough
to pass a jury if not the way to the sea
of a more dangerous aspiration than a crossword puzzle.

Here lie all those whose names were written in jello.
Whose shrines were Campbell soup can tins.
Whose heart bridged the existential gaps
between hollow and shallow like a reality show
that never went broke underestimating human intelligence
as P.T. Barnum was fond of reminding his circus clowns.
Poetry so fireproof now you could use it
for the insulation of a crack house without worrying
anything is going to break into flames. Or Rimbaud.
Or a Chinese gang leader torching cats.
They've pulled the fangs of the moon.
No incisors in their mouths. No thorns on the roses.
And work you could recognize anywhere by its logo,
its celebrity brand name, outdated as soon as sought,
cotton candy befuddled in Lindsay Lohan's hair.
No birds in their cosmic eggs. No Big Bangs
to get anything started among the membranes
of their birth sacs. Just this endless steady state theory
of still borns deriding anything apocalyptically
coming out of a self-induced coma without a headache.

Want to hang the medal of the moon around
the throat of a night bird, or a choir of wolves,
to see how it estranges their singing from their longing,
their immaculate solitude from a mob of voyeurs
with the hasty tastes of a locust plague of troubadours
that long for nothing so much as a literary career
in a colony of towering termites, with or without a queen.
The democratic revenge upon sidereal exceptionalism.
The whole barnyard full of muddy eagles at ground level.
Or being lead around by donkeys, in chains.

And the muse? The muse never visits you
if you don't sacrifice your first best goat,
put nothing less than everything on the line all the time,
and never having had a taste of that kind
of apostate creative freedom sweeter than sin,
you're just another fly buzzing at the windowpane
as if it were a vision of life based on punctuation.

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Light-Years Apart

I am looking for someone to win my heart
But why it still seems we are light-years apart?
I am not pessimistic in anyway:
I keep on looking for you day after day.

My eyes are tired of looking for you
How shall I find you I dont have a clue.
When I will meet you I really dont know
Although if I am the moon you are my glow.

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2000 Light Years Away

I sit alone in my bedroom
Staring at the walls
Ive been up all damn night long
My pulse is speeding
My love is yearning
I hole my breath and close my eyes and dream about her
Cause shes 2000 light years away
She holds my malakite so tight so...
Never let go
Cause shes 2000 light years away
I sit outside and watch the sunrise
Lookout as far as I can
I cant see her, but in the distance
I hear some laughter,
We laugh together

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Light Years

You're a thousand light years running through my brain
Reminding me that no one's sane
Not all the time
Yes

You're a thousand light years running through my brain
Reminding me that no one's sane
Not all the time
Yes i still remember you
In a way that you'd want me to
I man a man you know see
Who will do right for you

Never let your regret make you wish we had not met
I cannot think that way yeah
I drove you crazt i see that plainly
You waited on pins for me
But needles never ever love
What did you think of

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Light Years Away

Don't inflame my passion with hate,
For a child is born today and a star is among us;
Do't inflame my mind with war!
For the keynotes of care and the vibes of love is what i need;
And with the praise of my muse and of joy! !
But a proxy from my wisdom is like a like time on the choice of your love.
'Wa ba-a gye wani'! !
For a child is born today and a star is among us;
And like the huc of an orient world,
But with light years away to the complimentary!
For you need to be very tough in this world to be able to survive! !

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Light Years

You found me
Drifting,
Big motion like a bird,
Strangest song I ever heard.
Now, now that youre here
Stay with me light years,
Light years, light years.
No paper, no ring
In the trees where frogs sing.
I brought lilies for you,
Think of all the things were gonna do.
Now, now that youre here,
Stay with me light years.
I give you a thousand hours,
Making love in the tall sunflowers.
I give you a thousand feet
Down where the waters deep.
Sleepy storm, sleepy head,
Limb for limb on my bed.
Now, now that youre here,
Stay with me light years,
Light years, light years,
Light years, stay with me,
Stay with me, stay.

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Light Years From the Others

Your touch...
Light years from the others.
Sought and needed much.

