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
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Related quotes
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
1
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.
2
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.
3
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.
4
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
Vote! | Copy!
Yes I Am As happy As A Squirrel In The Dumpster
Yes I am as happy as a squirrel in the dumpster
As happy as maggots in the wound of a dying dog name Fluffy
In my happiness I am dying day by day and by the day I am to happy to pray
Yes dying of happiness found in the dumpster where we buried Fluffy
I am as happy as a smooth stone tied around the neck of a long day yes the long day falling like a stone
Yes the long day smooth as a neck that holds the head of a squirrel feeding in the dumpster of found food that human throw away against the hunger of the world that is too hungry to pray for happiness
I have buried my feet in a pit of maggot blinded by hunger they are dreaming of getting wings but I will throw them away yes yes I will throw them all away because of their hunger hanging heavily around the neck of a smooth stones that falls like the clouds that leaks their heavy liquid load in the long light of the day and the day is as happy as I am who will not pray
I am lost yes lost in the wounded warmth of a dumpster where happiness is as long as the day
I am as happy as a pig wallowing in a muddy ditch
Yes the long day has ditched the sun and the night is happy to be muddyed by stars
I am a pig when it comes to happiness and I say yes when it comes I am yes I am long in my happiness
It is hard won by the muddy love of human warmth packed beneath the sheets where the long day sleeps
I am as happy as a Robin with a beak full of worms
Yes I worm my way throught happiness as the long day worms its way out of night that has buryed the sun with its own happiness full of warmth packed beneath the space from which the stars come
I am as happy as one who stands out against the many lost in the many of ones who have lost their oneness in the collected warmth of the many
Yes I am one with happiness that collect for me the lost warmth found in a ditch that acts as a dumpster
I am lost in my happiness and I have forgotten how to pray yes I have forgotten how to because with my happiness there is no need to beg the begger of Gods
Yes there is no need to beg the forgotten Gods
poem by David E. Patton
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Tiare Tahiti
Mamua, when our laughter ends,
And hearts and bodies, brown as white,
Are dust about the doors of friends,
Or scent ablowing down the night,
Then, oh! then, the wise agree,
Comes our immortality.
Mamua, there waits a land
Hard for us to understand.
Out of time, beyond the sun,
All are one in Paradise,
You and Pupure are one,
And Tau, and the ungainly wise.
There the Eternals are, and there
The Good, the Lovely, and the True,
And Types, whose earthly copies were
The foolish broken things we knew;
There is the Face, whose ghosts we are;
The real, the never-setting Star;
And the Flower, of which we love
Faint and fading shadows here;
Never a tear, but only Grief;
Dance, but not the limbs that move;
Songs in Song shall disappear;
Instead of lovers, Love shall be;
For hearts, Immutability;
And there, on the Ideal Reef,
Thunders the Everlasting Sea!
And my laughter, and my pain,
Shall home to the Eternal Brain.
And all lovely things, they say,
Meet in Loveliness again;
Miri's laugh, Teipo's feet,
And the hands of Matua,
Stars and sunlight there shall meet,
Coral's hues and rainbows there,
And Teura's braided hair;
And with the starred 'tiare's' white,
And white birds in the dark ravine,
And 'flamboyants' ablaze at night,
And jewels, and evening's after-green,
And dawns of pearl and gold and red,
Mamua, your lovelier head!
And there'll no more be one who dreams
Under the ferns, of crumbling stuff,
Eyes of illusion, mouth that seems,
All time-entangled human love.
And you'll no longer swing and sway
Divinely down the scented shade,
Where feet to Ambulation fade,
And moons are lost in endless Day.
How shall we wind these wreaths of ours,
Where there are neither heads nor flowers?
Oh, Heaven's Heaven! -- but we'll be missing
The palms, and sunlight, and the south;
And there's an end, I think, of kissing,
When our mouths are one with Mouth. . . .
'Tau here', Mamua,
Crown the hair, and come away!
Hear the calling of the moon,
And the whispering scents that stray
About the idle warm lagoon.
Hasten, hand in human hand,
Down the dark, the flowered way,
Along the whiteness of the sand,
And in the water's soft caress,
Wash the mind of foolishness,
Mamua, until the day.
