Rubaiyat of Evolution
From lightning life evolved, primaeval soup,
when catalyzed, caused atoms to regroup,
then enzymes formed when storm informal mass
transformed to DNA with spiral hoop.
As aeons aeons followed through the tale
mutated in perpetua till tail
was dropped by species which was destined for
a phase to cut diversity wholesale.
From Africa or from the Middle East
the race spread out as flora, fauna, beast
became subdued, eliminated or,
as Dodo stored the Future’s eyes to feast.
Man through the Baring straits passed east and west,
spread gene groups led by chance, or Fate’s behest,
advanced to test conditions to provide
enough and more beside, bed, board, and rest.
Then thirty years longevity appeared
a gift few knew who daily Death must beard,
with naught superfluous, armed with fire and flint,
against the cold fought, hunting sought and feared.
Since then ten thousand years have sped to seed
the settlements which sounded ways to feed
the populations which found pride and place
discovered needs creating greater need.
Today we have surpassed threescore and ten,
though great divides exist between those men
who culture “western” can enjoy and those
who nomad drift exploited far from ken.
Tomorrow, - which this century presumes –
Man’s span may stretch two thousand silver moons,
themselves repeated through clone spliced in time
confounding Nature, - vanity’s buffoons.
13 March 2005 – Parody Edward Fitzgerald – Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam
poem by Jonathan Robin
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Related quotes
You Are Here
From liverpool to tokyo
What a way to go
From distant lands one woman one man
Let the four winds blow
Three thousand miles over the ocean
Three thousand light years from the land of the rising sun
Love has opened up my eyes
Love has blown right through
Wherever you are, you are here
Wherever you are, you are here
Three thousand miles over the ocean
Three thousand light years from the land of the surprising sun
Well now east is east and west is west
The twain shall meet
East is west and west is east
Let it be complete
Three thousand miles over the ocean
Three thousand light years from the land of the morning star
song performed by by Lennon John
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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You Are Here
-nine!
From liverpool
To tokyo,
What a way to go.
From distant lands,
One woman, one man,
Let the four winds blow.
Three thousand miles over the ocean.
Three thousand light-years
From the land of the rising sun.
Love has opened my eyes,
Love has blown right through.
Wherever you are, (wherever you are)
You are here. (you are here)
Wherever you are, (wherever you are)
You are here. (you are here)
Three thousand miles over the ocean.
Three thousand light-years
From the land of surprising sun.
Well, now east is east
And west is west,
The twain shall meet.
East is west and west is east,
Let it be complete.
Three thousand miles over the ocean.
Three thousand light-years
From the land of the morning star.
Uh hu -
song performed by by Yoko Ono
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A Fine Culture
They were indeed simple people
the people of the east
A FINE CULTURE they did have
the people of the east
A FINE CULTURE
the east should have given the rest
when the west brought out the 'machine'
the east brought out the 'human'
Today's world is not lacking in machine
Today's world is lacking in human
Today's east is sending 'productive men' all over
the east should have sent 'human men' all over
How did the east stray?
when did it loose it's way?
The east then found everything in simplicity
simplicity was it's strength and beauty
simplicity gave the east it's integrity
simplicity never ever gave the east an inferiority
Today the east mocks the west
the 'material' wealth of the west..has
put to rest...the
true spirit of the east
We blame it on simplicity
we say we were plundered due to our simplicity
a handed down book on simplicity
only became a liability..we say
What the west had gained
everybody did gain...the 'machine'
what the east had lost
everbody did loose...the 'human'
Today what are we in
an 'un human' man is managing a dangerous dumb 'machine'...and
THAT'S THE DANGER WE ARE IN...without
a fine culture
poem by Samanyan Lakshminarayanan
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Conflict In Their Mind
In the middle I have heard of a wild beast having a great feast
From where I stand I can see his tail bruising the southern land
With his flaws he struggled to get grip of the northern walls
From where I am free I can see his head dangling across the red sea
Some say this beast always stretch his back legs far east
Tho he sometimes grip the west but the way he back of I am impress
This beast is somewhere in our mind as we are so blind to slay our owne kind
poem by Kemurl Fofanah
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An Open Gate - 1222 - 2008 Version
The need that tames the flames of inner fire
may seed ten thousand ripples, may be more.
