Related quotes: 'Now I've broken my ties...

After Folly - An Aging Poet Addresses One Who Wanders In Mountains Remote

'Now I've broken my ties with the world of red dust;
I spend all my time wandering and read all I want.
Who will lend a dipper of water
to save a fish in a carriage rut? ' - Han Shan, Tang Dynasty, China

There's a hairy Moses in the distance counting pocket
change to give to the ferrier, coins that fit the eyes.
I'm hanging at the back of the crowd. There's manna
enough for pockets. My Red Sea is long parted but old
Pharaoh's got a new army. Each day is a scrape in the tents.
Prayer and fear is sustenance dragged further out by pillars
of fire. A volcano rumored to be God publishes 'Mandates for
a New Junta', led by a well-bred stutterer (prototypical politician,
it seems) . In odd limbo there trail reluctant murmurers.

That 'Golden Calf 'Incident' was a silly mistake,
an overreaction, but there were agreements made
at the outset, sealed in blood, first born sons threatened
or worse, guaranteed real estate for dairy farmers and
bee keepers, oodles of milk-and-honey futures, money
to be made in hopefully greener pastures. Now it can
be said with certainty, a 'promised land' comes with
big catches - I've exchanged one for another, same
mistake - the barbs are plenty, mostly mistaken people
thinner than scripture loudly staking claims to land
and deity in long meander.

It's a luxury, sure. Some choose to wander. Some don't.
Water is scarce in deserts. Wheels are few but for
chariots of war, not many ruts though there's thirst aplenty,
not the bounty promised before the journey.

A penny for a wet tongue.

I'm of that hung up crowd forced to flee, a victim of unleavened
fate, or is that too Greek a notion? The question begs asking.
Unintended impertinence must be forgiven. That's the theme,
right? the long march of history, that of redemption in time though
each and every has an opinion. Can't be helped. Much to explain.
All's a seeming washed in blood.

How passing strange is life in old age overwrought by
too much thinking. All is not yet lost but merely tossed
and scrambled in this ramble where etymology is everything.
And good boots. I'm then to poetry and books a-sundry,
an attempt to keep a horizon. Above it. Not under but
the dip is soon enough. Humor with others is still intact.
Alone I manage to laugh out loud.. After a life of folly so
much frivolity empties one out. I cry out in the night but
remainder to Silence.

Old friend, I've been reading zen, the 'death poems' and
'Sayings of the Desert Fathers, ' in many ways the same.
These orient. One can still lift a head up amongst the stars
while swatting flies, be silly, for what care stars at all
but for eyes, maybe they're wanting to be seen?
Reading remote poets and prophets purposefully hiding
out to 'draw nigh unto' is ironic, remove the eye of the
perceiving other and it will show up upon the sky, mountains,
all things between, universally; perhaps even TV screen static
between channels links here/now with beyond; easier to
be in subtle presences sublime than these lumps in solidity
which are the material, a hard father's boot-steps on the stairs
just out the door sends one packing, a shy Desert Father
beneath his bed to hide, a wilderness of sorts.

From there I pray,

'Abide with me, Father,
give sons a safer world,
bring them gently into it'.
Many sons are ill-prepared,
'not yet, not yet, ' they bray.

I'm flung further into the fray though I sway up 5 flights
of stairs, long in exile, dizzy with the street, the human
beauty and brokenness there, all those flower pots in
windows, on stoops, the blossoming tree brightening
between darker bricks to truly dwell. It is for me, a shy
son, to see in spite of big chunks missing or torn out,
to remake the world as it always is for angels long to
be bread to dwell in our finitude. To them, then, I am
'the Dude', a daffodil in my lapel, gate of heaven and
h*ll open at the end of the block. I skip forward singing,
'La La La, ' poems a'pocket. If questioned at the gate
I'll blame you, meandering still, granting permission
the entrance to boldly storm.

Between St. Marks and the horizon my fingers still work.

poem by Warren Falcon
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Related quotes

Even Pretty Buddhas' - Han Shan of Old Speaks In a Dream

How strange is life in old age.

Overwrought by too much thinking
all is not yet lost but merely tossed,
scrambled in this ramble where etymology
is everything. And good boots.

I'm to poetry then and books a-sundry,
the old scrolls and tints an attempt to
keep a horizon, above it, not under but
the dip is soon enough. The worms can
correct my spelling and punctuation
when I go beneath the willow tips slowly
teasing the grasses into laughter.

White hair nearer now to Yellow Spring,
my humor with others is still intact.
Even alone I manage to laugh out loud,
a victory over enemies and frivolous,
ill-tempered gods, all my youth wasted
given over to their sly manipulations.
Useless now to demand these years
back but suffice it now to presently
live more boldly, blood hot, with fear
of no god yet with respect for all men
for both good and bad suffer alike.

And I am one to fight with gods, not men
like me longing to roam without explanation,
excuse, without rebuke. After so much divine
frivolity I am an emptied out fool, but a wise
one, I think. I cry out in the night dream
remaindered to Silence. I laugh through tears
avenging daylight from hostile heaven's
envious thieves.

Still, a habit now, I shall sit at the
Buddhas' feet. Their faces are convincing
enough. I shall ignore much evidence to
the contrary. Undergarments, even of
Buddhas, reveal truth which does not flinch
but perhaps may pinch its nose in disgust
even of holy stench.

Even so, in spite of meditations long, I am
flung further into life's fray though I sway
with chants up to the 8 Celestial Flights,
my steps light. Long in exile dizzy with
the Path, human beauty, brokenness there
beside, in all fields shy flowers want
our windows and stoops to proudly present
themselves. This, only now, but happy, do
I discover, and I am old, scents upon the
wind down the human lanes where even dogs
take pleasure from the air, where children
play and narrow water flows petal-by-petal
away; night, day, the joyous moon swoons
in the liquor of splash upon stones happy
to be worn.