Spend the glittering moonlight there
Pursuing down the soundless deep
Limbs that gleam and shadowy hair,
Or floating lazy, half-asleep.
Dive and double and follow after,
Snare in flowers, and kiss, and call,
With lips that fade, and human laughter
And faces individual,
Well this side of Paradise! . . .
There's little comfort in the wise.
poem by Rupert Brooke (1914)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
Vote! | Copy!
Howl (The Returning, Part Two)
gods hate, too damned late,
you worship what you fear!
while buddhas whisper
behind hidden doors,
and leaves fall from trees condemned!
souls traded, manipulated,
for a loaf of bread.
childrens' bodies, wrapped in money,
never make a sound.
bought votes, sacrificial goats,
toe the party line.
buildings blaze, justice burns,
the bells of liberty chime.
the human hand rises from the rubble,
grasping at poisoned air.
the tears of those long since dead,
fall like nuclear rain!
love me, hate me,
see me with your eyes.
feel me, touch me,
treat me like a man!
voices lost neath stained glass windows,
only the memory of need.
the final blow, blamed on god,
the result of human greed!
while naked bodies walk dirty streets,
their holiness defiled.
the stranger calls, the light falters,
as we trudge the final miles.
the eagle screams, hot flesh dreams,
the child raised by wolves...
the only hope, human desire,
and the will to light the torch!
poem by Eric Cockrell
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Life Is Eternal
(carly simon/teesa gohl)
Ive been doing a lot of thinking
About growing older and moving on
Nobody wants to be told that theyre getting on
For a long, long stay
But just how long and who knows
And how and where my spirit will go
Will it soar like jazz on a saxophone
Or evaporate on a breeze
Wont you tell me please
That life is eternal
And love is immortal
And death is only a horizon
Life is eternal
As we move into the light
And a horizon is nothing
Save the limit of our sight
Save the limit of our sight
Here on earth Im a lost soul
Ever trying to find my way back home
Maybe thats why each new star is born
Expanding heavens room
Eternity in bloom
And will I see you up in that heaven
In all its light will I know youre there
Will we say the things that we never dared
If wishing makes it so
Wont you let me know
That life is eternal
And love is immortal
And death is only a horizon
Life is eternal
As we move into the light
And a horizon is nothing
Save the limit of our sight
Save the limit of our sight
song performed by by Carly Simon
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!
The Great Curve
Sometimes the world has a load of questions
Seems like the world knows nothing at all
The world is near but its out of reach
Some people touch it...but they cant hold on.
She is moving to describe the world
Night must fall now-darker, darker.
She has messages for everyone
Night must fall now-darker, darker.
She is moving by remote control
Night must fall now-darker, darker.
Hands that move her are invisible
Night must fall now-darker, darker.
The world has a way of looking at people
Sometimes it seems that the world is wrong
She loves the world, and all the people in it
She shakes em up when she start to walk.
She is only party human being
Divine, to define, she is moving to define, so say so, so say so
She defines the possibilities
Divine, to define, she is moving to define, so say so, so say so
Holding on for an eternity
Divine, to define, she is moving to define, so say so, so say so
Gone...ending without finishing
Divine, to define, she is moving to define, so say so, so say so
The world moves on a womans hips
The world moves and it swivels and bops
The world moves on a womans hips
The world moves and it bounces and hopsu
A world of light...shes gonna open our eyes up
A world of light...shes gonna open our eyes up
Shes gonna hold/it move/it hold it/move it hold/it move it hold/
It move it
A world of light...shes gonna open out eyes up
She is moving to describe the world
Night must fall now-darker, darker.
She has messages for everyone
Night must fall now-darker, darker.
She is moving by remote control
Night must fall now-darker, darker.
Hands that move her are invisible
Night must fall now-darker, darker.
Divine, to define, she is moving to define, so say so
Night must fall now-darker, darker.
She...has got to move the world...to move the world...to move
The world
A world of light...shes gonna open our eyes up
A world of light...shes gonna open our eyes up
Shes gonna hold/it move/it hold it/move it hold/it move it hold/
It move it
A world of light...shes gonna open out eyes up
Wanna define...so say so, so say so
Divine to define, she is moving to define, so say so, so say so
Night must fall now-darker, darker.