Attentive you are!
What you deliver is attentiveness.
The ones i thought as lovers then...
I dare not now to mention.

Something new within me flourishes.
I feel encouraged and do my best,
To be receptive.

No matter what my mood,
My attitude has always been by you approved.
And improved too!

Your touch...
Is light years away from the others.
And smothered by your love I am spolied.

When your attentiveness is given,
I care less who expresses,
You have got me rotten!
Yes.

And it is my wish to stink with it.
That's how long this has been needed.
And you, Have succeeded...
Beyond my dreams.

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Light Years

Written by jay kay and toby smith
You can be light years
Away fom a serious intention
See I thought Id change it all
Someday
Id get to turn mankind this day
If you dont know you can be light years
Away from your true destination
Until I get with good vibration
Im never gonna get to use this earthly power
But Im gonna jump back
Stand back and use that earthly power
Now I got that sunshine in my life
Light years half a million miles from what you wanna be
Did you ever hear about the man who tried to be
Truly free truly free
You know what I mean
Light years will stand between the laws of principle
And now we think we are invincible
But without true power its unthinkable
Light years away from the colour of our brotherhood
Light years away from our duty to assistance

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10 Light Years Away

Music : mick jones, marti frederiksen, klaus meine, rudolf schenker
Lyrics: mick jones, marti frederiksen, klaus meine, rudolf schenker
In a run down bed and breakfast
A room with a view, across the river
I tried to loose the claustrophobia
Opened up and find utopia
Theres no more denying
As my mind go flying
10 light years away to save my soul
10 light years away to change it all
Whatever it may take I gotta try again
Girl its time to start over
10 light years away
Id been watching the reflection
Of a bamboo in the shade, when I saw her
A very hot day in havana
In a midnight blue lagoon
I knew she was hiding
10 light years away so take me home
10 light years away to change it all
Help me find today its been way too long
Girl its time to start over
10 light years away
Theres no more denying
As my mind go flying
10 light years away to save my soul
10 light years away to change it all
Whatever it may take I gotta try again
Girl its time to start over
10 light years away so take me home
10 light years away to change it all
Help me find today its been way too long
Girl its time to start over
10 light years away

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Light Years

Written: kylie minogue, biff stannard and julian gallagher
10, 9, 8, 7, 6, 5, 4, 3, 2, 1
Listen can you hear the distance calling
Far away but will be with you soon
Rocket into outer space in orbit
Take us to the pop stars on the moon
Ahhh, ahhhh, ahhhh, travel in light years
Ahhh, ahhhh, ahhhh, travel in light years
Have yourself a taste of foreign glamour
Feeding on our way to something new
Missing for a night but gone forever
But they are here to take good care of you
Ahhh, ahhhh, ahhhh, travel in light years
Ahhh, ahhhh, ahhhh, travel in light years
Ahhh, ahhhh, ahhhh, travel in light years
Ahhh, ahhhh, ahhhh, travel in light years
Spoken:
Please fasten your seat belts
My name is kylie,
Ill be your purser
The exits are in the front and the rear of the craft
Get up to get down at discoteca
Take a breath and take the plunge my dear
Maybe things that you dont know are better
Ill take you in my capsule out of here
Ahhh, ahhhh, ahhhh, travel in light years
Ahhh, ahhhh, ahhhh, travel in light years
Ahhh, ahhhh, ahhhh, travel in light years
Ahhh, ahhhh, ahhhh, travel in light years
Thank you for flying km air
We hope had a pleasant flight
Please fly with us again

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Moon

Wages a war
With borrowed attire
Still looks so gelid
Million light years away
Mere glimpse
Cools the senses five
Prevents
Body and soul
Venture
On those
Directionless flights.