Desire to feed the furnace of desire
creates from dust more than there was before.
Those letters [l]inked on parchment or those which
on pixel tell~tale tra[n]ce dance in the brain
may early, late, both stimulate, enrich,
cross reference, cross reference again.
Rich pitch one hears switch spheres have ever known
they knew they knew before tuned undertone
vibrating through the Universal, sown
as echo coeval with the wind thats blown
along the way as day and night advance ~
or is it coexist in parallel ~
with worlds dreams glimpse perhaps when changeling Chance
weird timeline opens till dawn's waking bell.
What counts is ways the wave bands interlink
from infra violent through the ultra read
judgmental values fade, flushed down Life's sink,
the Pattern counts, how waft and web are spread
within the flow itself should make one think
there is no past, no present, no ahead,
as Time can rhyme the span, at Man must wink ~
as [s]he's from Judge to Judgement, spinning, led.
The air we breathe with life must seethe and how
that interacts to marshal facts is strange,
coincidence may shape both 'here and now'
and still instill, fulfill, more scope, more range
without the trammels and the platitudes
which most repeat ~ both low and high ~ as each
delays, downplays unusual attitudes,
won't glow in flow with currents out of reach.
This flow is pattern icing on the cake
the poet bakes it takes the time to write,
which whirls around, spurns sight and sound to rake
no line dividing time, space, day or night.
Thus time itself appears conveyor belt
on belt 'die Welt' drives on at different speeds,
some contradictory, some helter-skelt
to feed the need to feed the need to seed
an echo which upon an unknown date
in turn may stimulate discovery
of what once known ~ unlocking open gate
calling upon the inner eye to see.
the need that tames the flames of inner fire
to seed ten thousand ripples, may be more,
desire to feed the furnace of desire
from doom creating more than bloomed before.
(16 April 2005)
poem by Jonathan Robin
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Nature Of The Beast
It is the key to all the doors,
It is the crashing on the shores.
It lives in your steering wheel.
It hides in the wind and rain,
With voices as cold as steel
Its calling your name
It is the smile upon his face
It is the winning of the race.
It lives in the red-alert.
It lives in the power game
Its easy to take to heart
But harder to tame
This is the nature of the beast
(this is the nature)
This is the nature of the beast
(this is the nature)
Without all this heat
Theyll be dancing west to east
This is the nature of the beast
It is the glowing in his eyes
It is the reason for his lies
How many know youre there
How many play your game
Hes always the man to dare
Youre always to blame
It is the need to understand
It is the trigger in his hand
It lives in the uniform
It grows from the need to gain
With faces so old and torn
Its calling your name
This is the nature of the beast
(this is the nature)
This is the nature of the beast
(this is the nature)
Without all this heat
Theyll be dancing west to east
This is the nature of the beast.
song performed by by Spandau Ballet
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Too High
Dodo do do do dodo
Do do dodo do dodo
Dodo dodo do do
Dodo do do do dodo
Do do do do dodo do
Dodo dodo dodo
I'm too high
I'm too high
But I ain't touched the sky
I'm too high
I'm too high
But I ain't touched the sky
She's a girl in a dream
She sees a four-eyed cartoon monster
On the T.V. screen
She takes another puff and says
"It's a crazy scene"
That red is green
And she's a tangerine
I'm too high
I'm too high
But I ain't left the ground
I'm too high
I'm too high
I hope I never ever come down
She's the girl in her life
But her world's a superficial paradise
She had a chance to make it big more than once or twice
But no dice
She wasn't very nice
Ooh
Dodo do do do dodo
Do do dodo do dodo
Do do do do do do
Dodo do do do dodo
Do do dodo do dodo
Dodo dodo
Dodo dodo
Dodo dodo
I'm too high
I'm too high
I'm so high
I feel like I'm about to die
I can't ever touch the sky
I'm too high
She's a girl of the past
I guess that I got to her at last
A did you hear the news about the girl today
She passed away
What did her friend say
They said she's too high
Too high
Can't hang around anyway...