She...has got to move the world...to move the world...to move
The world
song performed by by Talking Heads
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!
Past Tense
long, long time ago
in the past tense of my life
there was once a rosey rose
with a beauty sharper than a knife
spoiled by every dropp of rain
on her petals so reddish as blood
playful in such childish vain
though never she had to leave her bud
day and night are leaving
but the rose didn't move
and here I'm sleeping
hoping by the morrow
I would get a move
the wisdom it says by virtue
this rose shall live and live along
as long the sun is singing golden
and the rain is playing its own song
but in case the light becomes so dim
and the weather helps not the eye
standing shall not be that rose's stem
and the whole thing shall be just a lie
day and night are leaving
but the rose didn't move
and here I'm sleeping
hoping by the morrow
I would get a move
but for some reason I cannot find
my eyes closed and once open again
to find myself moveless in bound
without a feeling of the world of insane
but thank to the Lord of heavens in up
my head is beside a rosey rose in here
even though my heart is going to stop
my rose with me got me out of fear
day and night are leaving
but the rose didn't move
and here I'm sleeping
hoping by the morrow
I would get a move
sleepless nights and days
how long did I spend in there
my tears are going down alone
but so the rose stayed to me so near
and yet when people go alone
and to me never get back again
my rose is there bending down
swore that she'll never leave me again
day and night are leaving
but the rose didn't move
and here I'm sleeping
hoping by the morrow
I would get a move
by the sounds of the angels
the petals dropped on my cheek
and when my soul is roaming
doesn't know what I have to seek
comes again my rose from heaven
and to me gives a shining salute
I'm never lonely as she was saying
and my to keep faith in her so absolute
day and night are leaving
but the rose didn't move
and here I'm sleeping
hoping by the morrow
I would get a move
Thus, goes my story
of that rose's glory
and from that sand
shall I not get stand
but to say goodbye
O ye passer by
once in past tense of my life
I had a rose that was living by
day and night are leaving
but the rose didn't move
and here I'm sleeping
hoping by the morrow
I would get a move...
poem by Taher Shemaly
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Glory for the Light!
All human beings are like grass
And all their glory is like wild flowers
The grass withers and the flowers fall
But the word of the Lord remains forever
The Lord said to my Lord
‘sit here at my right side
Until I put your enemies under your feet’
This is the message from the one
I wish that this war will be the last war
They will be like angels and cannot die
The children of God
Because they have risen from death
Remain yours
Look!
Sun will grow dark
The moon will no longer shine
The star will fall from heaven
But the light will be among you a little longer
Continue your way while you have the light!
So that the darkness will not come upon you
For the one who walks in the dark
Does not know where he is going
Glory for the light!
from devil
poem by Maria Sudibyo
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
The Song of the Women
How shall she know the worship we would do her?
The walls are high, and she is very far.
How shall the woman's message reach unto her
Above the tumult of the packed bazaar?
Free wind of March, against the lattice blowing,
Bear thou our thanks, lest she depart unknowing.
Go forth across the fields we may not roam in,
Go forth beyond the trees that rim the city,
To whatsoe'er fair place she hath her home in,
Who dowered us with walth of love and pity.
Out of our shadow pass, and seek her singing --
"I have no gifts but Love alone for bringing."
Say that we be a feeble folk who greet her,
But old in grief, and very wise in tears;
Say that we, being desolate, entreat her
That she forget us not in after years;
For we have seen the light, and it were grievous
To dim that dawning if our lady leave us.
By life that ebbed with none to stanch the failing
By Love's sad harvest garnered in the spring,
When Love in ignorance wept unavailing
O'er young buds dead before their blossoming;
By all the grey owl watched, the pale moon viewed,
In past grim years, declare our gratitude!
By hands uplifted to the Gods that heard not,
By fits that found no favor in their sight,
By faces bent above the babe that stirred not,
By nameless horrors of the stifling night;
By ills foredone, by peace her toils discover,
Bid Earth be good beneath and Heaven above her!
If she have sent her servants in our pain
If she have fought with Death and dulled his sword;
If she have given back our sick again.