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Be Happy And Live On

A wise man once told me
There is no reason to regret
He said life is way too short
Why must we always fret
I watched his eyes and smiled
He had answers and truth
The story he told me one day
And those words came proof
Be Happy And Live On
His hair was whiter then snow
His eyes a dull sleepy blue
Such a joyful smile in his face
And a heart of gold how true
A farmer in his own trade
Years of hard working hands
But he was so very much more
He was a to me a magic man
Be Happy And Live On
One day sad news came across
The old man had passed away
Tears ran down my eyes hard
I had nothing anymore to say
It's hard to really be so strong
But his words live on and on
Be Happy And Live On

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God Created Heaven

God Created Heaven
=================

Beginning Earth Without Form
Void Of Darkness Was The Face
Spirit Of God The Face On Water
Divides The Light From Spirit Form.

Darkness Night
Light Of Way
Light Of Day
Dry Land Earth
It Was So.

Gathering Water Seas
Yield Of Land
Abound With Fruit
God Was Good.

As The Stars Made
Signs Of Seasons
Light On Earth
Divide From Night
Divide Of Day
He Made The Stars
Abundance Love.

God Bless
Our Likeness Of God Image
His Own Dominion
All Who Host
A Work He'd Done.

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If Heaven Could Wait

If Heaven Could Wait by Kenny Davis

If heaven could wait
If only for a year
If only, but a slight moment longer
One chance more to hold her near

If heaven could only wait
If only just for a night
That my eyes may have a chance at one last glance
At her beauty once more in the moonlight

If heaven could only wait
If only for one last sunrise
A moment to gaze upon the majestic horizon
As the sun glistens from her eyes

If heaven could only wait
If only for an hour
Time to hold her tight
Before a time spent without her

Lord, why would you bless me with a love like this
Only to have it taken away
Can I please just have this one moment longer?
Oh, if heaven could only wait

If heaven could only wait
All I simply ask for is time
For the man who is blessed to have her heart
And for the woman proudly holding mine

Is it possible for heaven to wait?
If only for, but a season
One last chance to cherish moments with her
Please allow me this minute more within reason

Lord, please understand
Leaving her so soon, is very hard
To call up my soul from hers
Would cause me to shed heartbroken tears from the stars

Can Heaven have a time to wait?
To avoid this momentary hurt
Although I would love nothing more than to be with you Lord
She is, but my only tie here to this Earth.
After all of this pain, all of this time
I have finally found the one you have made for me
You have divinely favored me to find true love here on Earth
Only to tell me now I must leave?

If heaven could only wait
Long enough to have one last cry
As I look into her eyes, as we say our last goodbyes
Before you call me in the sky

It’s hard to say such things as this
When being with her and God means so much
I would die to be with both of them
From them, I would die for one last touch

© August 2011 k.davis

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Amy Lowell

The Shadow

Paul Jannes was working very late,
For this watch must be done by eight
To-morrow or the Cardinal
Would certainly be vexed. Of all
His customers the old prelate
Was the most important, for his state
Descended to his watches and rings,
And he gave his mistresses many things
To make them forget his age and smile
When he paid visits, and they could while
The time away with a diamond locket
Exceedingly well. So they picked his pocket,
And he paid in jewels for his slobbering kisses.
This watch was made to buy him blisses
From an Austrian countess on her way
Home, and she meant to start next day.


Paul worked by the pointed, tulip-flame
Of a tallow candle, and became
So absorbed, that his old clock made him wince
Striking the hour a moment since.
Its echo, only half apprehended,
Lingered about the room. He ended
Screwing the little rubies in,
Setting the wheels to lock and spin,
Curling the infinitesimal springs,
Fixing the filigree hands. Chippings
Of precious stones lay strewn about.
The table before him was a rout
Of splashes and sparks of coloured light.
There was yellow gold in sheets, and quite
A heap of emeralds, and steel.
Here was a gem, there was a wheel.
And glasses lay like limpid lakes
Shining and still, and there were flakes
Of silver, and shavings of pearl,
And little wires all awhirl
With the light of the candle. He took the watch
And wound its hands about to match
The time, then glanced up to take the hour
From the hanging clock.
Good, Merciful Power!
How came that shadow on the wall,
No woman was in the room! His tall
Chiffonier stood gaunt behind
His chair. His old cloak, rabbit-lined,
Hung from a peg. The door was closed.
Just for a moment he must have dozed.
He looked again, and saw it plain.
The silhouette made a blue-black stain
On the opposite wall, and it never wavered
Even when the candle quavered
Under his panting breath. What made
That beautiful, dreadful thing, that shade
Of something so lovely, so exquisite,
Cast from a substance which the sight
Had not been tutored to perceive?
Paul brushed his eyes across his sleeve.

