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Bliss is the juicy fruit of inner peace.

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A Loss of Inner Peace.

A loss of inner peace,
as i hear the words come out,

A loss of words,
As i try to speak of it,

A loss of a love,
a love too great to convey,

But with this loss of inner peace,
I find an understanding of life.

In loving memory of

Marguerite G. Ko

U.S.M.C Marine


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Inner Peace From God

My hopes like shipwrecked paper boats
Are crushed upon the streams of life.

With nothing to hang on to keep afloat,
Prayer, my anchor, holds me through the

Weeping I fall prostrate at Your feet,
'I love You, O Lord, my Strength.'

Your Divine comfort and grace complete,
Engulfs my soul in infinite length.

Your inner peace surrounds me like walls
And You, O God, are my glory within.

The broken, You love- and those who fall,
The contrite of heart, You redeem from sin.

There is nothing on earth that can give me this,
Unconditional love and Your inner peace.

'And I Myself will be a wall of fire around it, declares the Lord, 'and I will be its glory within.'


Copyright Cynthia Buhain-Baello
July 11,2009

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Grapefruit-juicy Fruit

By: jimmy buffett
A bathin suit
Chew a little juicy fruit
Wash away the night
Drive in
You guzzle gin
Commit a little mortal sin
Its good for the soul
And oh it gets so damn lonely
When youre on a plane alone
And if I had the money, honey
Id strap you in beside me
And never ever leave you
Leave you at home all alone and cryin
Ten speed
No need
My pickup gets me where I please
Chuggin down the street
But Ill be leavin
In a little while
So close your eyes and ill
Ill be back real soon
Ah, take it reefers
Ladies choice, everybody dance
Here we go
Yes and if I had that money, honey
Id strap you in beside me (in your strapless)
And never ever leave you
Leave you at home all alone and cryin
A bathin suit
You chew a little juicy fruit
Wash away the night
Yeah you chew a little juicy fruit
Its good for ya soul

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2010/07/15 Inner Peace

What is happening is not important, eight
storylines, context and presentation make
all the difference in a sunshine world of
translucent blue

People with velvet eyes, music playing, a
narrator adding multifarious dimensions
and the moments happening quietly for
people with happy smiles

Time-travelling for a young boy, lovely
discovery of solitude, the means to inner
peace meditating on the qualities
of godliness

The world is a noisy and busy place, a stimulant
I need time to analyse these impressions, words
rolling on without singing a song in papers
marching before my eyes

Yet feeling, emotion and sentiment keep growing
shining and filling me even without champagne
bubbling in my veins, though I listen
to the wavelength of reality

I hear the golden music of solitude reverberating
through purple halos whirling with silver threads
while the silence of contentment rejoices in the
mystery unfolding in a secret place

To explode in joy…

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Inner Peace

The morning in late autumn
misty and a little cold
much like the mind
slightly depressed and lone.

The landscape vague, unclear,
the earth seems pensive and gloomy
as it lies before me
like my life's november.

The rays of the rising sun
sweep away the morning mist,
all appear tranquil and bright.
My hopes with it return.

There goes the reaper
walking along the road
that leads to the paddy field,
trailing behind him is the gleaner.

I see(lying) on the courtyard floor
sheaves of paddy backed by the autumn sun
brown and a pale golden
and the soft and happy eyes of my father.

Standing beside him is my mother,
both beholding proudly the fruits of their toil,
father loved to be called son of the soil.
The pictures are still crystal clear,

only tucked away at other times
in some remote corner of my mind,
fountain of happiness, , when my heart is saddened
they are presented before the eyes.

As my heart bleeds
those happy autumns appear and disappear
just like my life's november
while I search for inner peace.

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An Abc Of Inner Peace

inner peace: a to z (© Raj Arumugam, September 2008)

Inner peace is effortless, as it’s always there within.
One just has to see it.

And once one truly sees this inner peace – not with words or just
intellectually, but actually see this inner peace within – it is one’s, always;
no one takes away that…

Nothing and no evil and no violent force or even the most difficult
of circumstances in one’s life can remove that inner peace that one
sees within; but let one see this not as a word, or as a phrase
but as an actuality.

Feel that peace, see that inner peace and let it radiate always – for it is
the harmony within each and it is always one’s own.


Let amity be your constant companion….Be at peace with all beings, equally at peace with those near and those far, and thus walk hand in hand with amity as in a bounteous garden…


Be mindful of your blessings always…To be alive, to breathe in fresh air;
and to be with the family and the companionship of good fellow-human
beings; and the kindness of strangers; and the creatures of this world
and the flowers that bloom, and to have a place in this marvelous planet
of ours….all these too are blessings….

There is a life of the body in the domain of the physical, and
the legitimate needs of the body are just as important as
one’s inner needs…


Think critically….even while we love and are at peace with the world,
do not forget to think critically for oneself so that one is not the fool
of the cunning…and thus thinking for oneself carefully and critically
one keeps one’s time and energy and one’s own mind….

Do your own thinking; allowing others to do your thinking for you
is to systematically lose one's will to live life to its fullest...

Freshness comes when one discards clichés in word, thought and
deed – and with freshness comes vigor, steadiness and wisdom….

Though one may mature and grow in intellect, let the child be in
you always. For each moment in which one ceases to be a child,
one is but walking dead.


Death is only part of a process in our lives….it is but another phase
as is one’s birth….
Witness the wonder of this process and constant change, and
marvel at it as one marvels at sunset and sunrise – and thus is there
no agony or ecstasy but quiet and cool contemplation of birth, our day to day
living and death….the whole of which is life...

Die to each moment; die to each memory and die to each event
and each day - and thus is there constant renewal and the ever new,
and so one sees for oneself there is truly no fear in death.


…equanimity is priceless...there is no need for wildness in joy or agony;
as the tides come and go so do our mental states, and all that we consider
bad or good….like the rise of the moon, or the coming of the stars
and the going of the stars are our emotions and our lives and our happiness
and sorrows….see them for what they are and equanimity dwells shining
within one always….


The free mind is the greatest blessing….Be free of conditioning and
be free of propaganda; be free of identity and of the group, and one is truly
free; be free of the past in all its forms as it arises in the mind as
remembrance of hurts and wrongs, and be free of the future as it arises
as constant planning and anticipation and unnecessary tension….

But what is the free mind? One is not free who allows it be defined
for one.

Be free of anyone who will teach you: there is no relative
freedom – only complete freedom…
During one’s meeting or interaction with another being – any being,
human or creature - be mindful of the question: Am I fair to this being?

And after one’s meeting or interaction with another being – any being,
human or creature - be mindful of the question: Have I been fair to this being?