And to the breast the wakling lips restored,
Is it a little thing that she has wrought?
Then Life and Death and Motherhood be nought.
Go forth, O wind, our message on thy wings,
And they shall hear thee pass and bid thee speed,
In reed-roofed hut, or white-walled home of kings,
Who have been helpen by ther in their need.
All spring shall give thee fragrance, and the wheat
Shall be a tasselled floorcloth to thy feet.
Haste, for our hearts are with thee, take no rest!
Loud-voiced ambassador, from sea to sea
Proclaim the blessing, mainfold, confessed.
Of those in darkness by her hand set free.
Then very softly to her presence move,
And whisper: "Lady, lo, they know and love!"
poem by Rudyard Kipling
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
The House Of Dust: Part 04: 02: Death: And A Derisive Chorus
The door is shut. She leaves the curtained office,
And down the grey-walled stairs comes trembling slowly
Towards the dazzling street.
Her withered hand clings tightly to the railing.
The long stairs rise and fall beneath her feet.
Here in the brilliant sun we jostle, waiting
To tear her secret out . . . We laugh, we hurry,
We go our way, revolving, sinister, slow.
She blinks in the sun, and then steps faintly downward.
We whirl her away, we shout, we spin, we flow.
Where have you been, old lady? We know your secret!—
Voices jangle about her, jeers, and laughter. . . .
She trembles, tries to hurry, averts her eyes.
Tell us the truth, old lady! where have you been?
She turns and turns, her brain grows dark with cries.
Look at the old fool tremble! She's been paying,—
Paying good money, too,—to talk to spirits. . . .
She thinks she's heard a message from one dead!
What did he tell you? Is he well and happy?
Don't lie to us—we all know what he said.
He said the one he murdered once still loves him;
He said the wheels in wheels of time are broken;
And dust and storm forgotten; and all forgiven. . . .
But what you asked he wouldn't tell you, though,—
Ha ha! there's one thing you will never know!
That's what you get for meddling so with heaven!
Where have you been, old lady? Where are you going?
We know, we know! She's been to gab with spirits.
Look at the old fool! getting ready to cry!
What have you got in an envelope, old lady?
A lock of hair? An eyelash from his eye?
How do you know the medium didn't fool you?
Perhaps he had no spirit—perhaps he killed it.
Here she comes! the old fool's lost her son.
What did he have—blue eyes and golden hair?
We know your secret! what's done is done.
Look out, you'll fall—and fall, if you're not careful,
Right into an open grave. . . .but what's the hurry?
You don't think you will find him when you're dead?
Cry! Cry! Look at her mouth all twisted,—
Look at her eyes all red!
We know you—know your name and all about you,
All you remember and think, and all you scheme for.
We tear your secret out, we leave you, go
Laughingly down the street. . . .Die, if you want to!
Die, then, if you're in such a hurry to know!—
. . . .She falls. We lift her head. The wasted body
Weighs nothing in our hands. Does no one know her?
Was no one with her when she fell? . . .
We eddy about her, move away in silence.
We hear slow tollings of a bell.
poem by Conrad Potter Aiken
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
The Poet Endureth!
i stare at my face in the mirror,
and count with the heavy rhythm
of the clock... moment by moment...
every feeling, born and unborn,
every taste, intoxicating, burning the lips...
every smell, faint and overpowering...
every touch... real and imagined...
and who am i? and what have i to give?
i am the sound that you cant define,
cant put to words, cant control.
i am the fire that warms you, and destroys you...
the water you drink that drowns you;
the wind at your back, the infidel wind
that whispers to you in the middle of the night.
i am the small child, lost and crying,
i am the murderer, still someone's son.
i am the woman you'd die for,
that leaves you broken and bleeding.
i am the priest, the prophet, the thief,
the addict, the whore...
i am everything you believe in,
everything you're scared to admit you feel.
i am the tear no one sees you cry,
i am the fear you keep hidden.
i am the hungry man standing in line,
whose family is long gone.
i am the casket they buried your mother in...
i am the words written in stone,
that no one ever reads.
i am the stranger who steps in front of the car,
pushes you away, and is killed.
i am the path grown over,
... that you'd forgotten!
i am the kiss, the touch of flesh,
the cry of passion in the night.
i am the soul damned to hell,
burned at the stake by the righteous!
i am the hand that touches forbidden places,
that holds yours when you're alone.
i am every mistake you've ever made,
and some you want to make!
i am a lost soul with a glimpse of eternity,
nothing more, nothing less...
i am the poet endureth! i am nothing
but the dust beneath your feet...
i am merely the echo of what makes you human,
i have no name... i am everybody!
poem by Eric Cockrell
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
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
Vote! | Copy!