Clear-cut, the Shadow on the wall
Gleamed black, and never moved at all.


Paul's watches were like amulets,
Wrought into patterns and rosettes;
The cases were all set with stones,
And wreathing lines, and shining zones.
He knew the beauty in a curve,
And the Shadow tortured every nerve
With its perfect rhythm of outline
Cutting the whitewashed wall. So fine
Was the neck he knew he could have spanned
It about with the fingers of one hand.
The chin rose to a mouth he guessed,
But could not see, the lips were pressed
Loosely together, the edges close,
And the proud and delicate line of the nose
Melted into a brow, and there
Broke into undulant waves of hair.
The lady was edged with the stamp of race.
A singular vision in such a place.


He moved the candle to the tall
Chiffonier; the Shadow stayed on the wall.
He threw his cloak upon a chair,
And still the lady's face was there.
From every corner of the room
He saw, in the patch of light, the gloom
That was the lady. Her violet bloom
Was almost brighter than that which came
From his candle's tulip-flame.
He set the filigree hands; he laid
The watch in the case which he had made;
He put on his rabbit cloak, and snuffed
His candle out. The room seemed stuffed
With darkness. Softly he crossed the floor,
And let himself out through the door.


The sun was flashing from every pin
And wheel, when Paul let himself in.
The whitewashed walls were hot with light.
The room was the core of a chrysolite,
Burning and shimmering with fiery might.
The sun was so bright that no shadow could fall
From the furniture upon the wall.
Paul sighed as he looked at the empty space
Where a glare usurped the lady's place.
He settled himself to his work, but his mind
Wandered, and he would wake to find
His hand suspended, his eyes grown dim,
And nothing advanced beyond the rim
Of his dreaming. The Cardinal sent to pay
For his watch, which had purchased so fine a day.
But Paul could hardly touch the gold,
It seemed the price of his Shadow, sold.
With the first twilight he struck a match
And watched the little blue stars hatch
Into an egg of perfect flame.
He lit his candle, and almost in shame
At his eagerness, lifted his eyes.
The Shadow was there, and its precise
Outline etched the cold, white wall.
The young man swore, 'By God! You, Paul,
There's something the matter with your brain.
Go home now and sleep off the strain.'


The next day was a storm, the rain
Whispered and scratched at the window-pane.
A grey and shadowless morning filled
The little shop. The watches, chilled,
Were dead and sparkless as burnt-out coals.
The gems lay on the table like shoals
Of stranded shells, their colours faded,
Mere heaps of stone, dull and degraded.
Paul's head was heavy, his hands obeyed
No orders, for his fancy strayed.
His work became a simple round
Of watches repaired and watches wound.
The slanting ribbons of the rain
Broke themselves on the window-pane,
But Paul saw the silver lines in vain.
Only when the candle was lit
And on the wall just opposite
He watched again the coming of IT,
Could he trace a line for the joy of his soul
And over his hands regain control.


Paul lingered late in his shop that night
And the designs which his delight
Sketched on paper seemed to be
A tribute offered wistfully
To the beautiful shadow of her who came
And hovered over his candle flame.
In the morning he selected all
His perfect jacinths. One large opal
Hung like a milky, rainbow moon
In the centre, and blown in loose festoon
The red stones quivered on silver threads
To the outer edge, where a single, fine
Band of mother-of-pearl the line
Completed. On the other side,
The creamy porcelain of the face
Bore diamond hours, and no lace
Of cotton or silk could ever be
Tossed into being more airily
Than the filmy golden hands; the time
Seemed to tick away in rhyme.
When, at dusk, the Shadow grew
Upon the wall, Paul's work was through.
Holding the watch, he spoke to her:
'Lady, Beautiful Shadow, stir
Into one brief sign of being.
Turn your eyes this way, and seeing
This watch, made from those sweet curves
Where your hair from your forehead swerves,
Accept the gift which I have wrought
With your fairness in my thought.
Grant me this, and I shall be
Honoured overwhelmingly.'

