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Charles Baudelaire

There exist only three beings worthy of respect: the priest, the soldier, the poet. To know, to kill, to create.

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On Happiness And Bacon

There's no real 'way' to
Happiness…Happiness is a
A way in itself


---

There's only three things
Of import in the morning
Sleep, sex and…' BACON! ! '

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I Promise You

i promise you

when there are only three stars in heaven
when the moon fades behind the clouds of darkness

i promise you

i shall give all these three stars for you
to light your way and marvel you
till you meet your destiny

i shall have none
i never liked one.

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Soldier

The soldier, he has many battle scars.
But there's only a few, others can see.
The wounds, they did not kill him,
They made him who he was called to be.
Although some of his battles were easy,
Through each of his battles he died.
The pieces, which were his true enemy.
Were the pieces that did not survive.
When the soldier, he goes into battle,
He must know who his enemies are.
They are the ones that would harm another,
And make the soldier, seem like he, was the star.
It is only once you discover the enemy,
The march to victory, then can begin.
For the war that the soldier is fighting.
Is the battle he fights from within.
In each of us there is a soldier.
And each day, we fight the good fight.
For the ones who walk into victory,
Are the ones who find their true light.

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Elizabeth Barrett Browning

Sonnet II: But Only Three in All God's Universe

But only three in all God's universe
Have heard this word thou has said,--Himself, beside
Thee speaking, and me listening! and replied
One of us...that was God,...and laid the curse
So darkly on my eyelids, as to amerce
My sight from seeing thee,--that if I had died,
The deathweights, placed there, would have signified
Less absolute exclusion. Nay is worse
From God than from all others, O my friend!
Men could not part us with their worldly jars,
Nor the seas change us, nor the tempests bend;
Our hands would touch for all the mountain-bars:
And, heaven being rolled between us at the end,
We should but vow the faster for the stars.

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Elizabeth Barrett Browning

Sonnet 02 - But only three in all God's universe

II

But only three in all God's universe
Have heard this word thou hast said,—Himself, beside
Thee speaking, and me listening! and replied
One of us . . . that was God, . . . and laid the curse
So darkly on my eyelids, as to amerce
My sight from seeing thee,—that if I had died,
The deathweights, placed there, would have signified
Less absolute exclusion. 'Nay' is worse
From God than from all others, O my friend!
Men could not part us with their worldly jars,
Nor the seas change us, nor the tempests bend;
Our hands would touch for all the mountain-bars:
And, heaven being rolled between us at the end,
We should but vow the faster for the stars.

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Two sentient beings

poetry in progress


two sentient beings at the
edge of the other realm
in chirpy vocals sang their
hearts over the affairs
of the humankind

one of them crossly
opined: isnt it a cursed realm?
blood stains every inch
of the way and half the
creations has extinct
most stuffed into the
stomach which could
be big as the universe itself
desire big as the heart

and they say there are only
three dimensions when there
are as many as as the mind
has swum into being

and the brains can you
imagine they can work
computers but on their own
cannot tabulate up to seven
digits in three seconds
without falling heads
over heals

some of them practically walk
into their deaths
i helped some, by zooming
onto their intuition about
impending risks, some
got it, some didnt
i even sent dreams
just now i just sent a wave
into someone that he
would be very rich in the
near future and he did
show some response
I flew away anyway

would you love to be there
living with them anyway?

oh dear, you mean like
Buddha who taught them
a thing or two about the hereafter
noway, it is a realm where rats go to

for me, i would love to be just
flying in this, and whenever possible
give out a light or two to
deserving souls i might bump
into right below

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Kim Wilde

Sex does not exist for me at all. I haven't had a boyfriend for a long time. There were only three or four in my life up until now anyway.

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In My Heart, There Is Only You

in the mountain
there are trees
in the sea
there are fishes
in the garden
there are flowers
in the sky
there is the sun
in my heart
there is only YOU.