Orison (Give me your smile)
Waves meet the end
When the ocean reach the land
Water the sand, before your feet
Two worlds meet
The future is far way, at the end of the world
In the horizon still our wonder
High mountain we climbed
Seek for this secret, far sighted distance
Nothing...Do you see the end? ...Nothing
We can't see the ending of everything
Now we learned, future is unpredictable
Not yet to cherish
Not yet to cry
Look back the past
Broken dreams pull your tears
Don't cry my dear soon it will over
All we got not will always be good
Because, It's not heaven we live on
Always have true hopes, never get down
So smile for a little, keep hopes alive
Chase on the light
In depth of the dark
Could be faint but still bright
Bright and brighter when it's dark and darker
Remember
The past has gone
The future still untold
We need the light to move on
Stay in sadness or seek for happiness
Shed you tears, don't cry my dear
Paradise is not where we living now
To promise you will happy forever
Just give your smile to me
I'll lend my hand for you
We will cross the ocean,
Chase the basement of the rainbow
Till we reach the horizon
The end of the world
If we are the ships, lost in the ocean
All we need, a direction
You as a captain with options
Decide your choice
To sink in the middle or
To harbor your dream
Remember
Far in the ocean
As the waves will meet the end
As it wash the sand
Soon we will find a land
Back home and safe from the stormy seas..
The hope always exist for whom believe it
The dark is forever if we deny the present of the light
-ORISON is the Introduction of my upcoming poems, collectively
known as 'Rise from The Ashes (RFTA) '..and the theme is about to be free.
I try to bring some dark more, but in positive..
it wont be sad as it still come from my hand, Unwritten Soul hahahahaha
Inspired by people, I not promise the collection of RFTA will be good or perfect write coz i am not good writer, i just can offer what i can give, my thought and support..Sorry it this introduction still have some weak somewhere, just write it right now...: P
1st poem from RFTA: End of Time
poem by Unwritten Soul
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Mad or Enlightened
Mad or enlightened the same, the universe
is an embryo of darkness born in upon itself, everywhere
its own womb breaking into the pulse of stars within stars,
and everywhere, the shining before the light, the dark mirror
showing the light its own face for the first time,
how in an eventually that is always now
it would attain flowers and eyes along the way
and become the skin of the rain as it falls to earth in April.
If I change to fire, these letters burn, blow away as ash
on the tongue of the wind; if water, then the stars put themselves out
in their own weeping like candles drowning in tears.
Every step of the journey around ourselves
is another world, another garden to plant the seed-names
we’ve shaken from autumns in other realms
and carried around like sacred jewels
we forgot in the corners of our pockets and hearts. Believe it;
when I am all stars; you are all the listening darkness
I pour myself into like a drunkard into a bottomless glass
and you raise me to your lips and drink yourself up
until you’re blinded into clarity
by all the open cages of the light.
Why lie in your own coffin, night after starless night,
if you’re not empowered by your long obedience?
Better to open your eyes on the other side
of your horizontal door, better to come knocking from the outside,
deluded vertically, than suffer this poverty of blood within
the hushed precincts of your skyless realm,
the skull-bone basilicas of your private Vaticans and law libraries.
When it wakes up in the morning
there’s no book-dust in the eyes of the light.
Before you now, in your endless beginning, the dream
you thought you had rubbed from your eyes, you
waking up like a key inside the heart of the dream.
There’s nothing you can’t unlock, even
gardens on the moon or the ancient futures of past lives
death only pruned back with shears to bloom again
in the efflorescence of your eyes, early dawns in the new arraying.