Dodo do do do dodo
Do do dodo do dodo
do...do...do...
do...do...do...
do...
song performed by by Michael Mcdonald
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Saltbush Bill
Now is the law of the Overland that all in the West obey --
A man must cover with travelling sheep a six-mile stage a day;
But this is the law which the drovers make, right easily understood,
They travel their stage where the grass is bad, but they camp where the grass is good;
They camp, and they ravage the squatter's grass till never a blade remains.
Then they drift away as the white clouds drift on the edge of the saltbush plains:
From camp to camp and from run to run they battle it hand to hand
For a blade of grass and the right to pass on the track of the Overland.
For this is the law of the Great Stock Routes, 'tis written in white and black --
The man that goes with a travelling mob must keep to a half-mile track;
And the drovers keep to a half-mile track on the runs where the grass is dead,
But they spread their sheep on a well-grassed run till they go with a two-mile spread.
So the squatters hurry the drovers on from dawn till the fall of night,
And the squatters' dogs and the drovers' dogs get mixed in a deadly fight.
Yet the squatters' men, thought they haunt the mob, are willing the peace to keep,
For the drovers learn how to use their hands when they go with the travelling sheep;
But this is the tale of a Jackaroo that came from a foreign strand,
And the fight that he fought with Saltbush Bill, the King of the Overland.
Now Saltbush Bill was a drover tough as ever the country knew,
He had fought his way on the Great Stock Routes from the sea to the big Barcoo;
He could tell when he came to a friendly run that gave him a chance to spread,
And he knew where the hungry owners were that hurried his sheep ahead;
He was drifting down in the Eighty drought with a mob that could scarcely creep
(When the kangaroos by the thousand starve, it is rough on the travelling sheep),
And he camped one night at the crossing-place on the edge of the Wilga run;
"We must manage a feed for them here," he said, "or half of the mob are done!"
So he spread them out when they left the camp wherever they liked to go,
Till he grew aware of a Jackaroo with a station-hand in tow.
They set to work on the straggling sheep, and with many a stockwhip crack
The forced them in where the grass was dead in the space of the half-mile track;
And William prayed that the hand of Fate might suddenly strike him blue
But he'd get some grass for his starving sheep in the teeth of that Jackaroo.
So he turned and cursed the Jackaroo; he cursed him, alive or dead,
From the soles of his great unwieldly feet to the crown of his ugly head,
With an extra curse on the moke he rode and the cur at his heels that ran,
Till the Jackaroo from his horse got down and went for the drover-man;
With the station-hand for his picker-up, though the sheep ran loose the while,
They battled it out on the well-grassed plain in the regular prize-ring style.
Now, the new chum fought for his honour's sake and the pride of the English race,
But the drover fought for his daily bread with a smile on his bearded face;
So he shifted ground, and he sparred for wind, and he made it a lengthy mill,
And from time to time as his scouts came in they whispered to Saltbush Bill --
"We have spread the sheep with a two-mile spread, and the grass it is something grand;
You must stick to him, Bill, for another round for the pride of the Overland."
The new chum made it a rushing fight, though never a blow got home,
Till the sun rode high in the cloudless sky and glared on the brick-red loam,
Till the sheep drew in to the shelter-trees and settled them down to rest;
Then the drover said he would fight no more, and gave his opponent best.
So the new chum rode to the homestead straight, and told them a story grand
Of the desperate fight that he fought that day with the King of the Overland;
And the tale went home to the Public Schools of the pluck of the English swell --
How the drover fought for his very life, but blood in the end must tell.
But the travelling sheep and the Wilga sheep were boxed on the Old Man Plain;
'Twas a full week's work ere they drafted out and hunted them off again;
A week's good grass in their wretched hides, with a curse and a stockwhip crack
They hunted them off on the road once more to starve on the half-mile track.
And Saltbush Bill, on the Overland, will many a time recite
How the best day's work that he ever did was the day that he lost the fight.
poem by Andrew Barton Paterson
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Maybe
Say, eighteen hundred thousand years ago
A lightning strike set blaze a bushy plain
And seared the seeds of life that hid below.
When cooled, a group appeared on charred terrain
And scratched the earth with thumb-opposing hands
In search of tuber, pulse or wild grain.
Alert and ill-at-ease in open lands
The scattered stones and sticks provided arms
And held aloft, some branches glowed like brands.
