The first moments of sleep are an image of death; a hazy torpor grips our thoughts and it becomes impossible for us to determine the exact instant when the ""I,"" under another form, continues the task of existence.
quote by Gerard De Nerval
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Discontinuous Existence
We do not die, instead we live a discontinuous existence. This life here, my body, my thoughts, memories, feelings, what I am physically, once this is over it is over. Anything else is just an allusion. When we die it is over, nothing is going to recreate us, make us again. Restore us to what we are. It is over the end. No more. End of story. Final curtain. The dirt sleep. Or is it.
Could not resonances of this life carry over to our next life, be with us in the after life, in the life between llives. Could it be a process analogous to dreams? Could parts of your life continue in another existence after death in the same way aspects of you continue in your sleep, to different degrees. Part of your life as a child continues periodically when you dream at night, parts of you as a young man and or woman continue in your dreams. Images and deep connections you have with creation and or the divine, depending on your perspective, continue when you are dreaming. Though you are not you, you are you, brought to life again.
poem by Michael Kavuoti
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Diligence
at 3 o'clock
the surfer continues to search
for what is missing
in his life
scanning it like the pages of an old
diary
in his exhaustion he continues
till daybreak
until he finds it
he cannot sleep until the question is answered
there is this seed that grows within
there are roots digging
the value of his existence
the reasons enumerating why a day should be added
what tomorrows are relevant
why death is untimely
his fingers press the keys
until it finds
what he dreamt last night
the face of his father begging to do what he did not achieve
during his lifetime.
he hears the cries of the goat bound for the slaughterhouse.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Memory Of Moments Before Birth Born
I dreamed long ago
memory of moments
before birth born
before my soul entered
this body before moment
expectant ego allowed
infusion of this soul
into this clay body
death to a higher plane
of existence price paid
for entry into possibility
changing this deceit world
in Islam dream vision
in sleep is lowest
form of mind miracle
from Allah God
but what pray tell
is dream memory?
poem by Terence George Craddock
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The HoneyMoon
...Countless moments in floral aroma-we bask
Embraced-the lovers-in fragrance-mask
...Morning awakens-from sleep-time task
...NightTime slumber? -We needn't ask!
Two Honeymooners love their bed...
With thoughts of many acts in their heads...
For them-'tis nothing left un-said...
...As their total passion has been fed!
poem by Theodora Onken
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The mother and the artist
A mother might bear just a single child in 9 months; but an artist blossoms
into an infinite children of wonderfully emollient freshness; every
unfurling instant of impregnably magnificent existence,
A mother might bear just a single child in 9 months; but an artist blossoms
into an infinite children of spellbindingly undefeated innocence; every
unfurling instant of symbiotically pristine existence,
A mother might bear just a single child in 9 months; but an artist blossoms
into an infinite children of timelessly unconquerable truth; every unfurling
instant of bounteously magnanimous existence,
A mother might bear just a single child in 9 months; but an artist blossoms
into an infinite children of unfathomably unfettered creativity; every
unfurling instant of timelessly burgeoning existence,
A mother might bear just a single child in 9 months; but an artist blossoms
into an infinite children of royally triumphant resplendence; every
unfurling instant of unconquerably majestic existence,
A mother might bear just a single child in 9 months; but an artist blossoms
into an infinite children of eternally exhilarating vivaciousness; every
unfurling instant of redolently insuperable existence,
A mother might bear just a single child in 9 months; but an artist blossoms
into an infinite children of unbelievably ameliorating optimism; every
unfurling instant of marvelously benign existence,
A mother might bear just a single child in 9 months; but an artist blossoms
into an infinite children of brilliantly liberated camaraderie; every
unfurling instant of iridescently inscrutable existence,
A mother might bear just a single child in 9 months; but an artist blossoms
into an infinite children of unshakably virgin righteousness; every
unfurling instant of beautifully untainted existence,
A mother might bear just a single child in 9 months; but an artist blossoms