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There Is Only Art

Sickness
Health
Poverty
Wealth


It does not matter.
There is only art.

For Michelangelo
Picasso passion artists.


Weather seasons not
as El Niño or La Nina

but Il Divino
'the divine one'.


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Erica Jong

There Is Only One Story

There is only one story:
he loved her,
then stopped loving her,
while she did not
stop loving him.

There is only one story:
she loved him,
then stopped loving him,
while he did not
stop loving her.

The truth is simple:
you do not die
from love.

You only wish
you did.

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Quatrain #206 - There's only One God......

There's only One God Eternal irrespective of how many religions there all are,
because each is a different path one takes to realise Him shown by an Avatar.
There are many races of people each with their own culture, language and locality,
which are all part of the One Human Race, that in unique ways worship That Deity.

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ONE, TWO, THREE of LOVE

If there were only ONE song
Possessed of every note of choice
It could not match the music
Of the Lovesong in your voice

If there were only TWO stars
Owning all light of the skies
They could not match the brilliance
Of the Lovelight in your eyes

If there were only THREE words
That your own ears ever knew
May they proceed from my lips
As I whisper “ I Love You, ”

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There Are Only Eyes Appearing Above The Surface

There are only eyes appearing above the surface
in the brown water of the river's pool
before they again disappear without a trace.
There are only eyes appearing above the surface
when it notices a prey, are covered by the water-curtain
where the crocodile hides in the depths of the river,
there are only eyes appearing above the surface
in the brown water of the river's pool.

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Early Works - For There Is Only One You

I can make birds
to fly across a sky of blue.
I can make fish
to swim in the sea too,
but I can’t make an angel
for there is only one you.

I built a dream of hope;
it crumbled around me like burnt rope.
I built a dream of happiness,
but it tumbled around me like shattered glass.

I can make homes
for people to live.
I can make love
and to you I can give,
but I can’t make an angel
for there is only one you.


Date unknown. (Probably in the 1960’s)

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There Is Only God

There is only God,
There is only love,
There is only friendship,
There are only kind beliefs
To guide us through storms and sorrows,
To see us through sadness unimaginable.

The current days are darkness
And desolate clouds,
But the soul is sunlight
Mingled with flowers,
I’d walk with you in a city park
If I could;

While I’m breathing,
I’ll put my poems in a bouquet for you
And try to be heroic in the pursuit of hope
And seeing you smile in a pleasant place.

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Only Three Days Away

Is it the quietness of midnight,
That people find it appropriate...
To honk a car horn to shock and disturb,
With a shouting to a closed window...
Of someone living just a few steps away.
To then have a loud conversation,
As to where they should meet for lunch...
When the weekend comes?

Is it the quietness of midnight,
That people find this appropriate to do?
Or should I ignore what is going on,
To get up to have a snack of popcorn?
And forget about sleeping.
With a making of my own plans,
For a weekend anticipated with such enthusiasm...
Only three days away.

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If There's A God

If there's a God that God is for everybody and in every good person that God you will find
And if there's a God that God is not judgemental but understanding very wise and kind
The fundimentalists say that their God is a true God and those who pray to other Gods to false Gods pray
The true God than their God must be far kinder a far superior God in every way,
Some people who are spiritual as well as quite wise say there's only one God and that's the God within
And that God is ever kind and none judgemental and capable of forgiving even mortal sin
The God men wage war for is not a true God and many go to war in their God's name
A true God would not need them as worshippers war to a true God would be a thing of shame
If there's a God that God is a kind spirit and far greater than the God's we hear about
He even could embrace the non believers and give them the benefit of any doubt
The Gods we hear about they do seem cruel Gods so egotistical in their own way
An eye for an eye does seem for to appease them for everyone's life a true God respect would pay
And if there's a God that God is for all people unlike the God that humankind create
A God who believes on a fair go for all people and the only God we ought to celebrate.