Then shelter bound, they took their smoking charms
To ward against their fears, yet knew not how
They held an epoch's clock within their palms.
A child played with cast-off ashy bough
And fed a spark from which a tiny flame
then sparked a torch in every bony brow.
And ages passed for which they had no name
In which an unlocked, heat-wrought wealth of food
progressively transformed their bodies' frame.
Small jaws and teeth, and shorter gut ensued
While larger brains advanced their skulls to fore
And differential sex size was subdued.
The species spread and prospered, wood to shore
Time freed, to hone fine blades for hunt or art
And language flourished in the cause of war.
More ages passed and time forbade rechart
Until their burning needs enclosed complete
Dependent bodies, slaves to fire at heart.
What now to burn? their fossil fuels deplete
To feed a shared compulsion, both engrossed
And having filled their carbon sinks, replete.
In chains of servitude and thrall inmost
Denial is the addicts common state
Poor parasites of all-consuming host.
*Please choose from one of the following options-
a) Upheaval, floods and famines decimate
Descendents left to rue their sorry fate.
b) With cognate love and empathy innate
They turned the tide before it was too late.
c) Almighty God did frothily berate
With smiting, all who'd dared to fornicate.
d) None of the above.
poem by Diane Hine
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The Sun Burns East to West
The Sun Burns East to West
(Earth’s Creation to the end of an Ice Age)
© 2008 (Jim Sularz)
Sun’s first rise over life-less skies,
the Earth cools, and the waters pool -
the Sun burns East to West.
And the planet’s broken plates quake and move.
Lightning strikes, the waters stir,
and the bonds of life begin to churn -
the Sun burns East to West.
And the waters swirl in a living urn.
Strange aquatic things, they all evolve,
some spiny finned, start to crawl -
the Sun burns East to West.
And they slowly stretch erect and tall.
Eons past where the cunning reign, a savage place,
with small sized brains -
the Sun burns East to West.
And the dead surrender their twisted remains.
An asteroid streaks from the sky, blocks out the Sun,
cause most to die -
the Sun burns East to West.
And all in a blink of Time’s eye.
Footprints in stone, some on mountainsides,
make it clear that rocks don’t lie -
the Sun burns East to West.
And the Fossils always tell the Time.
Eons past and Eons more, the fittest evolves,
and Man is born -
the Sun burns East to West.
And the early brain, once fast asleep,
begins to dream and mourn.
The first million years, Man lives in fear, learns to hunt,
invents the spear -
the Sun burns East to West.
And migrates to claim the vast frontiers.
Tools from stone and controlled fire, creates language,
that shake Man’s empire -
the Sun burns East to West.
And splash Cave paintings with Human inspire.
Life-times of hunter-gathering,
and story-telling in the dark -
the Sun burns East to West.
And a World spins with a Million hearts.
The Earth starts to warm, the oceans rise,
and the waters shape the lands -
the Sun burns East to West.
And when an Ice Age ends, then comes, the Age of Man.
poem by Jim Sularz
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Too High
Dodo do do do dodo
Do do dodo do dodo
Dodo dodo do do
Dodo do do do dodo
Do do do do dodo do
Dodo dodo dodo
Im too high
Im too high
But I aint touched the sky
Im too high
Im too high
But I aint touched the sky
Shes a girl in a dream
She sees a four eyed cartoon monster on the t.v. screen
She takes another puff and says its a crazy scene
That red is green
And shes a tangerine
Im too high
Im too high
But I aint left the ground
Im too high
Im too high
I hope I never ever come down
Shes the girl in her life
But her worlds a superficial paradise
She had a chance to make it big more than once or twice
But no dice
She wasnt very nice
Ooh
Dodo do do do dodo
Do do dodo do dodo
Do do do do do do
Dodo do do do dodo
Do do dodo do dodo
Dodo dodo
Dodo dodo
Dodo dodo
Im too high
Im too high
I cant ever touch the sky
Im too high
Im so high
I feel like Im about to die
Shes a girl of the past
I guess that I got to her at last
A did you hear the news about the girl today
She passed away
What did her friend say
They said shes too high
Too high
Cant hang around anyway...