There, almost within reach, the blossoming
tree brightens between darker bricks to truly
dwell. It is for me, a shy son of mists, to see,
in spite of big chunks missing, lost, wasted,
torn out. To remake the world as it always
is, celestial, not as it appears to most, but
hard, spirits without shoes still long to be
bread to dwell in our finitude. To them, then,
I am still a daffodil gay, and a rusty gate where
heaven and hell open at the end of the skin road
where vague statues sway out of focus lamenting
their stone, no river to move them, or against,
unable to move at all,
for movement is not nothing.

Nothing to lose, this rag of selves, with
what glory remains of hungry pockets I skip
forward singing, 'La La La, ' a willful don,
a lord of nothing-much, poems a'pocket,
knowing it's all a shell game but I'm clever
having learned something from all the rolled
dice - there is more to here than there.
Wise now, I always bring a change of draws
and a broken piece of mirror to gaze within
practicing my smiles.

If questioned at the Heavenly Gate I'll blame you,
old ghost meandering still, muttering the old hymns,
granting me permission the entrance to boldly storm.

Between what these final breaths remain
and the horizon, my fingers still work
on behalf of all sentient beings; to plead
our case I'll write until the quill is taken
from my death hand which even then shall be
dirty with righteous indigence, only the gods
to blame (they love a good argument anyway) .
Then, only then, will I become human through
and through, be damned and done the mirror and
pockets. A man can curse at the end having
earned the right to do so, then a wink and
a grin rehearsed. Even pretty Buddhas pretending
eternity cannot move by themselves alone,
in need of human feet and arms. In this way
then we become the same as I too will be born
by men to the grave no longer able to move
on my own.

poem by Warren Falcon
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Dear Father

Anderson / squire
(originally released in 1970 as a single, not included on time and a word)
Here are the books
Of luke
You*ll need them
To open the seed
To see what goes on in the world
You*re in my mind
Catch the wind and hold on tight
To what we*ll find
And hear what goes on in the world
Here is all you see
Everything is made for you
From me
If there*s anything you*d like to say
That could help me in any way
Cause i*ve been waiting for so long for you to come along
Help me on that day
When you*d take over all the things heaven has made for you
Is there anything you think you should know?
Is there anything before I go?
Dear father, i*m hungry, i*m cold
Dear father, feeling terribly old
Dear father, I don*t think I can see
I*m not feeling good like I think I should
They*re on their own
Needing their face, a place
Hope....home
To see what goes on in the world
They*re who you need
To show them why they*re wrong
Oh why indeed
We need to go on in the world
Here is all you see
Everything is made for you
From me
If there*s any complication
That you*d like to talk over with me about
Cause i*ve been waiting for so long
For you to come along
We can work it all out
When you take over all the things heaven has made for you
Is there anything you think you should know
Is there anything before I go
Dear father, you must be putting me on
Dear father, cause most of their minds are gone
Dear father, they will not understand me
I*m not feeling good like I think I should
Dear father, can I give it a miss
Dear father, cause i*m not ready for this
Dear father, I don*t think I can see
I*m not feeling good like I think I should
Dear father, won*t you leave me alone
Dear father, won*t you to let me go home
Dear father, I don*t think I can see
Dear father, won*t they crucify me
Dear father, I just couldn*t do that
Dear father, cause that*s not where it*s at now (hey)

song performed by by Yes
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Dear Father

song performed by by Yes
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Promised Land for Both Jews and Palestinians

Jews and Palestinians
Share the common story of exile
Of wandering in the desert, uprooted
Slaughtered, silenced, driven out!

They both share the common hope
To dwell in the Promised Land,
Flowing with milk and honey
Living in peace and prosperity!

Not by the Mandate of Partition by Balfour
Not by agreements of manipulative coercion
Not by the Intifida of hate and destruction
Not by the tentacles of fear and terror
Nor by the summons of super powers
Around negotiating tables
Can bring Jews and Palestinians closer
To the portal of their longed Promised Home.

But it is in seeing themselves
as one people with their equal rights
in their journey to their own liberation.
It is in ceasing to mark their stones
Of generations by much waste of blood.
It is in marching together
To the Holy Mountain of their Promised Land
Where they can lay down their weapons.

poem by Elizabeth Padillo Olesen
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Mother, Father

Mother, father please explain to me
Why a world so full of mystery
A place so bitter and still so sweet
So beautiful and yet so full of sad, sad...
Mother, father please explain to me
Why forests march to desert speed
While snowcapped mountains melt away
What do we tell our babies, when do we say, oh
Mother, father please explain to me
How a man who rocks his child to sleep
Pulls the trigger on his brothers heart
He digs a hole right to the middle of this storm of hatred
Mother, father please explain to me
How it could be so this world has come to be
A precious balance in between
Such cruelty and such kindness please
Mother, father please explain to me
How this world has come to be
Unequaled in her blessings, oh, I see
Unbridled hatred so extreme, please tell me
Mother, father please explain to me
How this world has come to be so
Twisted between time and dreams
Oh, mother, father please explain to me
Oh, whats all this talk about?
All this talk about it
Spinning down, down, down, down, down
All this talk about
Endless words without
Nothings done
Mother, father do you know
Why one mans belly overflows
Another sleeps in hungers bed
Oh, we trade our world for a piece of bread
Oh mother, father please explain to me
How this rare worlds come to be
A place so full of color yet overflowing
Always in black and white
Drowning in the waters of our...
Mother, father please explain to me
How this world has come to be
While still blessed in all the things we see
Such a sad, sad home for you and me
Come out, and hold,
Come on out you
Come on out you
Come and save yourself
Come on out you
Come on were taking the water
Were taken the water
Were taken the water
But you know
We got the freedom
We got the freedom
Theres no God above
And no hell below
Oh, its here with us
Its up to us
To keep afloat
How this sweet world has come to be
Oh to keep afloat
Mother, father please explain to me
How this rare world has come to be
Oh, let the blue planet
Let the blue planet
Mother, father please explain to me
Mother, father please explain

song performed by by Dave Matthews Band
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Cinnamon Street