There is grace in your heart, in your mind and in your very being…delve deep within and see it - let it glow, and that grace will show in the smoothness of your very movement and speech; and that grace will flow in your manner, and that grace will fill your life and each moment with peace, charm and joy….

God? I have no use for God as I have no use for clichés.


Neglect no aspect of your being – for each aspect of your being is necessary and good.

Find for yourself all dimensions of your being…see what happens and what you need in each dimension…be moderate and sufficient in each dimension, and there will be no tension there in any of your dimensions of your being, and thus harmony is yours….


Insight is when you can see beyond words and the intellect…as when one feels the presence of love and wisdom...let your insight and your intuition live and flourish – for to suppress it is to deny yourself wisdom and inner light…

Words are useless and mislead in the inner life and therefore it is in the light of insight and intuition that one has direct seeing of what actually is….


Rejoice in the joys of others...rejoice in the happiness of others…rejoice in
your own joy…find the joy within yourself and the joy in the world…

Be fair and just – not so that one may be loved by others or so one may escape punishment or so one may enter heaven, but be just for its own intrinsic beauty.


There is a kingdom within that is not by any other but oneself….there is chaos there if one rules unwisely, and there is joy and harmony if one enters
in wisdom….peace and harmony radiate there in that kingdom of your
own wisdom, and not by the power or grace or authority or wisdom of
others…No being, however mighty and however supernatural, can effect
order in there…The kingdom is only of oneself and yet in oneness…

Enter therefore your own kingdom wisely, enter in your own wisdom…


All that there is in the world is love….All the many and countless words
and revelations and traditions and systems are all but love….

All the world’s Holy Books and Revelations and Sermons are useless – there is only love…

The love in which there is conflict or tension, the love in which one
seeks to own or possess or to carve out a territory or group or personal
identity or salvation or gain or protection – that is not love…

The love that includes all and that excludes none, the love that knows
no hate or violence or tension or expectation or punishment
or reward – that is love….

We have allowed the idea and myth of God to replace the reality
of Love: forget about God for the only reality is Love…

We are liars…we are drugged by lies and
addicted to lies…but while it is easy to see the lies told to one or the
lies one tells others, it is more difficult to see the lies one tells oneself…


Be mindful of the moment….be mindful of one’s breath – of the breath as one exhales, as one inhales…be mindful of the emotion or thought that arises, that lives and that subsides…

....with no censure, no judgment, no labels, no memory-making and cherishing of experiences…be mindful too of walking or of sitting; be mindful of each act and thought…

And so does one live the moment and so thought and time - the past and future - lose their tyrannical hold on the mind…


Be mindful too of the nuances of the words we utter and use; be mindful of the nuances of one’s speech and actions and one’s silence and one’s inaction…


Observe with no imprint…observe with no judgment or residue…observe what actually is

observing a tree

You see the tree….see what is; see it as it is, not with all of one's conditioning…you look…one does not form a judgment and an attachment and a craving for a repetition of this event - but just observe with no labels…no naming…one sees what is there before one without a name, for the name is the past…just observe what is

observing the mind

One observes what is – one observes one’s mind, oneself - not as what authority says one is, but as one actually sees oneself; direct and straight seeing oneself…

One sees oneself without the conditioning and with no prejudice; one sees what actually is

One observes the activities of the mind…one sees the emotion or thought that arises, as it lives and as it subsides…one does not name the emotion or thought, for to do so is to bring in conditioning which is the tyranny of thought; one does not label it and one does not feel guilt or like or dislike…one merely observes what actually is

One who observes one’s mind knows oneself – not oneself as some abstract and superhuman eternal entity, but as one is….Not second-hand - but directly, for oneself...

Not as what tradition or scriptures or science or reports tell us what we are – but as one actually observes and as one sees what is

How can one know anything without knowing oneself? Of what use is your knowing of all that you know without self-knowledge as you actually are, and not according to some theory or report or ideology?


There are things and events you have control of – and how you pace these that are within your control determines how much peace and quiet there is in your heart…

Know then the rhythm at which your mind moves and pace the events you
have control of at this rhythm…

For things one has no control of, one’s wisdom will bring a harmony between one and what faces one…

..inner peace is never lost; it’s always there just below the apparent surface of discord. One simply dives deep enough to see this peace that pervades and that never leaves one, though one may be distracted by insistent diversions…


It may seem one’s life is a quest and one searches and searches - and yet in that moment of awareness, of full attention, one sees there is no search, there is no arriving – for it is always there, it is always here and now…

There is no such thing as a quest; there is no such thing as a search…


Rest well….one forgets in one’s hurry that simple rest can revitalize and bring freshness…


Speak gently, speak quietly; speak words that soothe and heal, and with no intent to hurt. Speak words that bring amity, calm and peace and not words that promote division, anarchy and discord.


Thought may be the remembrance of cultures and technology that move societies forward, but thought can be mostly of the past that is a burden…

Be free of the past then and make no memory of it; for the past restricts and narrows and confines, and not making a memory of it is freedom….


The world’s systems and hierarchy and Revelations aspire to drag everyone into uniformity and mediocrity…
To lead or to follow is to be mediocre – and the mediocre cannot allow independence…

This world of set formulas and systems despises free inquiry and wants to see each one of us the same in mind and habit and thought: it demands we crawl into its traditions and prescribed or revealed creed, and to fit into what it teaches is the way to be…

The world says this is the way things are and expects one to conform or to break…

Know what you are, know yourself - or the world subtly but swiftly transforms you into itself…

See what actually is rather than going the set ways of what one likes it to be or what should or ought to be or what is described to be …Discard all authority and see for yourself what actually is


Let there be vigor in all things one does; let there be vigor in thought, in
one’s inquiry, in one’s speech and in one’s works and deeds.

The most inspired moment in one’s life is when vision unfolds
naturally within; dullness comes of conditioning and beliefs that are
the companions of complacent inquiry.


There is no treasure like the treasure of wisdom for with wisdom one sees
the unmediated truth of life and the radiant truth of lasting joy in all circumstances.

Wide is the world and yet we seek to cut it and to confine it
and to create borders; wide is the mind and yet many seek
to constrict it and to set up boundaries and to restrict its space.


Avoid extremes in all matters – for it is it is the wisdom of moderation that universally promotes balance, health, happiness and calm.


In one’s intellect let there be maturity and completeness and the wisdom of ages; but in one’s inquiry into life let there be vigor and newness and perennial youth.


There are no confined zones in true love: love knows no boundaries and love knows no borders – the wide universe is the very home of love.

That inner peace radiates in the stars and in the trees and in the grass; that inner peace radiates in the creatures of the earth and in all living things and in the very air…That inner peace pervades all beings, all life and all existence.