Dodo do do do dodo
Do do dodo do dodo
Do...do...do...
Do...do...do...
Do...
song performed by by Stevie Wonder
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Night-Night from Africa
What has Africa shown you today?
Was it colour; it's wildlife or just how to play?
What did you do in Africa's bush?
Did you take your time or did you rush?
Slow down, my friend. The animals do.
If observed with care they'll demonstrate too,
how to live life with leisure, wasting no time,
but enjoying the bushveld, like very fine wine.
Did Africa speak to you today?
Did you feel her soul? What did she say?
Did your spirit engage with that of the earth?
Did your humorous side enjoy all her mirth?
Did you smell all her perfumes? Enjoy all her charms?
Did you taste all her flavours from all of her farms?
What stories to tell you will have after this,
of adventure, excitement and Africa's kiss.
This is the place where today you have grown.
Your exposure to bushveld a seed well sown.
The sons of Africa - you are now one
This group of Africans have no need of gun
It is camera, binocular that these people bring
The wildlife so good it'll make your heart sing
Celebrate that growth with a glass of good cheer
Look forward to Africa's bounty in here.
Now is the time for you to get rest
For tomorrow, for Africa, you must look your best
Lay head on to pillow and wait for your dreams
Of lions and elephant, mules and ox teams
You'll dream of pioneering in years far gone by
and imagine you're part of it; Wait! What's that cry?
Is it Jackal? Hyena? Or wild dog d'you think?
Relax, s'just an ostrich giving mate a lewd wink! !
So tomorrow in Africa, you must dress the part
Your renewal begins with a bright early start! !
Tomorrow the sun will rise in the east
Warming the earth for Africa's feast
All nature awakens stretching its limbs
Look forward to whatever the new day brings
And you will play a small part in the show
Affecting the bushveld wherever you go
Sleep tight now, my friend, sleep deep and sleep well
That yawn you just had was your bedtime bell.
Did you see how the sun went to bed tonight?
How can such colours be painted so bright?
Did you notice the blues and the purples on hills?
Did you feel the change as temperature chilled?
Did you hear the bushveld's choir start?
Did you taste the atmosphere, the bushveld's heart?
This is sundown in Africa, you know it is true
And today she enjoyed one made better by you.
poem by Frank Ian Bowen
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Cockatoo Twelve Years On '1995
It's been more than twelve years so they tell me since the flames of death passed through
Since the fire that caused destruction burnt it's way through Cockatoo
Lives were lost and houses burnt down blackened miles of countryside
And people wept for lost possessions for their life time work destroyed.
Tears for houses burnt to ashes, tears for lives lost in fierce flame
Tears for trees and paddocks blackened some say 'fire bug '
was to blame
Cockatoo a place of mourning only blackness to be seen
Only smell of smoke and burn out not one sign of Nature's green.
Twelve years on things seem so different Cockatoo looks green today
And who'd believe if you had not known that huge fire had burnt this way
Some still talk of their great losses and the hardships they'd been through
But they recovered built new houses and still live in Cockatoo.
Nature is her own best healer, Nature the true friend of man
Blackness caused by fire and burn out only last for a brief span
Cockatoo is one example what a change twelve years can bring
On green gum tree by the rail track i can hear the shrike thrush sing.
Here in cockatoo this morning fresh and pure the mountain air
Green the trees and green the paddocks green as i've seen anywhere
Twelve years back a blackened wasteland see how green she looks today
Nature is her own best healer and nature always has her way.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Ten Grey hairs and a silver one
I discovered my first grey hair
when I was Seventeen years old
It had to do with broken up my first relationship
I discovered my second grey hair
when I was Twenty years old
It had to do with the quarrels at home
I discovered my third grey hair
when I was Twenty-one years old
It had to do with searching for work
I discovered my fourth grey hair
when I was Twenty-three years old
It had to do with loosing my job
I discovered my fifth grey hair
when I was Twenty-five years old
It had to do with giving up my unborn child
I discovered my sixth grey hair
When I was Twenty-eight years old
It had to do with opening my pub
I discovered my seventh grey hair
When I was thirty years old
It had to do with giving birth to my daughter
I discovered my eight grey hair
When I was thirty –two years old
It had to do with the first day at the kinder garden school
I discovered my ninth grey hair
When I was thirty-four years old
It had to do with to find out that some thing was missing
I discovered my tenth grey hair
When I was thirty-five years old
It had to do with the fights between my sisters and mum
My one Silver hair I discovered lately
Has to do with you
Because I miss you so hard …
poem by Pascale Ost
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The Poems Of John Clare
For years in Northampton mental asylum he battled his ghosts of despair
His Nation's finest poet of Nature the marvellous wordsmith John Clare
So many of his poems are relevant today
The one who loved Nature with words had a way.