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At First There Was Only The Truth

at first there was only the truth
it was born
it did not know anything about lies
and being pure
and unrelated yet to anyone except to mother
the truth remains to be the truth
until many things happened
on its life,

father lies at him
at first he is confused
and brothers expect him to be this way and that way
like what his sisters is telling him
from time to time

truth wants to remain true
because there is joy to its nature
but nature too dislikes it
and then it inflicts pain
to it

at first there was the pinch
it increased to slaps
and then the mauling began
there were series of intimidation
sometimes they use the carrot
sometimes the stick
truth was confused until it gets of age
and knows the mechanisms
of defenses

of age it knows right and wrong
of course, it knows what is true and what is not
it is so easy to detect that
even on asymptomatic situations

but this world are made of rules
and liars who triumph hold the book, the law, the rules of their own games
and truth too just like you wants to survive
and so finally it knows how to wear different colors
shades, clothes, sneakers,
masks,

it knows about the fox
and the wiles of the snakes

and true to itself
it becomes a wise creature

joins the rat race
goes for a kill
even on acrobatics
knows when to change
its face
to hide its voice
and the exact time
to bite
and lick.

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One Light: Three Primary Colors

Red is the colour of blood that flows in the body of all creatures given birth
Green is the colour of grass that like a carpet covers a lot of the soil of earth
Blue is the colour of sky that surrounds this world and is of an infinite girth
All three colours come from a Single Source having an Immeasurable worth.

Red is also the colour of danger and a symbol which indicates all to beware
Green is also the colour of the leaves that most of the plants and trees wear
Blue is also the colour of water that covers most of this world which is fair
Three colours are the original blend of all those others found in nature there.

Red is also the colour of anger, passion or pain that is expressed, felt and seen
Green is also the colour of something natural an indication of where it has been
Blue is also the colour of Infinity and the light glowing in a mind which is clean
And all three colours are shades of One Light the essence of all universal sheen.

Of all the three colours I like blue the most as it seems to be uniquely sublime
It speaks to me of loftier and deeper things that were experienced in my prime
It also represents the colour of the biggest phenomena known to man in time
Being a symbol of That in which all exists and from which all began to chime.
------------------------
Note:
There are many other colors but as far as those which form the basis of technology there are only three i.e; as in a R.G.B. monitor and screen projector etc.

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Czeslaw Milosz

A Treatise On Poetry: IV Natura

Pennsylvania, 1948-1949

The garden of Nature opens.
The grass at the threshold is green.
And an almond tree begins to bloom.

Sunt mihi Dei Acherontis propitii!
Valeat numen triplex Jehovae!
Ignis, aeris, aquae, terrae spiritus,
Salvete!—says the entering guest.

Ariel lives in the palace of an apple tree,
But will not appear, vibrating like a wasp’s wing,
And Mephistopheles, disguised as an abbot
Of the Dominicans or the Franciscans,
Will not descend from a mulberry bush
Onto a pentagram drawn in the black loam of the path.


But a rhododendron walks among the rocks
Shod in leathery leaves and ringing a pink bell.
A hummingbird, a child’s top in the air,
Hovers in one spot, the beating heart of motion.
Impaled on the nail of a black thorn, a grasshopper
Leaks brown fluid from its twitching snout.
And what can he do, the phantom-in-chief,
As he’s been called, more than a magician,
The Socrates of snails, as he’s been called,
Musician of pears, arbiter of orioles, man?
In sculptures and canvases our individuality
Manages to survive. In Nature it perishes.
Let him accompany the coffin of the woodsman
Pushed from a cliff by a mountain demon,
The he-goat with its jutting curl of horn.
Let him visit the graveyard of the whalers
Who drove spears into the flesh of leviathan
And looked for the secret in guts and blubber.
The thrashing subsided, quieted to waves.
Let him unroll the textbooks of alchemists
Who almost found the cipher, thus the scepter.
Then passed away without hands, eyes, or elixir.