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The Ironic Fruit

I am the apple on the branch
After a heavy rain
And probably, the only fruit
To bear the cool dew's pain
I look upon my neighbors
That rejoice from stormy climes
And in sorrow I am swallowed
For I weep for drier times...

Yet the more I tend to cry
The less chance I have to dry

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The Ripe Fruit in Paradise...

that part that you are holding
the ripe fruit in paradise
is so delicious, i cannot imagine
how can it be a source
of discord? all of us can eat it
we can share it, it is too many to
be consumed
i want to hold it and give it
all the compassion that it needs
the tenderness
the kindness of my spirit
this part of me
that understands you
now, in submission to love,
i let you touch it
and caress it,
to make it a part of us.

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I Have Lost The Double-Sound Of Inner Implication


I have lost the double sound of inner implication
The music of my own lyric song
The outpouring from within of words
Meaning more than I myself
can understand.

I have lost the poetry
I sometimes have within-
And now in this sheer linear plain prosaic line
I tell my trouble
To the page.

And why oh why should anyone care?
And who am I
Bothering endlessly unnamed and unknown readers
With my own feelings
I long to be loved and praised for?

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The Single Tear Drop of Peace

The Single Tear Drop of Peace

What if all the tear drops, of all the world,
Were added together for only one year?

Peace would spread near and far
With every rainstorm everywhere.

We would have a river of peace,
A pool of tranquility across all oceans.

All seashores would rest in silent prayer
From those whose tears washed hatred away.

All death and destruction would vanish from here
With each and every tear dropp this day.

No more would we kill each other.
No more would we hurt our brother.

No more would wars rain down upon us,
Instead, peace would reign across all lands.

It all started one day with but a single
Tear Drop of Peace in Your Eye

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Sonnet 98: Ah Bed, The field Where Joy's Peace

Ah bed, the field where joy's peace some do see,
The field where all my thought to war be train'd,
How is thy grace by my strange fortune stain'd!
How thy lee shores by my sighs stormed be!

With sweet soft shades thou oft invitest me
To steal some rest, but wretch I am constrain'd
(Spurr'd with Love's spur, though gall'd and shortly rein'd
With Care's hand) to turn and toss in thee.

While the black horrors of the silent night
Paint woe's black face so lively to my sight,
That tedious leisure marks each wrinkled line:

But when Aurora leads out Phoebus' dance
Mine eyes then only wink, for spite perchance,
That worms should have their Sun, and I want mine.

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The Poems Became The Story Of My Inner Life


The poems became the story of my inner life-
A series of confessions-

Often simple and direct
They seemed to lose their poetry-

I wrote them and I write them as I need to
I do not know if their rhythm is real
Or only prose-

I write them as poetry
Because this is what I am and have now-

Still the overwhelming anxiety I have now suggests
I always in them tell only a small part of the story
As if the feeling inside
Is always more than any poetry that pretends to express and represent it –

If I doubt the value of this poem and doubt the value of all my poetry and doubt my own value, poetry or not, and doubt and doubt-
Then certainly ‘doubt’ is one keynote of my inner life and story.

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The Virtue Of Self-reliance....

i wait for no one
and no one waits for me

copy: i am an island
i touch no one and no one touches me

does this sound like poetry at all?
does this sound like an existential angst of one who wants to hold on the hooks of words
fished out from the confused waters?

for one, i haven't heard the cries for help
there is only the sound of feet and hands flapping like the fins of a fish
as though
someone is short of breath
and about to die

i like this,
this way to the door of the music room
sitting on a bench
facing a piano
as i begin to press and let my fingers travel distances
each note
takes me to nowhere, relying only on the sound of its longing
no destination, no purpose

ah, like a cocoon hanging on a leaf
merely passing the time away

without the dream of a butterfly
inside its darkness

ah, everything blooms,
everything opens

let us see how can this happen to me
watch me as i too watch you

this must be life then, surprises all surprises
how can boredom be so real?

how can jejune be June?
what about the numerical ennui on the month of May?

listen, listen
drink the silence
savor this inner peace

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Pablo Neruda

The United Fruit Co.

When the trumpet sounded, it was
all prepared on the earth,
the Jehovah parcelled out the earth
to Coca Cola, Inc., Anaconda,
Ford Motors, and other entities:
The Fruit Company, Inc.
reserved for itself the most succulent,
the central coast of my own land,
the delicate waist of America.
It rechristened its territories
as the ’Banana Republics’
and over the sleeping dead,
over the restless heroes
who brought about the greatness, the liberty and the flags,
it established the comic opera:
abolished the independencies,
presented crowns of Caesar,
unsheathed envy, attracted
the dictatorship of the flies,
Trujillo flies, Tacho flies,
Carias flies, Martines flies,
Ubico flies, damp flies
of modest blood and marmalade,
drunken flies who zoom
over the ordinary graves,
circus flies, wise flies
well trained in tyranny.

Among the blood-thirsty flies
the Fruit Company lands its ships,
taking off the coffee and the fruit;
the treasure of our submerged
territories flow as though
on plates into the ships.

Meanwhile Indians are falling
into the sugared chasms
of the harbours, wrapped
for burials in the mist of the dawn:
a body rolls, a thing
that has no name, a fallen cipher,
a cluster of the dead fruit
thrown down on the dump.

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The Passion Fruit

[The Passion Fruit]

An epic Stanza a Dream if Might the cruel fates play tricks on the love longing mind. For Hope was the plant and Passion the fruit of the hearts implore. And love, Love is the Rain of all growth and for everyday a little rain must Fall.

The Dream of Dreams is to be loved in return by the one you dream of most. And so, her love grew for him as she saw the figure of his shadow in the corridor, and heard the deep soothing sound of his voice. And alas, She sought the longing in her eyes would at one point be returned by his. She knew at this point would be a point of no return.

Love can drive you to do incredible things; it seeks the soul, mind, and the spirit. And just as beauty, love is in the eyes of it’s beholder, for each person love comes differently, by the way they receive it, the way they give it, the way they earn it, and the way they see it. Each is its own plant.

For her it was the Passion Fruit.

She showered this fruit with love, and heartened it with hope. At last the fruit was brimming with Passion.
It was the Passion Fruit.

It was filled with Passion, but it was lacking light.
The light of restoration in which she would finally see the longing in his eyes as they were in hers.
And although she filled it with everything else there was no light, and No plant can survive without light.
Without light there is no hope and without hope there is no plant.

The passion in her eyes became a dull place in a bright world. For in her world there was no light in which to see, and no hope for it to be seen.

And so she faded away.

The day she would leave all passion behind, all hope, and all cares, she told him the story of the Passion Fruit. How it loved, laughed, and lived.