The Helpston he grew up in not a cultural place
And though in that old Village his was a known face
They little realized the fame to them he'd bring
That poetry lovers World wide his praises would sing.
Without him less people of Helpston would know
The great poet of Nature of centuries ago
He died in Northampton mental asylum in dire poverty
Yet is there one greater Nature poet than he?
His flora and fauna poems have passed scrutiny's test
And as a Nature poet he was surely the best
Into the soul of Nature it seemed he could see
And his verses have outlived his mortality.
He never did enjoy his literary renown
And he died in the asylum in Northampton Town
But he was a true poet and his type are so rare
And old Helpston lives on in the poems of John Clare.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Dawn Is A Feeling
Dawn is a feeling,
A beautiful ceiling.
The smell of grass
Just makes you pass
Into a dream.
You're here today,
No future fears,
This day will last
A thousand years
If you want it to.
You look around you,
Things they astound you
So breathe in deep,
You're not asleep,
Open your mind.
You're here today,
No future fears,
This day will last
A thousand years
If you want it to.
Do you understand
That all over this land
There's a feeling?
In minds far and near
Things are becoming clear
With a meaning.
Now that you're knowing
Pleasure starts flowing.
It's true life flies
Faster than eyes
Could ever see.
You're here today.
No future fears.
This day will last
A thousand years
If you want it to.
song performed by by Moody Blues
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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From Bare Despair Prepare Rare Future Fair
Strangers in strange lands where nature's maps
are daily altered: who can tell, perhaps
utopian dreams may one day be fulfilled -
what wishes we project with one 'perhaps'!
But that 'perhaps' with other minds must be
shared or entrusted till eternity
when bell and tale are told, both drum and gong,
before too long all meet their destiny.
Another week ticks off its finite hours,
last leaves weak fall, distressed are hedgerows, bowers,
no rainbow reign, polluted heaven spans
streams as polluted, mole in burrow cowers.
Today tomorrow's fears must count the cost,
of vested interests, while, with fingers crossed,
fire, freeze turn topsy-turvy, climates change,
strategic opportunities are lost.
Most are bewildered, having pushed their luck,
they find dice loaded, - chicken lacking pluck.
When all is balanced, weighed within the mind,
game years behind were wasted, came unstuck.
And so the well laid plans of mice and men
turn sour, devour their children, - in suspen-
sion stays spoke that can't stay fate's wheel, wry jest
unspeaking which unspoken rolls... Amen!
More time to spare may lead to pastures green
obscured by clouds, unlit by moon serene,
or desert dune oasis hide where rest
may not prove mirage, harvest joy to glean.
I saw myself in wa[l]king dream beside
a river which flowed out to meet time’s tide,
fresh waves to salt waved greetings as they passed
to ice-free ocean, plankton pushed aside.
A watershed, which never tears shall show,
approaches and one knows not where to go,
wide world won’t wait while weighing arbitrage
with options harsh displacing comfort’s glow.
New cock may crow, fiends' jeers turn cheers from friends,
phantom mime timer trickles, makes amends,
for false pretence whose stings show one still feels,
may heal hurt, harm injury within which ever rends
the spirit from external casing show
skeletal which nobody cares to know,
for here today, tomorrow atoms spread
around fresh food chain, pride from high brought low.
So soul must sink when candle, burned both ends,
no wick retains to feed the flame which sends
light for a moment, highlighting the dark
behind beyond til epilogue appends
a testament scenario reprieved
from papers left behind – part to deceive
and part as explanation for a gest
about which we suggest too few shall grieve.