Growing up on cinnamon street. everywhere you look there are lots of people to meet, its seven oclock, the breakfast treat. now the schoolbus is here, hurry up and grab a seat. all the dreams
Iny ones, another week has just begun on cinnamon street.
There was a girl on cinnamon street, the same age as me, we shared the curiosity. I won her heart cos I could play guitar. I promised her heaven at once and later all the stars. but it all remai
He same cos things can never change on cinnamon street.
I can hear my heartbeat the very first time we made love, life was a lazy rest in the sun. later we went dancing, staying up all night long - playing all our favourite songs, cinnamon songs: oh
Na na na na.
I say goodbye to cinnamon street. springtime is here and the air is so dry and sweet. I walk in a cloud, the smell of cinnamon bread, its in my blood since the day I was born til I wake up...
And the sun is smiling gently, a funny shade of red, cinnamon street.
I still feel my heartbeat the very first time we made love, life was a lazy day in the sun. later we went dancing, hanging out all night long - singing all our favourite songs, cinnamon songs: o
Na na na na na na.

song performed by by Roxette
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Cinnamon Street 2

Growing up on cinnamon street.
Everywhere you look there are lots of people to meet,
Its seven oclock, the breakfast treat.
Now the schoolbus is here, hurry up and grab a seat.
All the dreams are tiny ones, another week has just begun
On cinnamon street.
There was a boy on cinnamon street,
The same age as me, we shared the curiosity.
He won my heart cos he could play guitar.
He promised me heaven at once and later all the stars.
But it all remained the same cos things can never change
On cinnamon street.
I can hear my heartbeat the very first time we made love,
Life was a lazy rest in the sun.
Later we went dancing, staying up all night long - playing all our favourite songs,
Cinnamon songs:
Oh oh na na na na na.
I say goodbye to cinnamon street.
Springtime is here and the air is so dry and sweet.
I walk in a cloud, the smell of cinnamon bread,
Its in my blood since the day I was born til I wake up... dead.
And the sun is smiling gently, a funny shade of red,
Cinnamon street.
I still feel my heartbeat the very first time we made love,
Life was a lazy day in the sun.
Later we went dancing, hanging out all night long - singing all our favourite songs,
Cinnamon songs:
Oh oh na na na na na na...

song performed by by Roxette
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Mater Dolorosa

Who is this that sits by the way, by the wild wayside,
In a rent stained raiment, the robe of a cast-off bride,
In the dust, in the rainfall sitting, with soiled feet bare,
With the night for a garment upon her, with torn wet hair?
She is fairer of face than the daughters of men, and her eyes,
Worn through with her tears, are deep as the depth of skies.

This is she for whose sake being fallen, for whose abject sake,
Earth groans in the blackness of darkness, and men's hearts break.
This is she for whose love, having seen her, the men that were
Poured life out as water, and shed their souls upon air.
This is she for whose glory their years were counted as foam;
Whose face was a light upon Greece, was a fire upon Rome.

Is it now not surely a vain thing, a foolish and vain,
To sit down by her, mourn to her, serve her, partake in the pain?
She is grey with the dust of time on his manifold ways,
Where her faint feet stumble and falter through year-long days.
Shall she help us at all, O fools, give fruit or give fame,
Who herself is a name despised, a rejected name?

We have not served her for guerdon. If any do so,
That his mouth may be sweet with such honey, we care not to know.
We have drunk from a wine-unsweetened, a perilous cup,
A draught very bitter. The kings of the earth stood up,
And the rulers took counsel together, to smite her and slay;
And the blood of her wounds is given us to drink today.

Can these bones live? or the leaves that are dead leaves bud?
Or the dead blood drawn from her veins be in your veins blood?
Will ye gather up water again that was drawn and shed?
In the blood is the life of the veins, and her veins are dead.
For the lives that are over are over, and past things past;
She had her day, and it is not; was first, and is last.

Is it nothing unto you then, all ye that pass by,
If her breath be left in her lips, if she live now or die?
Behold now, O people, and say if she be not fair,
Whom your fathers followed to find her, with praise and prayer,
And rejoiced, having found her, though roof they had none nor bread;
But ye care not; what is it to you if her day be dead?

It was well with our fathers; their sound was in all men's lands;
There was fire in their hearts, and the hunger of fight in their
hands.
Naked and strong they went forth in her strength like flame,
For her love's and her name's sake of old, her republican name.
But their children, by kings made quiet, by priests made wise,
Love better the heat of their hearths than the light of her eyes.

Are they children of these thy children indeed, who have sold,
O golden goddess, the light of thy face for gold?
Are they sons indeed of the sons of thy dayspring of hope,
Whose lives are in fief of an emperor, whose souls of a Pope?
Hide then thine head, O beloved; thy time is done;
Thy kingdom is broken in heaven, and blind thy sun.

What sleep is upon you, to dream she indeed shall rise,
When the hopes are dead in her heart as the tears in her eyes?
If ye sing of her dead, will she stir? if ye weep for her, weep?
Come away now, leave her; what hath she to do but sleep?
But ye that mourn are alive, and have years to be;
And life is good, and the world is wiser than we.