The words she said to him before her final farewell were, “When all seems Dark look for Light for there is always Light you just have to find it. Remember Hope was the plant and Passion the heart’s wish, it’s fruit. And love, Love is the Rain of all growth and for everyday a little rain must Fall.”

“But don’t forget light, for without light you cannot see the rain of love, and without the rain, a plant will cease to exist. I have Finally found my light, but alas I have already gone through a dark tunnel.” These words she uttered before she took her last breath.
He never forgot, for secretly she was his passion, his light, and his rain.

He eventually found another, but he would never love her, for there is only one love, for love is jealous of all others. So, he loved but once and the rest was just of like.

On his last breath he said, “I have found my Light, but at the end of a dark tunnel, for there she is waiting for me, my dream of dreams.”

“My Passion Fruit

(c) 2006

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George Meredith

Youth In Memory

Days, when the ball of our vision
Had eagles that flew unabashed to sun;
When the grasp on the bow was decision,
And arrow and hand and eye were one;
When the Pleasures, like waves to a swimmer,
Came heaving for rapture ahead! -
Invoke them, they dwindle, they glimmer
As lights over mounds of the dead.

Behold the winged Olympus, off the mead,
With thunder of wide pinions, lightning speed,
Wafting the shepherd-boy through ether clear,
To bear the golden nectar-cup.
So flies desire at view of its delight,
When the young heart is tiptoe perched on sight.
We meanwhile who in hues of the sick year
The Spring-time paint to prick us for our lost,
Mount but the fatal half way up -
Whereon shut eyes! This is decreed,
For Age that would to youthful heavens ascend,
By passion for the arms' possession tossed,
It falls the way of sighs and hath their end;
A spark gone out to more sepulchral night.
Good if the arrowy eagle of the height
Be then the little bird that hops to feed.

Lame falls the cry to kindle days
Of radiant orb and daring gaze.
It does but clank our mortal chain.
For Earth reads through her felon old
The many-numbered of her fold,
Who forward tottering backward strain,
And would be thieves of treasure spent,
With their grey season soured.
She could write out their history in their thirst
To have again the much devoured,
And be the bud at burst;
In honey fancy join the flow,
Where Youth swims on as once they went,
All choiric for spontaneous glee
Of active eager lungs and thews;
They now bared roots beside the river bent;
Whose privilege themselves to see;
Their place in yonder tideway know;
The current glass peruse;
The depths intently sound;
And sapped by each returning flood
Accept for monitory nourishment
Those worn roped features under crust of mud,
Reflected in the silvery smooth around:
Not less the branching and high singing tree,
A home of nests, a landmark and a tent,
Until their hour for losing hold on ground.
Even such good harvest of the things that flee
Earth offers her subjected, and they choose
Rather of Bacchic Youth one beam to drink,
And warm slow marrow with the sensual wink.
So block they at her source the Mother of the Muse.

Who cheerfully the little bird becomes,
Without a fall, and pipes for peck at crumbs,
May have her dolings to the lightest touch;
As where some cripple muses by his crutch,
Unwitting that the spirit in him sings:
'When I had legs, then had I wings,
As good as any born of eggs,
To feed on all aerial things,
When I had legs!'
And if not to embrace he sighs,
She gives him breath of Youth awhile,
Perspective of a breezy mile,
Companionable hedgeways, lifting skies;
Scenes where his nested dreams upon their hoard
Brooded, or up to empyrean soared:
Enough to link him with a dotted line.
But cravings for an eagle's flight,
To top white peaks and serve wild wine
Among the rosy undecayed,
Bring only flash of shade
From her full throbbing breast of day in night.
By what they crave are they betrayed:
And cavernous is that young dragon's jaw,
Crimson for all the fiery reptile saw
In time now coveted, for teeth to flay,
Once more consume, were Life recurrent May.
They to their moment of drawn breath,
Which is the life that makes the death,
The death that makes ethereal life would bind:
The death that breeds the spectre do they find.
Darkness is wedded and the waste regrets
Beating as dead leaves on a fitful gust,
By souls no longer dowered to climb
Beneath their pack of dust,
Whom envy of a lustrous prime,
Eclipsed while yet invoked, besets,
And dooms to sink and water sable flowers,
That never gladdened eye or loaded bee.
Strain we the arms for Memory's hours,
We are the seized Persephone.
Responsive never to the soft desire
For one prized tune is this our chord of life.
'Tis clipped to deadness with a wanton knife,
In wishes that for ecstasies aspire.
Yet have we glad companionship of Youth,
Elysian meadows for the mind,
Dare we to face deeds done, and in our tomb
Filled with the parti-coloured bloom
Of loved and hated, grasp all human truth
Sowed by us down the mazy paths behind.
To feel that heaven must we that hell sound through:
Whence comes a line of continuity,
That brings our middle station into view,
Between those poles; a novel Earth we see,
In likeness of us, made of banned and blest;
The sower's bed, but not the reaper's rest:
An Earth alive with meanings, wherein meet
Buried, and breathing, and to be.
Then of the junction of the three,
Even as a heart in brain, full sweet
May sense of soul, the sum of music, beat.

Only the soul can walk the dusty track
Where hangs our flowering under vapours black,
And bear to see how these pervade, obscure,
Quench recollection of a spacious pure.
They take phantasmal forms, divide, convolve,
Hard at each other point and gape,
Horrible ghosts! in agony dissolve,
To reappear with one they drape
For criminal, and, Father! shrieking name,
Who such distorted issue did beget.
Accept them, them and him, though hiss thy sweat
Off brow on breast, whose furnace flame
Has eaten, and old Self consumes.
Out of the purification will they leap,
Thee renovating while new light illumes
The dusky web of evil, known as pain,
That heavily up healthward mounts the steep;
Our fleshly road to beacon-fire of brain:
Midway the tameless oceanic brute
Below, whose heave is topped with foam for fruit,
And the fair heaven reflecting inner peace
On righteous warfare, that asks not to cease.