Subprime takes prime time working overtime,
as credit cards to debit dards turn, climb
precedes a fall unlooked for – pendulum
swings weigh past tipping point, primeval slime
not dust to dust replaces Eden’s rhyme,
mankind’s equation out of kilter, mime
instead of deeds proactive, selfless, fair,
concludes Man’s play, applauseless p[h]antomime.
Some seek settle credit overdue,
some, senseless, seek solutions from the blue –
accounts drawn down close race’s case, no trace
remains, shell shocked, locked out, no overview.
Rise from despair, surprise may fate prepare,
chance choice gives voice to future prospects fair,
wheel turns, life spurns temptations lethal that
stitch winding sheet from which return is rare.
The trick, if trick there be, is see the light
between effect and cause, nor wrong, nor right,
but timing's of the essence as each day
plays in its way new part, departure bright.
Dark disappointment past events might cause
may cease today, turn retrograde and pause
to offer breathing space for weaving joy
while poison ivy wreaths good luck withdraws.
Dark reasons for a season may hold sway,
yet light through black-hole shines to pave the way
for happiness - whatever that may mean
to who must first slake thirst, salve sores which weigh
upon the conscience - fact or fiction play -
it matters not: if pain's perceived today
to morrow may blunt edge of sting sharp, keen,
that wounds the soul that seeks clean getaway...
previous title Rubaiyat of Despair
3 October 2005 revised 26 August 2007
rewritten and expanded 12 January 2010
Rubaiyat of Despair
Strangers in strange lands where nature's maps
are daily altered: who can tell, perhaps
utopian dreams may one day be fulfilled, -
what wishes we project with one « perhaps »!
But that « perhaps » to other minds must be
entrusted through steps to eternity,
both bell and tale are told, both drum and gong
before too long will welcome destiny.
Another week ticks off its finite hours,
last leaves weak fall, distressed are hedgerows, bowers,
no rainbow reign polluted heavens’ spans, -
as rain in hurry can unleash its powers.
Today tomorrow fears must count the cost,
of vested interests, we, with fingers crossed,
find fire and freeze turned topsy-turvy as
strategic opportunities are lost.
Most are bewildered, having pushed their luck,
they find dice loaded, - chicken lacking pluck.
When all is balanced, weighed within the mind,
game years behind were wasted, came unstuck.
And so the well laid plans of mice and men
turn sour, devour their children, - in suspen-
sion stays the spoke that may not stay the wheel
unspeaking which unspoken rolls... Amen!
I saw myself in wa[l]king dream beside
a river which flowed out to meet time’s tide,
fresh waves to salt waved greetings as they passed
to ice-free ocean, plankton pushed aside.
A watershed, which never tears shall show,
approaches and one knows not where to go,
wide world won’t wait while weighing arbitrage
with options harsh displacing comfort’s glow.
Soon cock may crow to cheers of phantom friends,
with timer trickled none need make amends,
or further false pretence with insult rare
to cover injury within which rends
the spirit from external casing show
skeletal which nobody needs to know,
for here today, tomorrow atoms spread
along a food chain soon from high brought low.
So soul must sink when candle, burned both ends,
no wick retains to feed the flame which sends
light for a moment, highlighting the dark
behind beyond til epilogue appends
a testament scenario reprieved
from papers left behind – part to deceive
and part as explanation for a gest
about which we suggest too few will grieve.
Subprime takes prime time working overtime,
as credit cards to debit dards turn, climb
precedes a fall unlooked for – pendulum
swings weigh past tipping point, primeval slime
not dust to dust replaces Eden’s rhyme,
mankind’s equation out of kilter, mime
instead of deeds proactive, selfless, fair,
concludes Man’s play, applauseless p[h]antomime.
Its time to settle credit overdue
no sense to seek solutions from the blue –
accounts drawn down close race’s case, no trace
remains, shell shocked, locked out, no overview.
3 October 2005 revised 26 August 2007
after Edward Fitzgerald Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam
© Jonathan Robin
after Edward Fitzgerald Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam
© Jonathan Robin 3 October 2005 revised 26 August 2007
poem by Jonathan Robin
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Unwelcome
|WE were young, we were merry, we were very very wise,
And the door stood open at our feast,
When there passed us a woman with the West in her eyes,
And a man with his back to the East.