into an infinite children of uninhibitedly heavenly frolic; every unfurling
instant of tantalizingly sensuous existence,
A mother might bear just a single child in 9 months; but an artist blossoms
into an infinite children of compassionately humanitarian friendship; every
unfurling instant of magically mitigating existence,
A mother might bear just a single child in 9 months; but an artist blossoms
into an infinite children of miraculously everlasting freshness; every
unfurling instant of invincibly coalescing existence,
A mother might bear just a single child in 9 months; but an artist blossoms
into an infinite children of pricelessly ubiquitous oneness; every unfurling
instant of robustly blessed existence,
A mother might bear just a single child in 9 months; but an artist blossoms
into an infinite children of unbreakably Omnipotent desire; every unfurling
instant of victoriously effulgent existence,
A mother might bear just a single child in 9 months; but an artist blossoms
into an infinite children of unceasingly reinvigorating fantasy; every
unfurling minute of poignantly charismatic existence,
A mother might bear just a single child in 9 months; but an artist blossoms
into an infinite children of insurmountably intrepid enchantment; every
unfurling minute of rhapsodically unhindered existence,
A mother might bear just a single child in 9 months; but an artist blossoms
into an infinite children of Omnisciently tranquil serenity; every unfurling
instant of endlessly bestowing existence,
A mother might bear just a single child in 9 months; but an artist blossoms
into an infinite children of perpetually fragrant breath; every unfurling
instant of Omnipresently benevolent existence,
A mother might bear just a single child in 9 months; but an artist blossoms
into an infinite children of Immortally ardent love; every unfurling instant
of limitlessly fructifying existence,
A mother might bear just a single child in 9 months; but an artist blossoms
into an infinite children of fantastically alleviating poetry; every
unfurling instant of boundlessly splendid existence,
A mother might bear just a single child in 9 months; but an artist blossoms
into an infinite children of fabulously effervescent tanginess; every
unfurling instant of spiritually uplifting existence,
A mother might bear just a single child in 9 months; but an artist blossoms
into an infinite children of unlimitedly enlightening Sunshine; every
unfurling instant of infallibly luminescent existence,
A mother might bear just a single child in 9 months; but an artist blossoms
into an infinite children of immaculately godly melody; every unfurling
instant of amiably melanging existence,
Because. And Only Because. A Mother is; has and shall for times immemorial
remain the Greatest Sculptor of every organism on this astoundingly
multiplying Universe; A Mother is the Greatest Artist….
poem by Nikhil Parekh
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Death and I
When death comes
I’ll need not love –
Consumed,
No wreath or dove
Could offer me salvation,
Not when I’m no more.
A weathered stone will bear my name –
Identity of once a being
Living out existence in
A world of risk, and never seeing
Sense of why we’re here.
My genes will die away thro’ child –
Hue of eyes and hair, the way of thought,
Will quickly dim with generation –
Bow to future dominance –
Memories of provenance
Resigned to curious few.
When death comes
I’ll need not grace
Below; no grieving face
Will call my resurrection,
Not when I’m at ground –
Death and I so bound.
Copyright © Mark R Slaughter 2011
D eath Crawl
death death death death death death death death death death death
death death death death death death death death death death death
death death death death death death death death death death death
death death death death death death death death death death death
death death death death death death death death death death death
poem by Mark R Slaughter
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I Let You And The World Know, Lago Lago
The one who follows you
follows me also...
Day after day miracles happen
With not explanation
But through the world that is speaking
A gentle admonition
Or a harsh reprimand
Always there is the image
Of who I am
Before me in my peers...
Standing alone
I listen to others repeating thoughts
That were mine moments before
And I used to wonder how they knew
Or if it was ridicule
Exposing my private world
And then I realized
That people were not to blame
For the reality I made
And the echoes I feared
Were the recording
Of my own voice....
But why-should I hear myself
Speaking through others
As if every idea immediately
Impresses on the environment
A form of existence
Whose origin can be traced back to me...
As though a great adversary
Suddenly turned to me and said,
'I have been wrong about you
Let me make it up to you
And offer my unlimited assistance
You have passed the test,
Become aware,
Now go-and live to your fullest extent.'