Yea, wise is the world and mighty, with years to give,
And years to promise; but how long now shall it live?
And foolish and poor is faith, and her ways are bare,
Till she find the way of the sun, and the morning air.
In that hour shall this dead face shine as the face of the sun,
And the soul of man and her soul and the world's be one.

poem by Algernon Charles Swinburne
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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After All The Endless Longing To Be Who We Are

IN THE MANNER OF BORGES I WRITE POEMS IN MY OLD AGE

In the manner of Borges I write poems in my old age
And dream that they are not only imitations
Of poems written by others
When we all were young.

Instead I go on now in the darkness of the night
Because the fear of what will be
Is always so deep in me
It does not need Poetry or Happiness or any other Meaning
Outside itself.

We are small sands drifting on the edge of stars
Lesser beings of a time we will never know
All that we have done comes back to us over and over again
As if we never were

I don’t believe I will ever write Borges lines
He wrote them in his own imagined words
And I must in my own little life
Suffer to the end of time
All I have not been
And never will be.

God Who is Good
God of Love
You gave me so much
You did not have to give me Poetry also.

THE REAL POETS

The real poets are few in number and largely known by name
The rest of us are endless frustration in aspiration
Words upon words upon words
Dreams upon dreams upon dreams
Getting and going nowhere forever unheard

The real poets find their anthologized place
And we know them over and over and over again
The rest of us just appear this only once
If we appear at all
And our words and our hearts and our minds
Do not encompass and inspire the endless rereadings
Time and Time’s Wounds make again and again and again

We are once only always forever losts
Nothing will save us
These words too coming in the wake of a long night’s reading
Of the poems of others
Cannot sustain and redeem
Cannot be what they would be
Cannot help and cannot save
Me or you or anyone we love
Even as poetry.

God Who Knows All
And in the End Decides on Everything
Has made us smaller even than the Angels
And our place in the Divine Song
Is not as far as we know
Anywhere heard at all.

Goodbye world
We are going
We have done what we could
We have written and written and written
Oxymandias’ poet will remain
And we will not
The lone and desert sands will stretch away
When we are not even a single grain.

THE WORLD IS FILLED WITH THE ENDLESS SILENCE OF THINGS

The world is filled with the endless silence of things
Dreams in old age are not the dreams of youth – and will never be
Old pain in old bodies stirs the imagination to anger at itself
The history of the universe begins somewhere long before we were born
And when Time ends more Time will not begin elsewhere
Parallel universes pose mathematical riddles to an evidence- hungry horde of physicists who live by supposition alone
And yet underneath it all we are biological beings – brains of our own misperceptions
Clamoring clamoring while on the other side of the moon
The cold goes deeper in us than all the distances we will never reach
Mites and Bites and Little Strings Digital waves and wiry wise things
We are all more than a cave painting with buffalo music beating in the fire
Under the darkness once
When we hunted with small eyes the body’s animal prey
Our spirit said mocking melodies of great and good sounds
Let the Maker of All be One in Love
And less than us may there never be new
The world we love and the people we trust
And the endless game of the transitions
This is a hell of a way to be who we are
And yet some say we are dust more than stars
And under the end of the forever we feel
Only our Names will remain not quite real.

AFTER ALL THE ENDLESS LONGING TO BE WHO WE ARE

After all the endless longing to be who we are
We come in old age to know what we dared never dream
That we as we are are less than we will forever be
And all that we have made is nothing beside
What God alone may make us should God have decided
That we are worth more than the interval here of our own small being
Dust is not enough
And will never be
For what we dream
For those we most love
Bones interred and epitaphs made righteous in stone
Cannot replace the vital thing of each breathing being
So so long ago
I knew when my grandmother died that she Bessie Zeibert- Peshie really- had so much love and goodness she should never be gone
Lost in her very last moments seeking a stolen sweater no one had ever taken
A sixteen year old girl in steerage with her first child who would never marry and live only to help his nephews and niece
God of Love
What are we
So many have died
So many good people
And I here officially an old man yet young enough to begin and thrive again in words
Questioning as I did then and knowing more and no more
We are the end and the beginning of the universe humanbeings kind or unkind
Light too is another name for death when it is forever too strong
I see I feel I know
We are what we are
And You will take us home
In a way we cannot dream now
Something so good as many of us have been
Must never die
And You Alone know how
We will survive
In the endless Infinite Eternity which no one who has ever lived can describe
Or truly understand.

poem by Shalom Freedman
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Bible in Poetry: Gospel of St. John (Chapter 6)

When Jesus went across the Sea
Of Galilee, a crowd followed;
They saw His miracles on sick;
He ascended the mountain-slope
And sat down with His disciples;
The Feast of Passover was near.

Then Jesus saw a large crowd come;
He asked Philip, ‘Where to buy food? ’
He asked this just to test Philip.
He knew what He’as going to do.
Then Philip replied, ‘Two hundred
Days’ wages worth food wouldn’t suffice.’

Andrew told Jesus, ‘There’s a boy
With barley loaves five and fish two.
It wouldn’t do well for such a crowd.’

Then Jesus told the crowd to rest.
Five thousand people sat on grass.
Then Jesus took the loaves, gave thanks
And had it shared along with fish.
When all had eaten indeed well,
Jesus told, ‘Gather all fragments.’
It was twelve wicker basketsful.

When people saw the miracle,
They accepted Jesus, Prophet-
The one who had come to the world!
They wanted to make Him the king.
So, Jesus withdrew to mountain.

When evening came, they went by boat,
Across the sea to Capernaum.
While traveling, it turned quite dark;
The sea was rough with fierce a wind.