The Shadow rested black and still,
And the wind sighed over the window-sill.


Paul put the despised watch away
And laid out before him his array
Of stones and metals, and when the morning
Struck the stones to their best adorning,
He chose the brightest, and this new watch
Was so light and thin it seemed to catch
The sunlight's nothingness, and its gleam.
Topazes ran in a foamy stream
Over the cover, the hands were studded
With garnets, and seemed red roses, budded.
The face was of crystal, and engraved
Upon it the figures flashed and waved
With zircons, and beryls, and amethysts.
It took a week to make, and his trysts
At night with the Shadow were his alone.
Paul swore not to speak till his task was done.
The night that the jewel was worthy to give.
Paul watched the long hours of daylight live
To the faintest streak; then lit his light,
And sharp against the wall's pure white
The outline of the Shadow started
Into form. His burning-hearted
Words so long imprisoned swelled
To tumbling speech. Like one compelled,
He told the lady all his love,
And holding out the watch above
His head, he knelt, imploring some
Littlest sign.
The Shadow was dumb.


Weeks passed, Paul worked in fevered haste,
And everything he made he placed
Before his lady. The Shadow kept
Its perfect passiveness. Paul wept.
He wooed her with the work of his hands,
He waited for those dear commands
She never gave. No word, no motion,
Eased the ache of his devotion.
His days passed in a strain of toil,
His nights burnt up in a seething coil.
Seasons shot by, uncognisant
He worked. The Shadow came to haunt
Even his days. Sometimes quite plain
He saw on the wall the blackberry stain
Of his lady's picture. No sun was bright
Enough to dazzle that from his sight.


There were moments when he groaned to see
His life spilled out so uselessly,
Begging for boons the Shade refused,
His finest workmanship abused,
The iridescent bubbles he blew
Into lovely existence, poor and few
In the shadowed eyes. Then he would curse
Himself and her! The Universe!
And more, the beauty he could not make,
And give her, for her comfort's sake!
He would beat his weary, empty hands
Upon the table, would hold up strands
Of silver and gold, and ask her why
She scorned the best which he could buy.
He would pray as to some high-niched saint,
That she would cure him of the taint
Of failure. He would clutch the wall
With his bleeding fingers, if she should fall
He could catch, and hold her, and make her live!
With sobs he would ask her to forgive
All he had done. And broken, spent,
He would call himself impertinent;
Presumptuous; a tradesman; a nothing; driven
To madness by the sight of Heaven.
At other times he would take the things
He had made, and winding them on strings,
Hang garlands before her, and burn perfumes,
Chanting strangely, while the fumes
Wreathed and blotted the shadow face,
As with a cloudy, nacreous lace.
There were days when he wooed as a lover, sighed
In tenderness, spoke to his bride,
Urged her to patience, said his skill
Should break the spell. A man's sworn will
Could compass life, even that, he knew.
By Christ's Blood! He would prove it true!

The edge of the Shadow never blurred.
The lips of the Shadow never stirred.


He would climb on chairs to reach her lips,
And pat her hair with his finger-tips.
But instead of young, warm flesh returning
His warmth, the wall was cold and burning
Like stinging ice, and his passion, chilled,
Lay in his heart like some dead thing killed
At the moment of birth. Then, deadly sick,
He would lie in a swoon for hours, while thick
Phantasmagoria crowded his brain,
And his body shrieked in the clutch of pain.
The crisis passed, he would wake and smile
With a vacant joy, half-imbecile
And quite confused, not being certain
Why he was suffering; a curtain
Fallen over the tortured mind beguiled
His sorrow. Like a little child
He would play with his watches and gems, with glee
Calling the Shadow to look and see
How the spots on the ceiling danced prettily
When he flashed his stones. 'Mother, the green
Has slid so cunningly in between
The blue and the yellow. Oh, please look down!'
Then, with a pitiful, puzzled frown,
He would get up slowly from his play
And walk round the room, feeling his way
From table to chair, from chair to door,
Stepping over the cracks in the floor,
Till reaching the table again, her face
Would bring recollection, and no solace
Could balm his hurt till unconsciousness
Stifled him and his great distress.