Forth of such passage through black fire we win
Clear hearing of the simple lute,
Whereon, and not on other, Memory plays
For them who can in quietness receive
Her restorative airs: a ditty thin
As note of hedgerow bird in ear of eve,
Or wave at ebb, the shallow catching rays
On a transparent sheet, where curves a glass
To truer heavens than when the breaker neighs
Loud at the plunge for bubbly wreck in roar.
Solidity and bulk and martial brass,
Once tyrants of the senses, faintly score
A mark on pebbled sand or fluid slime,
While present in the spirit, vital there,
Are things that seemed the phantoms of their time;
Eternal as the recurrent cloud, as air
Imperative, refreshful as dawn-dew.
Some evanescent hand on vapour scrawled
Historic of the soul, and heats anew
Its coloured lines where deeds of flesh stand bald.
True of the man, and of mankind 'tis true,
Did we stout battle with the Shade, Despair,
Our cowardice, it blooms; or haply warred
Against the primal beast in us, and flung;
Or cleaving mists of Sorrow, left it starred
Above self-pity slain: or it was Prayer
First taken for Life's cleanser; or the tongue
Spake for the world against this heart; or rings
Old laughter, from the founts of wisdom sprung;
Or clap of wing of joy, that was a throb
From breast of Earth, and did no creature rob:
These quickening live. But deepest at her springs,
Most filial, is an eye to love her young.
And had we it, to see with it, alive
Is our lost garden, flower, bird and hive.
Blood of her blood, aim of her aim, are then
The green-robed and grey-crested sons of men:
She tributary to her aged restores
The living in the dead; she will inspire
Faith homelier than on the Yonder shores,
Abhorring these as mire,
Uncertain steps, in dimness gropes,
With mortal tremours pricking hopes,
And, by the final Bacchic of the lusts
Propelled, the Bacchic of the spirit trusts:
A fervour drunk from mystic hierophants;
Not utterly misled, though blindly led,
Led round fermenting eddies. Faith she plants
In her own firmness as our midway road:
Which rightly Youth has read, though blindly read;
Her essence reading in her toothsome goad;
Spur of bright dreams experience disenchants.
But love we well the young, her road midway
The darknesses runs consecrated clay.
Despite our feeble hold on this green home,
And the vast outer strangeness void of dome,
Shall we be with them, of them, taught to feel,
Up to the moment of our prostrate fall,
The life they deem voluptuously real
Is more than empty echo of a call,
Or shadow of a shade, or swing of tides;
As brooding upon age, when veins congeal,
Grey palsy nods to think. With us for guides,
Another step above the animal,
To views in Alpine thought are they helped on.
Good if so far we live in them when gone!

And there the arrowy eagle of the height
Becomes the little bird that hops to feed,
Glad of a crumb, for tempered appetite
To make it wholesome blood and fruitful seed.
Then Memory strikes on no slack string,
Nor sectional will varied Life appear:
Perforce of soul discerned in mind, we hear
Earth with her Onward chime, with Winter Spring.
And ours the mellow note, while sharing joys
No more subjecting mortals who have learnt
To build for happiness on equipoise,
The Pleasures read in sparks of substance burnt;
Know in our seasons an integral wheel,
That rolls us to a mark may yet be willed.
This, the truistic rubbish under heel
Of all the world, we peck at and are filled.

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Soccer–Passion Song

Soccer–Passion Song

Soccer in the evening;
Soccer in the morning;
Soccer in spring and fall.

Soccer in the raining;
Soccer in the snowing;
Soccer in winter and summer.

Soccer in between my feet,
where I walk;
Soccer in my heart and mind,
how I live;
Soccer my love and life.

Soccer I wake up and play;
Soccer I hold it to sleep;
Soccer my work and rest.

Soccer I sing a new song;
Soccer I dance the magic steps;
Soccer my tears and joy.

Soccer my Mom buys it for me to play;
Soccer my Dad brings me to the game;
Soccer my dear Love watches me to score.

Soccer I dribble and shoot;
Soccer I pass and fall;
Soccer my glory and downfall.

Soccer I strike to attack;
Soccer I tackle to defend;
Soccer my struggle and survival.

Soccer I receive the flags and the whistles;
Soccer I get the yellow and red card;
Soccer my moves and stop.

Soccer I meet my friends;
Soccer I make my enemies;
Soccer my conflict and peace.

Soccer I play and watch;
Soccer I watch but cannot play;
Soccer my dream and reality.

Soccer I learn the rights;
Soccer I confess the fouls;
Soccer my black and white.

Soccer my endless thought;
Soccer my very last breathe;
Soccer my dating and being.

Soccer, I …
Soccer, You…
Soccer, We…

Soccer! Soccer! Soccer!
Love! Life! and Game!
Forever! Soccer!


Life is to pursue your Goal!
Dream a big Goal!
Work hard for your Goal!
Chase passionate for your Goal!
Focus to shoot your Goal!
Play to finish your Goal!
Never ever give up your Goal!
And this is your life Goal!
In the end you will scream, 'Goaaal! '.

(by Laijon Liu 2007.05.25)


Passion Song (Style 2)

Soccer my love;
Soccer my passion;
Soccer my living breath and processing thought.

Without her I do not know
What is love and life?
With her my soul gravitates.

Soccer I give her my awakening touch;
Soccer I receive her irresistible call;
Soccer my magical ball.

Without her my tear, beer, and despair;
What's the purpose of life that plays not?
With her my buddies, friends, and kindly world.

Soccer my morning and my dawn;
Soccer my evening and my dusk;
Soccer my seasons of circling being.

Without her my world is in dark;
When is time to watch my sunrise ball?
With her my sunshine, moonlite, and eternal stars.

Soccer my beginning of journey;
Soccer my pasture where I rest;
Soccer my coming and going.

Without her I do not know
How and where I walk in life?
With her everywhither and everywhere I play.

Soccer I come;
Soccer I will go;
Soccer on earth we live!




Soccer starts,
On earth peoples become fans;
Care not wars, care not crimes;
Carry our flags, songs, and drums;
Everyone is dancing, chanting, harmonizing;
Restarted our true engine of human life.

Soccer plays,
On the pitch of our beautiful globe;
Care not politics, care not separatisms;
Carry our joys, passions, and oneness;
Everyone is coming, watching, and sharing;
Rebuilt our perfect sphere in one wholly piece.

Soccer ends,
On the screens of common household;
Care not victory nor defeat, honor or shame;
Carry our beer, tears, hopes; a great memory;
Everywhere we walk, meet, and argue…
Rekindled our souls in her beginning and ending.

Soccer we play and live,
On the street, beach, and green pasture;
Care not hatred of past, injury of nightmares;
Carry our sweat, spirit, and a virtuous living goal;
Every moment of our game in life
Refines our goodly being thru true love of beautiful game.

S. O. C. C. E. R.

(2007 .05.28)


A Red Card in the Game!

A sudden stop of our play,
A bloody card and a cursed sign for us
To walk off our living pitch,
Whether winning or losing,
Artistical expression or violent acts,
Joys, tears, confusion, or frustration,
All must cease!

But our game goes on,
Our players play on,
And fans cheer on,
Coz life must go on.

Yeah, we must walk on!



Soloist's Song

(Chorus :)
Soccer is the game, hey, hey, hey;
Beauty is her name, hey, hey, hey;
Playing is the way, hey, hey, hey;
Let her shine n ray, hey, hey, hey.