When they had gone three miles off-shore,
They saw Jesus come walk on sea
Towards the boat, and grew afraid.
But Jesus said, ‘It’s I, Don’t fear! ’
They thought Jesus would come aboard;
But suddenly, the boat reached shore!

They realized the next day that
The disciples had come by boat
But Jesus did not come by same!
From Tiberias, other boats came.

As Jesus had not arrived still,
The crowd by boats reached Capernaum.
They went in search of Jesus there.
They found Him come across the sea;
They asked, ‘Rabbi, How did you come? ’

Then Jesus said, ‘Amen, I say;
You searched for me, not for my signs,
But due to being filled by loaves.’
‘Don’t work for food that perishes;
But that which gives eternity! ’
‘The Son of Man can give such food;
On Him was set, (God) father’s seal!

They asked Him how to work for God.
Then Jesus said, ‘This is God’s work,
That you believe in one He sent.’
They asked Him, ‘What sign can you give
That we may see and believe you? ’
Our ancestors were fed manna.
’Tis written, ‘He gave bread from sky! ’

So, Jesus said, ‘Amen, amen,
It wasn’t Moses then who gave bread;
My father gives heavenly bread!
God’s divine bread gives you new life.’

They asked, ‘Could you give bread always? ’
Then Jesus said, ‘I’m bread of life.’
‘One, seeking me shall hunger not;
He who believes in me shan’t thirst.’

‘Though you see me, you don’t believe;
All things, my Father gives, I get;
I won’t reject ones who seek me.
I came from heaven, not on own,
But by the will of one who sent.
It is His will that I lose naught;
And that I raise it on last day.’

The Jews murmured when He told thus:
‘I’m the bread that heaven sent.’
They asked, ’ Is not He, Joseph’s son?
Don’t we his mother, father know?
How come he says, ‘I’m heaven’s bread! ? ’

Then Jesus told, ‘Stop murmuring! ’
No one can come to me unless
My Father draws him up above;
I will raise him up on last day.’

’Tis written in the prophets thus:
‘They shall be taught by God Himself.’
And all who heed and learn from Him,
Will come to me like-wise truly.’

‘Amen, I say to you, Amen:
‘Whoever believes sure has eternal life.
‘Jesus said, ‘I’m the bread of life.’
‘Though ancestors ate manna, still,
They died in desert ground, some ill! ’

‘This is the heav’nly bread from God
He who eats it lives forever sans death;
I am that living bread divine;
Who eats this bread will live forev’r
The bread I’ll give is my own flesh.’

The Jews quarreled amongst themselves,
‘How can this man give flesh to eat? ’
So, Jesus said, ‘Amen to you;
Amen, unless you eat the flesh
And drink the blood of Son of man,
You do not have within you life! ’

‘Who eats my flesh and drinks my blood
Has life eternal- will be raised.
My flesh and blood are true food / drink;
Whoev’r does so, remains in me;
He will have life because of me;
Whoever eats this bread, ev’r lives! ’
These things were taught by Jesus while
In synagogue in Capernaum.

His own disciples seemed to tell,
‘This is quite hard; who can accept?
Then Jesus who’d their murmur heard
Queried, ‘Did all I said shock you? ’
‘What if you see the Son of Man
Ascend to where He was before? ’

‘For flesh is of no avail then;
Spirit alone gives live forev’r
My words are spirit and your life.
But there are some who don’t believe.’
For, Jesus knew from beginning
Ones who believe; ones who betray.

So Jesus said, ‘No one can come
To me unless my Father grants.’
Because of this some disciples
Returned to former ways of life,
Without accompanying Him.

Then Jesus asked the Twelve and said,
‘Do you intend to also leave? ’
Then Peter answered Him, ‘Master,
‘Master, to who shall we all go? ’
‘You have words of Eternal Life!
We do believe and are convinced,
You are the Holy One of God! ’

Jesus asked, ‘Didn’t I choose you Twelve,
Yet, one of you is sure devil! ’
Thus, Jesus referred to Judas,
The son of Simon Iscariot,
Who would be one to Him betray!

(5-22-2007)

poem by John Celes
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Such A Great Salvation

After 400 years in Egypt, God did not forget His promise to Abraham,
And He sent Moses back to lead Israel into the Blessed Promised Land.

God's awesome power through His miracles was apparent from the start,
And for the sake of His people, God began to harden Pharaoh's heart.

From bondage in the land of Egypt, God delivered His entire nation,
But never did they stop complaining, to see God's arm of Salvation.

With Pharaoh's army in the sea, God's Salvation to the eye was clear,
But on the other side in safety, hearts were still gripped with fear.

When the spies went into the land their eyes of flesh could not see,
That this was the land God promised to Abraham through all Eternity.

And because their father Abraham did not display his faith like this,
When he heard God, he believed and was credited with righteousness.

Unbelief was the cause of the Israelites wandering in the wilderness,
For God used it to purge the next generation of such unrighteousness.

However, Joshua and Caleb believed God and Moses just like Abraham,
So God used these two men to lead all Israel into the Promised Land.

And Moses said a Prophet like himself would be raised up in the end,
The Prophet was Jesus Christ whether you believe it or not my friend.