Here there is sun. And whoever, as a child,
Believed he could break the repeatable pattern
Of things, if only he understood the pattern,
Is cast down, rots in the skin of others,
Looks with wonder at the colors of the butterfly,
Inexpressible wonder, formless, hostile to art.


To keep the oars from squeaking in their locks,
He binds them with a handkerchief. The dark
Had rushed east from the Rocky Mountains
And settled in the forests of the continent:
Sky full of embers reflected in a cloud,
Flight of herons, trees above a marsh,
The dry stalks in water, livid, black. My boat
Divides the aerial utopias of the mosquitoes
Which rebuild their glowing castles instantly.
A water lily sinks, fizzing, under the boat’s bow.


Now it is night only. The water is ash-gray.
Play, music, but inaudibly! I wait an hour
In the silence, senses tuned to a beaver’s lodge.
Then suddenly, a crease in the water, a beast’s
black moon, rounded, ploughing up quickly
from the pond-dark, from the bubbling methanes.
I am not immaterial and never will be.
My scent in the air, my animal smell,
Spreads, rainbow-like, scares the beaver:
A sudden splat.
I remained where I was
In the high, soft coffer of the night’s velvet,
Mastering what had come to my senses:
How the four-toed paws worked, how the hair
Shook off water in the muddy tunnel.
It does not know time, hasn’t heard of death,
Is submitted to me because I know I’ll die.


I remember everything. That wedding in Basel,
A touch to the strings of a viola and fruit
In silver bowls. As was the custom in Savoy,
An overturned cup for three pairs of lips,
And the wine spilled. The flames of the candles
Wavery and frail in a breeze from the Rhine.
Her fingers, bones shining through the skin,
Felt out the hooks and clasps of the silk
And the dress opened like a nutshell,
Fell from the turned graininess of the belly.
A chain for the neck rustled without epoch,
In pits where the arms of various creeds
Mingle with bird cries and the red hair of caesars.


Perhaps this is only my own love speaking
Beyond the seventh river. Grit of subjectivity,
Obsession, bar the way to it.
Until a window shutter, dogs in the cold garden,
The whistle of a train, an owl in the firs
Are spared the distortions of memory.
And the grass says: how it was I don’t know.


Splash of a beaver in the American night.
The memory grows larger than my life.
A tin plate, dropped on the irregular red bricks
Of a floor, rattles tinnily forever.
Belinda of the big foot, Julia, Thaïs,
The tufts of their sex shadowed by ribbon.


Peace to the princesses under the tamarisks.
Desert winds beat against their painted eyelids.
Before the body was wrapped in bandelettes,
Before wheat fell asleep in the tomb,
Before stone fell silent, and there was only pity.


Yesterday a snake crossed the road at dusk.
Crushed by a tire, it writhed on the asphalt.
We are both the snake and the wheel.
There are two dimensions. Here is the unattainable
Truth of being, here, at the edge of lasting
and not lasting. Where the parallel lines intersect,
Time lifted above time by time.


Before the butterfly and its color, he, numb,
Formless, feels his fear, he, unattainable.
For what is a butterfly without Julia and Thaïs?
And what is Julia without a butterfly’s down
In her eyes, her hair, the smooth grain of her belly?
The kingdom, you say. We do not belong to it,
And still, in the same instant, we belong.
For how long will a nonsensical Poland
Where poets write of their emotions as if
They had a contract of limited liability
Suffice? I want not poetry, but a new diction,
Because only it might allow us to express
A new tenderness and save us from a law
That is not our law, from necessity
Which is not ours, even if we take its name.


From broken armor, from eyes stricken
By the command of time and taken back
Into the jurisdiction of mold and fermentation,
We draw our hope. Yes, to gather in an image
The furriness of the beaver, the smell of rushes,
And the wrinkles of a hand holding a pitcher
From which wine trickles. Why cry out
That a sense of history destroys our substance
If it, precisely, is offered to our powers,
A muse of our gray-haired father, Herodotus,
As our arm and our instrument, though
It is not easy to use it, to strengthen it
So that, like a plumb with a pure gold center,
It will serve again to rescue human beings.