(Soloist: Intro.)
I kindly roll; roll it with my sole
To left and right; my soul, my soul;
I gently spin; spin it with my toe
As it may flow; my ode, my ode;
I softly knock; knock with my heel
In Achilles' mole; my show, my show;
I carefully stroke; stroke it through
Their wicked loophole, my hole, my hole;
I swiftly shoot; shoot it for my home
To my sweet home; my goal, my goal;
I earnestly pray: to play with my all
My ball is my all; my all, my all.

(Chorus :)
You all be coming and start watching,
The superstar is in the making.
You all be standing, and start singing,
The superstar is in the making.

Stick on your dives, quit your faking,
Throw your moves without acting;
Shut your yelling and start kicking,
Too much talking, let's working;
Stop dribbling and start passing,
Time's not waiting, stop longing;
Shun the world that they're joking,
The superstar is in the making.

You all be coming and start watching,
The superstar is in the making.
You all be standing, and start singing,
The superstar is in the making.

I always take ball for a walk,
Show my love dance Rumba;
I let your dogs do the talk,
Juggle it with my driving Jive;
I am here to earn my stock,
Shaking with it in Samba;
I let you chase me and stalk,
Getting down low in Hip Hop.

Take it to a long walk to show off.
I'm a bit short, but still a big shock.
You can wag your finger and talk.
As long as I've got my ball,
My all, my all, my all

(Chorus :)
You all be coming and start watching,
The superstar is in the making.
You all be standing, and start singing,
The superstar is in the making.

Hey, Get off my stage,
You bad dogs in rage;
Coz the Hyena outta cage,
My k9 cut you in siege.
I've paid full to wage
A revolt on my page;
To stop your sinful rampage
And welcome a new age.

Take it to a long walk to make people talk.
The board is green, my feet are chalk,
Let my single footnote be taught,
As long as I've got my ball,
My all, my all, my all

(Chorus :)
You all be coming and start watching,
The superstar is in the making.
You all be standing, and start singing,
The superstar is in the making.

(Soloist :)
Can't you see I'm in flame;
I'm here for a good game;
Work hard for my common name;
Not to make it into a frame;
You can keep all the fame;
But I play for a higher aim,
Even I end up walk in lame
Or go down in shame, no blame.

Take it to a long walk to the splashing wave.
Rise above all shouts of your dead cave,
Let your noise be my rhymed stave.
As long as I've got my ball,
My all, my all, my all

(Chorus :)
You all be coming and start watching,
The superstar is in the making.
You all be standing, and start singing,
The superstar is in the making.

(Soloist :)
When my game meets rain,
My dream is into the drain;
When my faith is on the string,
My gut hurts your brain;
The Cup is for me to drink,
Coz God Is always in reign;
And I always live to train,
So all fields are fair terrain.

Take it to a long walk to test my backbone.
Even tonight you throw your stone;
Let it be my wellstone or milestone;
As long as I've got my Cornerstone;
My all, my all, my all

(Chorus :)
You all be coming and start watching,
The superstar is in the making.
You all be standing, and start singing,
The superstar is in the making.

(Soloist :)
I can hold my peace;
I can play with ease.
Gals love me as cheese;
All faults are gonna cease.
Coz I've got a real piece
To make all race in peace,
And you think it's fleece,
But I believe it's Grace.

Take it to a long walk to where my heart goes.
Even time decides to join my foes;
Let my Wind come with His blows;
As long as I've got my ball;
My all, my all, my all

(Chorus :)
You all be coming and start watching,
The superstar is in the making.
You all be standing, and start singing,
The superstar is in the making.

Stick on your dives, quit your faking,
Throw your moves without acting;
Shut your yelling and start kicking,
Too much talking, let's working;
Stop dribbling and start passing,
Time's not waiting, stop longing;
Shun the world that they're joking,
The superstar is in the making.

You all be coming and start watching,
The superstar is in the making.
You all be standing, and start singing,
The superstar is in the making.

(Soloist: Epilogue)
Journey is in curiosity;
We play in creativity;
Winning is a possibility;
Love provides ability;
Faith is in charity;
All is in the Almighty

(Chorus :)
Soccer is the game, hey, hey, hey;
Beauty is her name, hey, hey, hey;
Playing is the way, hey, hey, hey;
Let her shine n ray, hey, hey, hey.

They say soloists are selfish and proud,
But I think they have guts and courage;
After watching some bad politician news
I felt that all of us were used for amuse,
So I somehow had the image of soloists,
who have balls and ball and skill to solo
against all the things they disagree with.
I don't think this is about soccer, if not
Then 'One Man Against the World! '
He or She can be Hero or Villain, or both.


I Dream a Greatest Living Show (Revised 20090402)

- The Start Is Play -

On green earth in the dark universe,
What is the greatest living show?
There people find their true home,
and in sweetest dream they roam.
When sinful wars poke all the holes,
but their game points a better road;
to their sorrow days and lost hope,
they still can sing a rhymed prose.
From the presence to ancient old,
I swear we never lose our true goal;
Even the night rains strike with cold,
But dawn gonna come in color of rose.
Coz I see petal fly and sticker snow,
from my screen to the front rows.
There the stars fall in heavenly glow
to sing an intro for my heroes’ show.
'No more sorrows' they sing, 'behold.
the world gonna become one big hood.'
The camera flash for their perfect pose,
And their peaceful hand heals broken soul.
The whistle of commander for ref to blow,
it’s made for games and not for gun smoke.

My hot babes and my sweet maids
I cannot refrain myself not to gaze.
For their pure face and glamour shape
Shine ten thousand splendors to amaze.
They are the sunshine of my days,
And night rose of my secret space,
Brings me blue sky and good odors,
that the world is not a shitty place.

They stretch their beautiful feet,
Swing their shining sharpen cleats,
so all the cockroaches on my screen
are swept away, off the wicked games.
They work hard on the green pitch,
and always play under fair light,
even dive and foul in an honest name:
The chasing of their dream is true fame.

And peace filled their graceful heart;
Perfect shorts wrapped their sexy butt.
As butterflies they dance here n there,
Like doves they circle a ring of light.
They come in kicking and screaming,
playing with guts n breaking the balls,
composing all the greatest dramas that
even Shakespeare never saw!

Greek heroes of the present day
surely broke Achilles' feeble heel.
Odysseus always had strong arms,
But hey! Look at his weak legs.
Homer sold his Helen’s fair look,
but I do lust for Divas on the stand.
Sun Zi wrote Art of War, for war? !
Oh, No! I believe it is just for game.

And game wheels in movement of life,
as sprinting river clashing waves to the ocean.
People climb high to reach the peak,
but water streams low as art of my poem.
Generations in current from past to future,
Rolling and waving, pushing and pulling,
As songs and dance shift in tones and steps,
All kinds of fashions, old n new, switching trends,
But our passion for it forever runs.