I wonder if this was a last wish
Or if I have died already
But I decided that
A secret had been let go
An undefinable actuality
Transpiring any possibility
Into a fragile and complex reality...
My reality, as I understand....
poem by Romeo Della Valle
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Die to Live
My identity is questioned
My existence is questioned
Questioned to erase me
From this globe forever
By my own creators
My heart beat increased
I am really frightened
Felt lump in throat
I hadn't noticed tears
I looked for a hug
A hug for support
To back my identity
To back my existence
But I have no one
To support with hug
So I'm backing myself
In my well of loneliness
For my own existence
And my perishing image
In hands of a tyrant
I may lose my image
And existence forever
Whatever may happen
I will fight the tyrant
And will die with honor
So at least my name remains
poem by Kranthi Pothineni
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Yet if there really were a complete unified theory, it would also presumably determine our actions so the theory itself would determine the outcome of our search for it! And why should it determine that we come to the right conclusions from the evidence? Might it not equally well determine that we draw the wrong conclusion? Or no conclusion at all?
quote by Stephen Hawking
Submitted by Catalin Popescu
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Impossible
If they had ever told me how sweet a kiss could be
I would have said impossible, impossible for me
And if they said Id find you beyond the rainbows end
I would have said impossible, impossible, my friend
To dream about what might have been
Is strange enough for me
But now it seems Im living in
A dream too beautiful to be
If they had said a moonbeam could calm a stormy sea
I would have said impossible but now at last I see
That nothing is impossible if you are here with me
I would have said impossible but now at last I see
That nothing is impossible if you are here with me
song performed by by Nat King Cole, music by Steve Allen, lyrics by Steve Allen (1956)
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Graceful Lines Of Your Face Stunned Me
The graceful lines of your face stunned me,
dumbfounded, nothing else I did notice;
beyond me, on the road cars flashed past,
sheer perfection had an own strong power.
Your smile made me feel somewhat ecstatic,
in a instant, my thoughts, my life, reality,
my whole existence changed totally,
living without you became a big void.
Your cat-like glowing eyes burned intensely,
burned into my soul, your small snub nose,
your brow, your soft wavelike hair, your hot lips,
left much more than just a lovely picture;
for long lingering moments you were real
and your loving was absolutely clear.
poem by Gert Strydom
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Life and Death, How Ironic
Life, it described my Mother
Life, she was the image
Life, she was healthy
Life, she loved every day
Life, you saw it in her eyes
Life, you heard it in her voice
Life, how ironic it could be
Death, the impossible
Death, too somber a thought for her
Death, she would live a long, long time before it would confront her
Death, sickness maybe, but there is always a cure
Death, not even a thought in the doctor’s mind
Death, it now replaced life
Life and death, my mother passed away with a look of peace on her face
She died knowing that she lived every moment to the fullest.
poem by Janice Karp
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Not exact
Shadows are not exact but real
You can’t force it or conceal
It may be even longer than size
You must think it wise
It may accompany where you go and turn
You stand, sleep or even run
It has same strength and reflection
Think over it and base your action
A tree’s shadow proves it is standing.
A bird follows its shadow and knows it is flying.
My shadow proved that I have existence
I am living in present tense
What has it do with my being on earth?
I cease to exist upon natural death
I follow on every step and prove
That I am real and follow or move
The story doesn’t end with non existence
Its impact may follow even without insistence
People may follow on what has been left behind
They will try to know the shadow of wisdom and find
So it stays even if you are dead
Your message is accepted and widely read
Single word is enough to give impetus or lead
You have formed some link by providing the thread
poem by Hasmukh Amathalal
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Abelard cries while he is writing
Far too long the time has been
and although I am looking
all of the time in my thoughts at you,
your image over time is fading,
like a very old painting
and in my thoughts there is disintegration.