Who you are flows into who you are, all one river of seeing,
dizzy and composed in its own running, all
your own eddies and currents, swamps and white-water,
auroral maids of the mist when you fall in separate drops,
weeping’s just a waterfall, and frenzied tides of being
when you crash ashore out of your own wholeness into buddhas and bums.
In the fire, everyone’s crazy with passion and intelligence,
everyone’s smashed on the wine of an unknown guest
trying to be remembered by his friends.
What visions abound in the orchards of the blessing,
What hearts are torn out and thrown upon the fire
like planets called home by the longing of the sun? We are the white shadows
of the someone else who is walking up ahead
like the moon on the path of its own reflection.
Catch up to yourself and drown in the luminosity of your own being.
Who needs a map to the road they’re walking
or sages pointing all along the way, grey as barnboard signs,
or luminaries at night
pointing to the darkness. The pivot of the worlds points to itself.
True north is not a direction. Haven’t you guessed by now; the stars
all circle you like stormbirds drawn to a lighthouse on the coast of heaven,
too in love with your light to heed your warning about
the deep dragon grief that opens the mouth of the wound
that killed it into life, a one-edged sword of light
in the hands of a holy assassin darker than the silence
of the sun at midnight. If you listen with your eyes,
you can hear in that mournful emptiness
God calling out to God, lover and beloved,
through the echoless valley, across the waveless sea,
yours the name on the prow of the ship that breaks through the veils of the storm,
and yours the name of the storm. You are the bird
that answers the green bough; the lightning in the rigging.
You are the sigh of the silence
and the mystic pen in the hand of the saying.
Whatever worlds you dress for, fields and flowers,
or stars and hourglass elsewhere zones, you are the body of being,
and yours the gowns and robes of creation you draw from the abyss
like clothes from a private closet, dignified in your scriptures,
intimate in your jewels. And everywhere you coyly let yourself fall
like earrings of rain, scarves of fire, fragrances of light,
and watch to see who of the many lovers that are you
bends down like the sky to pick them up at your feet
and return them to you like the first crescent of the moon
rising like an eyelid out of sleep
to greet itself reflected in your face.
poem by Patrick White
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Move It On Over
Came in last night at half past ten
That baby of mine wouldnt let me in
So move it on over (move it on over)
Move it on over (move it on over)
Move over little dog cause the big dogs moving in
Shes changed the lock on my front door
My door key dont fit no more
So get it on over (move it on over)
Scoot it on over (move it on over)
Move over skinny dog cause the fat dogs moving in
This dog house here is mighty small
But its better than no house at all
So ease it on over (move it on over)
Drag it on over (move it on over)
Move over old dog cause a new dogs moving in
She told me not to play around
But I done let the deal go down
So pack it on over (move it on over)
Tote it on over (move it on over)
Move over nice dog cause a mad dogs moving in
She warned me once, she warned me twice
But I dont take no ones advice
So scratch it on over (move it on over)
Shake it on over (move it on over)
Move over short dog cause the tall dogs moving in
Shell crawl back to me on her knees
Ill be busy scratching fleas
So slide it on over (move it on over)
Sneak it on over (move it on over)
Move over good dog cause a mad dogs moving in
Remember pup, before you whine
That sides yours and this sides mine
So shove it on over (move it on over)
Sweep it on over (move it on over)
Move over cold dog cause a hot dogs moving in
song performed by by Hank Williams
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!