Days and nights I stare at my TV screen,
Hope all channels show any team’s news.
According to result I drink beer or tears;
but if any rats or flies or cockroach wins,
I’d spit and blow a tooting fart: “what a damn scheme! ”
Yeah, I should quit those; coz gals hate them.
But my fields are invaded by the true aliens,
who show me their phony cards and tell me to play or not.

And the damn cockroaches sharing my meal
Before my lifetime potato feast is over;
Freaking flies soaring high in the ceiling
and dropp their filthy eggs all over my bed;
And vicious rats sharpening their teeth,
Chewing my precious peanuts as concerto;
And I look toward my dream field and know:
Before the night is over, my heroes gonna win.

Even though the flies set up the fireworks
To make the skies to illume as a short day;
The cockroaches consume all the markets,
Marching in with an overwhelmed number;
The rats of the world drain my only oil jar,
And they dare to kill anyone without blinking an eye;
But I know their works are dust and smoke,
Once my players step in the field, then all dirt are dispersed.

So all my players are my heroes and stars
And defending my crappy poetry space-
Where Beauty shines and Hope glows
There my dream rows and heart goes
As the ball rolls that my desire flows
There the gods feed me their shows
In the company of the musical odes;
They chase n woo and fighting my foes!

Their gentle touch n clever play,
and buildup ways make me daze.
Their teasing moves never delay,
Tricked the world into fancy gate.
One and Two they call it Wall Play,
Bring out woohs n aahs in any day.
They patiently wait, as time won’t pay,
but I can’t hold n yell “Come on! Ain’t got all day! ”

Yeah, what a game! It’s never a shame.
90 minutes length; never 2 minutes fame.
Guys strive for competition;
Gals always require communication,
but I say, 'Forget about connection,
Just shoot to the goal with passion.
If anyone asks for an explanation,
just tell that we were caught by emotion and lost in sensation.'

Players stand and start in formation,
their thoughts of plans are deep as ocean,
And cleansed by their rousing sweat lotion
to push our earth to a perfect spinning motion.
What an inspiration to the world in depression,
when all of us stumble in confusion n frustration,
and struggle to get out of the freaking desperation,
there they deliver our satisfaction -another resurrection.

And I know resurrection is after death,
and death is after life, and life begins by birth.
Confucius said: “Why one asks about death,
when he does not grasp the meaning of life? ”
And Jesus said: “If anyone wants to gain life,
then he must die first, to receive his true life.”
But why I mention this topic in my paragraph,
maybe I just wanna show I know something, or add on more words.

But let me offer another way for explaining:
The ending of game is after its beginning,
And the game must end for a new starting,
And in it, whatever we are experiencing
Is just eternal struggling in a flashing;
And in the end, nothing remains its glowing,
Nor greatest ranking, nor highest scoring,
If there are really anything, then I'd say playing, drinking n snoring.

But wait, in the game what a suffering for playing!
Physical, I called it aching, like a nail pulling;
Spiritual, I called it battling, like a bad dating.
But these two are always coming with smiling.
And we can do nothing but to skip and running.
When the physical pain comes with knocking,
the spiritual wound is wrapped and covered,
once our body healed, then spiritual torment revealed.

Pills for cold, surgery for bone fracture,
but what’s the treatment for missing shots?
Chocolate for girls, sorry notes for wife,
But how can we run away from our Own Goal?
Fill up the cups, drink up the whole bottle,
But before we awake, sorrow returns with a stick.
When the body melts, shatters into dust,
our spirit lingers, roams solo as a cursed ghost.

Yeah, no one is sadder than a lonely soul;
as a solo player tries to fit in the team,
plays an unfamiliar game thru an unusual frame:
Communications for a single connection;
Negotiations to deal individual obsession;
and cut-throat competition for a short possession.
One must surf against all the mighty waves,
to find himself and others thru endlessly searching, forever downloading and acceptable uploading.

Struggling life as striving game in a flash,
for single second glory, forever to catch.
So let’s drive it with ease and hush,
and bring no more harms or headless rush.
If it really hurts and our regretful thoughts gush,
then drink beer, shed tear, and kiss our dear.
Even night seems forever, but love never over;
Even we can’t abide together, let’s share before it’s all over.

And my heroes learn from their young age,
that practice makes all things perfect.
When they try to help family cooking,
Mom yells at them: “You need practice! ”
When they miss their easy shots on pitch,
Coach roars at them: “Go Home Practice! ”
When their wife teased them in the morning,
they knew they must work hard in the backyard, kitchen and bathroom.

So their nightly works in a fragrant smell
Breezes kindly in morning winds to miles,
sweetest perfume sweat- irresistible cologne-
70 bucks draws their girl fans to heaven.
Their winning cleats never washed,
Pass down good luck to generations with odor.
So let the ref blow his unfair whistle,
Coz my heroes must dance shirtless for yellow and red cards.

Their game is not only pure physical,
But it also requires some brain, or any;
Most time my heroes use their foot,
And sometimes they also throw their head,
But when their game is on the line,
That time burns to injury count,
And the goal must be achieved,
They will use anything, like their godly hand, vicious elbow and provocative saliva to get things done.

Yeah, the game is a life feast from start to end,
and in it they gather and depart by chance,
thru the taste of sour, sweet, bitter, and hot,
as four season dream they roam to awake.
Sunset and sunrise, moon wanes and wax;
our heroes come and go, rise and fall,
while our passion sings up and shouts out:
The goal of life is a forever chase, and never give-up shot.

This game of war thru peace they exchange,
As life and death exemplified by start and end.
Losing requires tear n beer, nor life, nor blood;
Winning of cup is celebrated in showering wine.
Clubs rearrange all countries and towns,
Nation against nation compete in fair plays,
only the purest concept reigns over all:
Virtuous Way, changing seasons, cultures, wits, and common laws.

No more boundaries and worldly craps,
As what we have submitted for our love:
Options of colors, race and fair looks,
Age for fit, wage for security,
Weights, heights, interests, and habits,
Certificates to speak for minds and wits;
But I long for thy cherry lips and beauty’s rose,
And my size n length to reach thy depth n width,
And my ultimate strength to fulfill thy enduring faith,
If not, then thy merciful forgiveness is my living grace.
And this is moment of my truth -my real bullshits.

My true heroes on green pitch they play;
as injurious insect in the world they beguile.
That they rip off all the crappy covers,
as the bold band of Robin Hood robs the rich for gold,
as the intoxicated outlaw of marsh fighting corruptions,
as the cowboy Jesse James rides riotously in Wild West.
And I raise up my two hands and praise their work:
May their deception in the game never ends.