The Church can look back on the fulfillment of this great revelation,
So how, my friend, can you turn your back on such a great Salvation?

poem by Bob Gotti
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Your Life Is Now

See the moon roll across the stars
See the seasons turn like a heart
Your fathers days are lost to you
This is your time here to do what you will do
Chorus:
Your life is now your life is now your life is now
In this undiscovered moment
Lift your head up above the crowd
We could shake this world
If you would only show us how
Your life is now
Would you teach your children to tell the truth
Would you take the high road if you could choose
Do you believe youre a victim of a great compromise
cause I believe you could change your mind and change our lives
Chorus:
Your life is now your life is now your life is now
In this undiscovered moment
Lift your head up above the crowd
We could shake this world
If you would only show us how
Your life is now
Would you teach your children to tell the truth
This is your time here to do what you will do
Chorus:
Your life is now your life is now your life is now
In this undiscovered moment
Lift your head up above the crowd
We could shake this world
If you would only show us how
Your life is now
Your life is now your life is now your life is now
In this undiscovered moment
Lift your head up above the crowd
We could shake this world
If you would only show us how
Your life is now

song performed by by John Mellencamp
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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I Did The Kind Of Good A Storm Does

I did the kind of good a storm does.
I may have broken some tree limbs
and downed some powerlines along the way
but I cleared the air of its festering
and from top to bottom
we got down to the roots of things
like lightning and rain
like real radicals
free-basing the ideological ions
addicted to their brains
like razorblades.
O ya
I remember now
we were going to save the world from itself.
I gave up trying
when I realized
that if we did that
there would be no one left
to save the world from us.
Trying to justify yourself in retrospect
is like trying to exonerate a big hairdo
you wore back in the early seventies.
It can't be done
except as a kind of dangerous chess
you play with yourself
and cheat.
It's fun to play
with the lethal intensities
and swaggering immensities of yesterday
as if all those great sublimities that moved us
like fixed stars
had come down to earth
like the ashs of fireflies
in a snakepit of thought
poured out of tiny urns
the size of a human heart.
When I've got nothing else to do
and the moon bores me late at night with its looking
I run my tongue along the edge of your words
like old knives
I've kept like a collection of my favourite smiles
to see if they still know how to draw blood
and what that might still mean to my heart.
Maybe I should have fallen on them like swords
as you wanted me to
instead of reading them
like a delinquent boy
in front of a no trespassing sign.
Back in those days
my heart was a rock
and my mind
was a broken windowpane.
But I'm not one of those people
who long for the past
as if you could step into the same river twice.
Everyone forgets
memory
Mnemosyne
is the mother of the muses.
Everyday the past
comes up with a new song
that surpasses the last like the future.
The ghost of tomorrow returns to its grave at dawn.
The past is just as spontaneously inspired
as the present
and makes it up as it goes along
thinking this is what it must be like
to live on and on and on
with your cosmic elbows
leaning on earthly windowsills
wondering what it might be like to die
and come back
reincarnated as a horizon
or a threshold.
But I don't go back to the past
for the view
like a tourist passing through
his old neighbourhood
to see where he was born and died.
I don't want a brass plague
for a birth certificate
and a postcard
from the edge of nowhere
for a passport
that lies about my record
for telling
what I mistake for the truth
to anyone who'll listen.
I don't want to fake my way into reality
the way they do in Zen.
I don't want to begin again
like tomorrow's has-been.
I'm not trying to convert the faithless
to my disbelief
like a tree preaching to a leaf
like a cross to a crucifixion.
I'm not trying to pump my latest work of fiction
up into a universally inflatable religion
you can take on camping trips to the holy land.
I'm not sure
I'm even really trying to understand
the way things were way back then
when we didn't need to.
Just something to do
when I'm watching the moon
float downstream
like the prophetic skull of Orpheus
all the way from Thrace to Mytilene in Lesbos.
If I look at it long enough
even through a dirty window
I can see a footloose waterlily
preening its feathers
like the swan of a loveletter
late in the autumn
to someone
who will pick it up out of the water
and wonder who it's from
for the rest of their life
like I do
remembering you
as you are to me
now that all these lunar calendars
have shed their blossoms and leaves
and stand naked as the tree of knowledge
adding zeros to everything
like tree-rings in the heartwood
of my personal history.
I've never made a cliche
out of any muse of mine
whether she took me to bed or not.
If she infused me with inspiration
I didn't abuse her
with a parting shot
like the afterthought
of an ignoble mind
or a paper phoenix
that couldn't take the heat
when things got sweet and hot.
I come back
like an old wind to a funeral pyre
that blazed its way up to the stars
to see if anything
was left unburnt or unanswered
in the ashes of the scorched earth.
I rock the cradle awhile
like a manger in hell
that once gave birth
to a childless messiah.
I transcend my own innocence
and fall toward paradise
without asking to be forgiven.
Love hangs stars above us all
that take the fall
for the way our scars
demonize our open wounds for living.
I drink from my skull
to your memory
and then I drink to you
whoever you are now.
In a desert on the moon
in a sea of shadows
I drink in the darkness alone
like an open window
to let the birds out
as if they were the only words
I had left to say
about the passing years
to hide my crazy tears
like an atheist on a grailquest
who knows that life
is a mirage
of burning muse water
that tastes like broken mirrors.

poem by Patrick White
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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History Of A Place, A Bombast, A Psalm In Voices Several

'What thou lovest well remains.'
- Ezra Pound, Canto 181

'Let him not be another's who can be his own.
- Paracelsus

'All this our South stinks peace.' - Ezra Pound

In exile, by whose hand unsure - mine, or those hammers of
The ill-starred fathers. Unsure yet on fire I fled their dredged,
God-flooded cotton plains, those self-appointed lords over
They who were deemed lesser dirt or worse. Those who did
Not sing self-praising songs belonged to lordly minds in Hell
So there to I fled and still make a bed there more content to
Be among the bastards for whom the Bard* pleads,
'Gods! stand up for! ' Ay. If the gods will not, and they do, I stand
Up and bray, a fool certain, but in the neighing take deity's cause
Upon Myself - Justice, Beauty, Mercurial Love's Sublimity
Though my heel be wounded by Adamic paternity.