With such reflections I pushed a rowboat,
In the middle of the continent, through tangled stalks,
In my mind an image of the waves of two oceans
And the slow rocking of a guard-ship’s lantern.
Aware that at this moment I—and not only I—
Keep, as in a seed, the unnamed future.
And then a rhythmic appeal composed itself,
Alien to the moth with its whirring of silk:


O City, O Society, O Capital,
We have seen your steaming entrails.
You will no longer be what you have been.
Your songs no longer gratify our hearts.


Steel, cement, lime, law, ordinance,
We have worshipped you too long,
You were for us a goal and a defense,
Ours was your glory and your shame.


And where was the covenant broken?
Was it in the fires of war, the incandescent sky?
Or at twilight, as the towers fly past, when one looked
From the train across a desert of tracks

To a window out past the maneuvering locomotives
Where a girl examines her narrow, moody face
In a mirror and ties a ribbon to her hair
Pierced by the sparks of curling papers?


Those walls of yours are shadows of walls,
And your light disappeared forever.
Not the world's monument anymore, an oeuvre of your own
Stands beneath the sun in an altered space.


From stucco and mirrors, glass and paintings,
Tearing aside curtains of silver and cotton,
Comes man, naked and mortal,
Ready for truth, for speech, for wings.


Lament, Republic! Fall to your knees!
The loudspeaker’s spell is discontinued.
Listen! You can hear the clocks ticking.
Your death approaches by his hand.


An oar over my shoulder, I walked from the woods.
A porcupine scolded from the fork of a tree,
A horned owl, not changed by the century,
Not changed by place or time, looked down.
Bubo maximus, from the work of Linnaeus.


America for me has the pelt of a raccoon,
Its eyes are a raccoon’s black binoculars.
A chipmunk flickers in a litter of dry bark
Where ivy and vines tangle in the red soil
At the roots of an arcade of tulip trees.
America’s wings are the color of a cardinal,
Its beak is half-open and a mockingbird trills
From a leafy bush in the sweat-bath of the air.
Its line is the wavy body of a water moccasin
Crossing a river with a grass-like motion,
A rattlesnake, a rubble of dots and speckles,
Coiling under the bloom of a yucca plant.


America is for me the illustrated version
Of childhood tales about the heart of tanglewood,
Told in the evening to the spinning wheel’s hum.
And a violin, shivvying up a square dance,
Plays the fiddles of Lithuania or Flanders.
My dancing partner’s name is Birute Swenson.
She married a Swede, but was born in Kaunas.
Then from the night window a moth flies in
As big as the joined palms of the hands,
With a hue like the transparency of emeralds.


Why not establish a home in the neon heat
Of Nature? Is it not enough, the labor of autumn,
Of winter and spring and withering summer?
You will hear not one word spoken of the court
of Sigismund Augustus on the banks of the Delaware River.
The Dismissal of the Greek Envoys is not needed.
Herodotus will repose on his shelf, uncut.
And the rose only, a sexual symbol,
Symbol of love and superterrestrial beauty,
Will open a chasm deeper than your knowledge.
About it we find a song in a dream:


Inside the rose
Are houses of gold,
black isobars, streams of cold.
Dawn touches her finger to the edge of the Alps
And evening streams down to the bays of the sea.


If anyone dies inside the rose,
They carry him down the purple-red road
In a procession of clocks all wrapped in folds.
They light up the petals of grottoes with torches.
They bury him there where color begins,
At the source of the sighing,
Inside the rose.


Let names of months mean only what they mean.
Let the Aurora’s cannons be heard in none
Of them, or the tread of young rebels marching.
We might, at best, keep some kind of souvenir,
Preserved like a fan in a garret. Why not
Sit down at a rough country table and compose
An ode in the old manner, as in the old times
Chasing a beetle with the nib of our pen?

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