Oh, deception! How could I forget about!
Wise act as April’s fool; lions speak as meek;
Vultures soar as eagles; and wolves dress as sheep;
Able does not show, giving is to receive;
Enemy is never far, and friends are never close.
Seduce their greed, rob those in chaos,
Avoid the strong, scratch the wrath,
Praise the humbles, and labor the rested,
Separate the close, strike the incautious,
and break into the house of rash head.
But let me stop plagiarizing Sun Zi’s.

Yeah, my heroes are the players that know themselves,
and before their game starts they learn their enemies.
Seasons pass, nights and days, they will never lose.
They launch in a common form and score with surprise.
Ooh, their surprises! Limitless as heavens and earth,
ceaselessly flushes as rolling river and spring water.
Their splashing waves beating the stony shores,
Chunk by chunk the rock are tossed and metal floats.

On the pitch they strike with thunder blow.
Their golden shoes are the cloudy Zeus’ bow,
Aim every wicked hole, and shoot a deadly stroke.
As hawk they soar, as tiger they stalk, as lion they roar,
in sec of flash the old foxes are trapped and choke.
My heroes wax their bow with strength,
Shoot off their silvering arrows in trice,
and beat down their enemies as a giant rock that rolls.

Their great strategy lies in a fluid form,
Changes its infinite shape as time flows;
Swift as high winds that blows, sweeping clouds;
Calm as night forest that grows, unmoving oceans;
Wild as autumn fire that razes, brimstone storms;
Firm as Himalayas that stands, everlasting tall!
They are my monkey king holds a magic staff,
smashes nine heavens and stirs four seas.

People say: “Warriors are born for war,
and they are never made for good date.”
But they are more than heroes and players;
they are lover and mate, and perfect fit.
Coz on our dear mother earth they strive
fearlessly for love, barefoot they pursue;
shamelessly for truth, strip off all their cloth,
Drunk with dreams, and intoxicated for hope.

When their magical sphere rolls and bounces,
Strangers in the world become old time intimate.
One by one and step by step in rhyme and tone,
The world rises to awake, to listen and to echo:
One and two and three, we hold our hand and sing;
Four and five and six, we lean together and dance;
Seven, eight and nine, heaven rains and earth swings;
Ten, eleven and twelve, world melts and spirit joins;
Thirteen, fourteen and sixteen, ah- time stops.

Oh my dreamer! Wake up! Wake up!
Call back your roaming spirit to return,
to the mortal shell of this mirage world.
We don’t call the game, not one, or any.
In chain we are dragged into the coliseum,
we bleed for the worldly gods to drink wine,
we howl bitter tear for ‘the angels’ to sip beer,
we are heroes in our dream, but wake to be slave.

For we rise to end, flourish to decline.
Life goes to death, surviving to end.
Oh love! Topic of two in spirit and mind;
But a single dropp of joy ripples lifetime griefs.
Cupid toys his bow, affection surges and ebbs.
Death preaches his faith, a license to kill,
so we all battle for someone else’ belief,
and offer our tear, blood, and blind faith.

Yeah, world's image clouds and entices,
as the fortune road never in our grasp.
The unseeing stars shiver in deep heavens,
I can see the soaring flies, marching roaches,
hear the symphony of rats, harmonizing;
But I know after dark night, rosy dawn,
after rain storms, then rainbows,
And toward the green field I smile and look.

Winter passes and spring comes quickly,
Sun smiles kindly and rain caresses softly,
Wind blows loving seeds everywhere swiftly,
Willow shade our streets and swing tenderly.
All flowers are blossoming courageously,
spreading their gorgeous petals widely,
and showing off their sweet pistil wildly.
There butterflies offering love dance freely,
Honey bees singing and flying, working n playing joyfully.

Come, my love. Let’s row to the pleasure field,
there we will visit the dream of red chamber,
All the beauties express themselves thru poetry,
As my heroic players en pointed in swan lake;
Their peaceful feet spread blessed good news
To all the children of the green mother earth.
And let’s loose our shoes to play, and be lost;
Coz the pasture of our true heart is holy,
and there we shall stay forever happily.

I will hold your hand, and together we'll fly; and we not gonna touch the blue sky, nor pluck the golden moon, nor stir the star oceans. But we will leap off the high cliff, and free fall, and sink deep into the darkness of downlow, to the mystery of eternity, of the still water, there the Spirit floats, since the beginning of the big bang.

Then, we shall hear the song of birds, wonder the glamour of rainbows, smell the fragrant earth, kiss the flavor roses, taste the sweetest honey dew, pick all the juicy fruit, close our eyes to roam, and plunge into the beauty of Eden – that’s love! And be reborn to a new life.

- The End Is Peace -



Watching Soccer

Silver light spilled on the green pasture,
Young bucks striving to become heroes.
Thousands thundering songs and drums,
Such wild night suits men’s whole life.



How Lovely Her Classical Old Face

How lovely her classical old face,
The complete sphere of two colors,
That knit the union of black n white,
Serves the game of amity and peace,
Thru her magic bounce and troll,
Never stops till her world spins,
Angels chant and God smiles.



Let’s Get On the Green Pitch

Let’s get on the green pitch
Be our own devils or gods
No more waiting weeps
And no more sideline talks

Let’s get on the grassy field
Before the dews dropp off
There we shed our sweat
And there we taste our tear

Let’s get on the cradle bed
Before the world wakes us
There we swing in our dream
And there we look up to stars

Let’s get on with our ball
Before this magic stops
There we chase and fall
There our love never short

Let’s get on and get on
Till that whistle shouts
No more games or dreams
No more breath and no more

(20090413/ Poem for our Chinatown Soccer Club in New York City,
To Coach Gerhard and all playmates and teammates: -)


It Always Be a Soccer Game

We must conquer it! Mate!
This world of name and fame
Let our life be a fun game
In the days of sunshine or rain

We must not shrink away
From our fear of fault or defeat
Let our time worth in second
Thru all the chance we’ve made

We must never be tamed
By any result or fate
Let our work be forever
In the moment of every take

We must learn to play
For victory, or to lose
Coz whatever our triumph is
It always be a soccer game.

(20091201/After watching Barcelona vs Real Marid)

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Learning to ignore things is one of the great paths to inner peace.

in Calculating God (2000)Report problemRelated quotes
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Learning to ignore things is one of the great paths to inner peace.

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Now We Are Dangerous

Now we are dangerous in our mighty health,
To find cooing in the creepy tree, a cuddly creature.
A boiling branch manages the curly shape
Of a forgotten message, that lay there and hung.
Deafening sounds emitted from hereabouts
Starve us solidly, and our hearing needs chasing.
The cooing bird retreats with our hand to reach,
Combative hands are like arms that shake
The tree from all its creepiness, maidens are routing.
The juicy fruit is enough, we are apt.

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