Of late an old apple tree cracked,

Twice lightening struck. Dying, insistent

Urges, blooms anew tender shoots

Out of season. One resplendent limb reaches,

Just waking pink on tips, from all

The tangled rest for which I, too, reach,

Grasp and reclaim my own patch, my

Own history though scarred, attached

To hurting words, fists, and cornfields forever

Alien, though bittersweet when recalled -

A boy there, hard staring into distance, his wagon full of stones.

Might I sing it then?

How many stones he hauled

Not bidden but rough forced

Hand by hand from coagulate soil,

A boy's red wagon rusting

Full of spilled tumble-stones -

Unyielding stars between the rows, silent?

Brooding father with

His hoe to weed or ridge

To row or brow to strike,

Made of a boy a mule and plow

At Earth's farthest Edge

Too ill-tilled to nurture

But more to fracture.

Land and the boy turned by his

Father's bad blood to waste.

Both boy and corn obedient to

His And Greater Hand grew tall.

He hid there late summers in

Fateful stalks, grew small on

Shadowed afternoons reading of

Exiled, royal Odysseus and scores

More, native born and slave, driven

From homing soil beyond surf, beyond tall

Mountains and fragrances desert-walled.

He waited, a stone for a small boy's hand,

Or a God's, to haul him or throw,

But was his father's.

I often stare at my own now to know the difference...

The apple tree at his garden's stop I often climbed
Repledging myself to 'Anywhere but here'.

Beneath open sky a wind-swayed tree top cradles
Views of further hills reaching at land's edge,
Lake and barricading woods muted.

Soothed then, envisioning my nascent journey out
And away, I discover the most difficult to be that both
Land and father, a part of me still, require of me

a psalm.

Psalm

What can I bring to harvest but these
bruised hands, these cracked stones?

Praise to the fruit tree long untended
beneath mendicant stars.

A boy above, his Radio flyer** lightening full,
Reaches to me now en exilio, the farther flung.

Father, my most difficult, most diffident friend,
My most loving curse,
A strange and fragrant Grace arrives -

Look.

From unexpected fire

comes frail, brief blossoms.

*William Shakespeare

**Radio Flyer is a toy company, famous for it's red wagons.
The company opened in 1917, the year of my father's birth.

poem by Warren Falcon
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Our Mistake

Time keeps passing by
History made in your eyes
You refuse to believe, why?
Yet you listen to all his lies

Soon you will fall
Your life will be torn
Your wings ripped, can no longer stand tall
Your distress is reborn

But still you refuse
To see the truth
This light you will lose
In ignorance and youth

You hide in your cage
From reality you flee
Why don’t you act your age
Open your eyes and you will see

This war has begun
Will you help us win
Or will you flee, hide, run?
When will you save your true kin

Left the darkness far behind
Step into the painfully sweet light
You, his lies no longer bind
For this war you will fight

Now, go, take back your heart
Show us the form you call true
His power you rip apart
Show him why he should have flew

But you go too far, driven forward
Madness engulfs your fragile mind
You harm him and all his kind

Lost all of your light
With your blood covered fang
Can tell no wrong from right
Till that sweet voice sang

Look around see the pain
The blood that fears your very name
Stop this madness in the rain
End your foolish killing game

Gently guided, now sane
Tears flow, see her cry
What do you gain?
Look what’ caused by that lie

But you aren’t all to blame
We helped, forced her to kill
So that we could call it fame
We caged her broken will

Now she lays broken
In the blood we spilt
Watch her, she has awoken
Now she helps correct this world so newly built

poem by Rebecca Pepper
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Dad's Philanthropic Plan

I knew an old philanthropist, a farming man was he,
Shrewd at a deal, but still withal a man of charity.
He had three sons - three hefty lads - Josiah, Jim and Joe,
And each of these had his own land, and made a goodly show.

But still the farming methods of Josiah, Joe and Jim
Distressed their good old parent and disturbed the mind of him.
'These sons o' mine appear to be a sight too slow,' thought he
'They need a better class o' stock and more machinery.'

Wherefore this old philanthropist, this shrewd old farming man,
He sat him down and pondered long, and thus evolved a plan
A simple scheme, beneficent, and calculated so
That it would guard the interests of Josiah, Jim and Joe.

'I have acquired,' reflected he, 'a lot of tillage land
Much more than I can work; and my affairs get out of hand.
If I can but amalgamate their properties and mine,
And call the whole the Empire Farm, the prospect will be fine.

Then rose the good old farming man and called his sons around,
And thus his philanthropic scheme did earnestly expound:
'My sons, it grieves my heart to see you struggling on the land;
And I've decided, after thought, to lend a helping hand.

'You all have been good sons to me, and this is my great plan:
We shall amalgamate the farms and work them as one man.
But first you need machinery; your methods are too slow.
The cost of this will fall on you - Josiah, Jim and Joe.

'Josiah I'll allow to buy a good, upstanding team;
And Joe a separator, for there's coin in milk and cream;
To Jim I give permission - he's a fav'rite son o' mine
To buy a brand new harvester of up-to-date design.

'Josiah, he will feed the nags, and Joe can buy some cows
And these be privileges, mind, not ev'ry dad allows
While Jim can mind the harvester till harvest comes around,
When you can fetch it, with the nags, and work it on MY ground.

'And, as Joe's cows come into milk, he'll fetch 'em up to me,
'Long with the separator; I will work it - do you see?'
But, strange to say, they did not see - Josiah, Jim nor Joe.
They said rude things that plunged their parent into deepest woe.

They called him many ugly names, such as 'a mean old man';
And told him pretty plainly their opinion of his 'plan.'
'We'll buy our harvesters,' said they, 'and work 'em on our own;
And if you get hard-pressed - why, you can have 'em for a loan.'