The pain cuts right through me
and I must confess
that all of the time I am yearning for you,
even if I can only see you for moments,
I yearn to have you with me
and to hold onto you as my lawful wife.
poem by Gert Strydom
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Death Waits For No One
Death waits for no one
But death where is your sting?
Even though we completely understand the reasons why,
death continues to silence us all, as we sigh.
Yes death creeps in as moments passes by,
unenviable, sadly it comes,
unexpectedly it waits for no one,
not even I.
“come follow me, ”
as I once read on a tomb
“come follow me to a place where your tracts are
Treading after me, is where you will end up to be.
And as death suddenly drenches the living in a deep gaze,
remember to use your abilities to laugh, smile, love
and above all praise.
For even though Satin through Adam and Eve
locked us up In chains,
God through Jesus ransom sacrifice released our pains.
Yes, death waits for no one, but death where is your sting?
“Where is your sting? ”
As we the living praise Jah,
in death we will silently wait for our King! .
poem by Esther Ayala
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Another Enlightenment
death helps delet an identity
and bury it forever in soil
life continues to flow till another physique
awakens it to another existence,
another name, another character
poem by John Tiong Chunghoo
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Just Innocent Children
My own thoughts reject a living man from his sleep,
My death carries on while his sleep matters,
Justice has now entered the vile villa,
Just peace staggers our abhorrent souls.
The courts of supremacy shut our mouths,
With death carrying a badge of distaste,
The food inside refuses permission for the state.
In this saying hides a reality of great moments,
One heightened sight repels me after the moment,
And then man has other mouths to feed and mother,
To father the men and daughters requires this.
Let the solutions to problems ensue and matter
Like the daughters of our society,
And like the innocent children,
That blessed the nation of villas.
poem by Naveed Akram
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An image so sublime
A room of peculiar imagery,
Sexually flushed to central perfection
Strobe light at instant still,
When dancing eyes glimmer at cursory glance,
To all standing walls that glaze,
An image of all time,
I am no curator with minds ablaze,
An image so sublime,
Crowned in cloudless clime.
An image that sparkles by lifeless glee,
That the dusk room and my wandering eyes might see,
Her dangling breast in motionless inhuman form,
Supple finger on damp blank palette,
Weary, idle mind to throb over incessant sensual call.
What an image so ordinary,
Like roses of sharp spine,
Royal in smell and hue,
An image more bright,
Less false in rolling,
Gilding the object whereupon it gazet.
A maelstrom in perfection,
Her mouth so bear,
With fluidity sorting my thoughts,
A sour smell at grieve harbinger,
An imagery of pouring dainties smell
Yet most quaint.
A vermilion odor at her hair pour
Passaged through floating breeze.
What an image,
An image long over-due for admiration,
A century of adulation to her beauteous whole.
Her sultry eyes,
Her naked primrose lips,
Her elegant face,
Her cereal face of laughter,
Her lanky legs,
Her larger than life breasts,
Her curvaceous bosom,
Her petal royal smell of skin,
To the gallery stand,
All to ashes now embraced,
That all eyes might again lust.
poem by Folayemi Akande
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It is unlikely Yanukovich won. If he did, his government made it impossible to determine.
quote by Bob Schaffer
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Heart Of Ice
Suppressed feelings
Hiding in the bottom of your heart...
Sometimes,
Re bouncing back to your mind
As a form of thoughts,
And a fixed image of me
Which you can't still resist,
In carrying on your stubbornness
Reality you defy and resist...
Great moments we happily spent
And which you painfully miss,
Now, trapped in the shadow and loneliness
Feeling blue or depressed
But still bearing your heart of ice
Refusing to honor my great sacrifice...
Please! don't blame me,
If you no longer have a sweet dream
Since you can not again sleep
The guilt you carry for treating me
Not like a human but like a sheep...
I loved you so much, yes indeed.
You failed our love to bridge...
Your life became hollow,
Dried and really cold...
Tender feelings for you I can't unfold
Since you become the woman
Hiding behind the shadow
Who missed breaking me down as a man...
COPY WRITE©2009
poem by Romeo Della Valle
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