One morning he threw the street door wide
On coming in, and his vigorous stride
Made the tools on his table rattle and jump.
In his hands he carried a new-burst clump
Of laurel blossoms, whose smooth-barked stalks
Were pliant with sap. As a husband talks
To the wife he left an hour ago,
Paul spoke to the Shadow. 'Dear, you know
To-day the calendar calls it Spring,
And I woke this morning gathering
Asphodels, in my dreams, for you.
So I rushed out to see what flowers blew
Their pink-and-purple-scented souls
Across the town-wind's dusty scrolls,
And made the approach to the Market Square
A garden with smells and sunny air.
I feel so well and happy to-day,
I think I shall take a Holiday.
And to-night we will have a little treat.
I am going to bring you something to eat!'
He looked at the Shadow anxiously.
It was quite grave and silent. He
Shut the outer door and came
And leant against the window-frame.
'Dearest,' he said, 'we live apart
Although I bear you in my heart.
We look out each from a different world.
At any moment we may be hurled
Asunder. They follow their orbits, we
Obey their laws entirely.
Now you must come, or I go there,
Unless we are willing to live the flare
Of a lighted instant and have it gone.'

A bee in the laurels began to drone.
A loosened petal fluttered prone.

'Man grows by eating, if you eat
You will be filled with our life, sweet
Will be our planet in your mouth.
If not, I must parch in death's wide drouth
Until I gain to where you are,
And give you myself in whatever star
May happen. O You Beloved of Me!
Is it not ordered cleverly?'

The Shadow, bloomed like a plum, and clear,
Hung in the sunlight. It did not hear.


Paul slipped away as the dusk began
To dim the little shop. He ran
To the nearest inn, and chose with care
As much as his thin purse could bear.
As rapt-souled monks watch over the baking
Of the sacred wafer, and through the making
Of the holy wine whisper secret prayers
That God will bless this labour of theirs;
So Paul, in a sober ecstasy,
Purchased the best which he could buy.
Returning, he brushed his tools aside,
And laid across the table a wide
Napkin. He put a glass and plate
On either side, in duplicate.
Over the lady's, excellent
With loveliness, the laurels bent.
In the centre the white-flaked pastry stood,
And beside it the wine flask. Red as blood
Was the wine which should bring the lustihood
Of human life to his lady's veins.
When all was ready, all which pertains
To a simple meal was there, with eyes
Lit by the joy of his great emprise,
He reverently bade her come,
And forsake for him her distant home.
He put meat on her plate and filled her glass,
And waited what should come to pass.

The Shadow lay quietly on the wall.
From the street outside came a watchman's call
'A cloudy night. Rain beginning to fall.'

And still he waited. The clock's slow tick
Knocked on the silence. Paul turned sick.

He filled his own glass full of wine;
From his pocket he took a paper. The twine
Was knotted, and he searched a knife
From his jumbled tools. The cord of life
Snapped as he cut the little string.
He knew that he must do the thing
He feared. He shook powder into the wine,
And holding it up so the candle's shine
Sparked a ruby through its heart,
He drank it. 'Dear, never apart
Again! You have said it was mine to do.
It is done, and I am come to you!'


Paul Jannes let the empty wine-glass fall,
And held out his arms. The insentient wall
Stared down at him with its cold, white glare
Unstained! The Shadow was not there!
Paul clutched and tore at his tightening throat.
He felt the veins in his body bloat,
And the hot blood run like fire and stones
Along the sides of his cracking bones.
But he laughed as he staggered towards the door,
And he laughed aloud as he sank on the floor.

The Coroner took the body away,
And the watches were sold that Saturday.
The Auctioneer said one could seldom buy
Such watches, and the prices were high.

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