O, still grew the hearts that were beating so fast,
The loudest voice was still.
The jest died away on our lips as thy passed,
And the rays of July struck chill.
The cups of red wine turned pale on the board,
The white bread black as soot.
The hound forgot the hand of her lord,
She fell down at his foot.
Low let me lie, where the dead dog lies,
Ere I sit me down again at a feast,
When there passes a woman with the West in her eyes,
And a man with his back to the East.
poem by Mary Elizabeth Coleridge
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An Open Gate, Speak Friend and Enter - 1222 - Current Version
Fair friendship, heart to heart, near, far apart,
remains unstained and omnipresent gift,
where each stays part of each to chart fresh start
to meat and to defeat hate's deadly dart,
imparting steadfast links which, à la carte,
ensures hope pure, scope sure, defies Descartes'
cold logic with warm love above schemes smart.
The need that tames the flames of inner fire
may seed ten thousand ripples, may be more.
Desire to feed the furnace of desire
creates from dust more than there was before.
Those letters [l]inked on parchment or those which
on pixel tell~tale tra[n]ce dance in the brain
may early, late, both stimulate, enrich,
cross reference, cross reference again.
Rich pitch one hears switch spheres have ever known
they knew they knew before tuned undertone
vibrating through the Universal, sown
as echo coeval with the wind thats blown
along the way as day and night advance ~
or is it coexist in parallel ~
with worlds dreams glimpse perhaps when changeling Chance
weird timeline opens till dawn's waking bell.
What counts is ways the wave bands interlink
from infra violent through the ultra read
judgmental values fade, flushed down Life's sink,
the Pattern counts, how waft and web are spread
within the flow itself should make one think
there is no past, no present, no ahead,
as Time can rhyme the span, at Man must wink ~
as [s]he's from Judge to Judgement, spinning, led.
The air we breathe with life must seethe and how
that interacts to marshal facts is strange,
coincidence may shape both 'here and now'
and still instill, fulfill, more scope, more range
without the trammels and the platitudes
which most repeat ~ both low and high ~ as each
delays, downplays unusual attitudes,
won't glow in flow with currents out of reach.
This flow is pattern icing on the cake
the poet bakes it takes the time to write,
which whirls around, spurns sight and sound to rake
no line dividing time, space, day or night.
Thus time itself appears conveyor belt
on belt 'die Welt' drives on at different speeds,
some contradictory, some helter-skelt
to feed the need to feed the need to seed
an echo which upon an unknown date
in turn may stimulate discovery
of what once known ~ unlocking open gate
calling upon the inner eye to see.
the need that tames the flames of inner fire
to seed ten thousand ripples, may be more,
desire to feed the furnace of desire
from doom creating more than bloomed before.
Thus 'friendship' - heart to heart though far apart -
remains unstained and omnipresent gift,
where each stays part of each to chart fresh start
puts emphasis on empathy, heals rift.
(16 April 2012)
poem by Jonathan Robin
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One Of The Great Mysteries Of Nature
A bird or wild animal when they sense death is upon them will crawl under thick cover for to die
Why this should be great minds have often pondered though they did not come up with the answer why
Beast or bird to die will try to crawl to cover it's something way beyond them to explain
It's one of the great mysteries of Nature and as a mystery forever 'twill remain.
There are so many mysteries in Nature and us humans despite our advanced technology
Cannot unlock Mother Nature's deepest secrets and Nature to us still a mystery
Some seem to think that wild creatures die in cover from their enemies to hide themselves away
But that is just one of a thousand theories and I would rather stick with 'who can say'.
There are so many mysteries in Nature and her secrets she doesn't share with you and I
And Mother Nature to me still remains a mystery though I've lived near her since I was a young boy
And those who say they know of Nature's secrets they kid themselves or if not that they lie
For Mother Earth to us remains a mystery though to understand her ways we never cease to try.
The bird or beast for to die will try to crawl to cover even
from their own kind they wish to die alone
And why this should be to us remains a mystery and none of Nature's secrets to us known
As the years go by we acquire greater knowledge but people like the Seasons come and go
But Nature with secrecy will guard her secrets and her secrets are not for us to know.
poem by Francis Duggan
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