The poor old farmer bowed his head. 'Ingratitude!' he cried,
'And after all I've done for you, my offer is denied!'
And dad, to-day, is forced to plough and harrow, dig and sow,
For they were most ungrateful sons, Josiah, Jim and Joe.

poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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England's Answer

Truly ye come of The Blood; slower to bless than to ban;
Little used to lie down at the bidding of any man.
Flesh of the flesh that I bred, bone of the bone that I bare;
Stark as your sons shall be -- stern as your fathers were.
Deeper than speech our love, stronger than life our tether,
But we do not fall on the neck nor kiss when we come together.
My arm is nothing weak, my strength is not gone by;
Sons, I have borne many sons, but my dugs are not dry.
Look, I have made ye a place and opened wide the doors,
That ye may talk together, your Barons and Councillors --
Wards of the Outer March, Lords of the Lower Seas,
Ay, talk to your gray mother that bore you on her knees! --
That ye may talk together, brother to brother's face --
Thus for the good of your peoples -- thus for the Pride of the Race.
Also, we will make promise. So long as The Blood endures,
I shall know that your good is mine: ye shall feel that my strength is yours:
In the day of Armageddon, at the last great fight of all,
That Our House stand together and the pillars do not fall.
Draw now the threefold knot firm on the ninefold bands,
And the Law that ye make shall be law after the rule of your lands.
This for the waxen Heath, and that for the Wattle-bloom,
This for the Maple-leaf, and that for the southern Broom.
The Law that ye make shall be law and I do not press my will,
Because ye are Sons of The Blood and call me Mother still.
Now must ye speak to your kinsmen and they must speak to you,
After the use of the English, in straight-flung words and few.
Go to your work and be strong, halting not in your ways,
Balking the end half-won for an instant dole of praise.
Stand to your work and be wise -- certain of sword and pen,
Who are neither children nor Gods, but men in a world of men!

poem by Rudyard Kipling
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I Saw A New World

I SAW a new world in my dream,
Where all the folks alike did seem:
There was no Child, there was no Mother,
There was no Change, there was no Other.

For everything was Same, the Same;
There was no praise, there was no blame;
There was neither Need nor Help for it;
There was nothing fitting or unfit.

Nobody laugh’d, nobody wept;
None grew weary, so none slept;
There was nobody born, and nobody wed;
This world was a world of the living-dead.

I long’d to hear the Time-Clock strike
In the world where people were all alike;
I hated Same, I hated Forever;
I long’d to say Neither, or even Never.

I long’d to mend, I long’d to make;
I long’d to give, I long’d to take;
I long’d for a change, whatever came after,
I long’d for crying, I long’d for laughter.

At last I heard the Time-Clock boom,
And woke from my dream in my little room;
With a smile on her lips my Mother was nigh,
And I heard the Baby crow and cry.

And I thought to myself, How nice it is
For me to live in a world like this,
Where things can happen, and clocks can strike,
And none of the people are made alike;

Where Love wants this, and Pain wants that,
Where all our hearts want Tit for Tat
In the jumbles we make with our heads and our hands,
In a world that nobody understands,
But with work, and hope, and the right to call
Upon Him who sees it and knows us all!

poem by William Brighty Rands
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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While the summer sun burns fiercely over us (in answer to Koos A. Kombuis)

While the summer sun burns fiercely over us,
we are already living in the Promised Land,
we are on no meandering road
that runs into the desert
as long as our eyes are focused
on the Lord
and we constantly trust Him.

We are in no desert
although foreigners crowd at our gates
and by criminal misdeeds
are transforming our Eden
into the portals of hell

and the God that we follow
has previously rescued our fathers
and He hears the prayers of everyone,
has got the omnipotence to act
against the mammon
that draws up in hordes
in the new morning.

Every day it’s His pure light
that still constantly falls on us,
even when there is darkness
that now is at the order of things

and as long as we are living,
the hope remains that the almighty God
will bring His salvation like before
and we find our hope and trust in Him
and He draws his laager, His crowd of angels
around the house of each one
who trusts in Him and are awaiting His salvation
and let there burn flaming torches
in the churches of the night,
there is a new morning
on which we are waiting praying.

[Reference: Die kerke van die nag (The churches of the night) by Koos A. Kombuis.]

poem by Gert Strydom
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An Intellectual Life...

inside this glass world
lives the porcupine
fish

the sea is made of
pure air

everyone is swimming
with the hands and feet of their
minds

one eye sees through another
eye like light piercing a sea of

transparencies and ripples
of doubts are reinvented

it is a deep ocean
imagine a world of porcupine fishes

silence are not knives here
there are no stab wounds on the water

everyone knows how to breathe
without making any sound of rustling leaves

outside this glass world
lies the world of fences and over there are the greener pastures

the fences are high like clouds on the cliffs
and the pastures have no milking cows in fact

it is a jungle without trees
and you will be having a hard time to imagine a

justification why this world is becoming a puzzle
of new languages and reinvented scripts and scenarios

but this is it, this is the way how fists land on chests
how lips design the shape of spits

long ago, they drew ivory towers and disoriented pillars
long ago, they were whistling out of touch tunes

now, there are heads rising from the armpits
feet from abdomens fingers from the anus

and they are talking about dormant diseases that
come out in the open only after your 50th year

out there the mockery is getting louder
the air as colder as men whose blood is removed from them.

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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En.Citatepedia®.ro

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Such A Great Salvation

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History Of A Place, A Bombast, A Psalm In Voices Several

Our Mistake

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England's Answer

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While the summer sun burns fiercely over us (in answer to Koos A. Kombuis)

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