Only Heaven Knows
My intentions are good, my hearts in the right place now
You see I wanna be good to you baby
But sometimes I just dont know how
And the hand of fate, reaches out once more
And pulls me though that gate
Like one hundred times before
Ooh, there are the nights, when things just work out right
No one could be as close as you and me
Then it all breaks down, and we cant find that common ground
Thats not the way, the way it oughta be baby
Why do we laugh, why do we cry
Why do we feel this pain inside
Only heaven knows, only heaven knows
In this game of hit and miss
How long can we go on like this
Only heaven knows, only heaven knows
But if we threw it all away
Its something wed regret someday
Heaven knows
Why do we do these foolish things
Only heaven knows
My intentions are good, my actions are hard to explain
I get misunderstood sometimes
Theres nobody but me to blame
Ive gotta speak my mind, and deal with the situation
Open the lines
The lines of communication
Ooh there are the nights, we really get it right
Makin love, endlessly
And then there are the days, we go our separate ways
As though theres nothin left of you and me
Why do we laugh, why do we cry
Why do we feel this pain inside
Only heaven knows, only heaven knows
In this game of hit and miss
How long can we go on like this
Only heaven knows, only heaven knows
But if we threw it all away
Its something wed regret someday
Heaven knows
Why do we laugh, why do we cry
Why do we feel this pain inside
Only heaven knows, only heaven knows
In this game of hit and miss
How long can we go on like this
Only heaven knows, only heaven knows
But if we threw it all away
Its something wed regret someday
Why do we do these foolish things
Only heaven knows, only heaven knows
I wanna be good to you baby
Heaven knows, etc.
song performed by by Foreigner
Submitted by Lucian Velea
Vote! | Copy!
Who Taught You
Who taught you to abhor the savage
within you
as if you were
an intolerant missionary to yourself?
Or walk into the room
and sit down
like a civilization that can't compose itself?
And what strange habits you have for eyes
like ominous seabirds off the coast
of the continent with nowhere to perch
you've just discovered about yourself
that doesn't bear your name.
And o come on now
isn't it the most grievously wounded
who cry out the loudest
in their delirium of pain
and shake their wills
like steel at the ruthless heavens
though all they've ever really done is heal?
And why slash out in your anger
like the moon at everyone
when you should know by now
better than anyone
that whenever you do
it's the sword that bleeds to death?
And you say you've tried to live decently
in an indecent world
but it's a shame
you've never walked barefoot anywhere
without your morals in your hand like shoes.
That's just the mud and water of it
between your fingers and your toes
but I've never joined a Buddha
eating flowers for lunch
who would have it any other way.
Or as Solomon said to so and so,
on his way to the temple
to set an example,
half a baby isn't the same as a whole bunch.
And then broke down in tears.
We all have our fears and illusions
but isn't so much suffering in the world
generated by the fact
we cherish our misery
like self-inflicted voodoo dolls
we won't let go of
because nothing else
looks like us into the void
and sees nothing that looks like us
looking back with stars in their eyes?
But what a surprise to be here at all
stepping in and out
of these coffins and lifeboats
paired like shoes under our beds
where they gape
like mouths before the open sea
that has washed them ashore
like dust out of its one good eye
we just flew into
like birds against a windowpane.
And even more of a wonder
is the day you discover
you can taste the full harvest
in every crumb of a dream
and even in the lamp
that's gone out in the night
clarity is still faster than light.
Within you I swear
on all that is human
are worlds within worlds
like the spherical mirrors of the morning
hanging their eyes like jewels
in the webs of the dreamcatchers
that looked everywhere
through the spiritual lost and founds of the light
but couldn't find us until nightfall
when we each came out like a star
above our own manger
and the darkness was sweet with gifts.
The blind don't diminish
the brightness of the mirror
when they hold themselves
up to it like a shadow
and even when your eyes are open
you don't add a feather of light to the shining
though you burn like Icarus without a starmap
by flying too near the sun
beyond the heels of your aspiration.
And even when we are crazed moths
in a straitjackets of flesh
seeking asylum in the fire,
isn't it the Promethean nature
of every living creature
that has ever stolen from the gods
even in a state of ashes
not to be bound for long by anything
that isn't out of reach?
It's not the art of a petty life
to know how to long
for the impossible for years
without disappointment
knowing that if appearances
can be deceptive
then so must be the illusion
when anything disappears.
The important thing is not
to try to attain anything
by reaching out
a finger shy of God
for things like life and love and light
as if you were a dead battery
asking the stars for a jumpstart
when one of the myriad truths
of the dark matter at hand is
you don't have to work hard
to earn your own gifts
like a beggar in a palace
that doesn't recognize her own face
looking down upon her
like her own reflection in the heavens,
as if her eyes always had to go
in the same place either side of her nose
and couldn't flow along
with the shoreless starstreams
like easy fish dopaddling through space.
And if you must cry out
like an insatiable mirror
for things you've lost
or pine at the gate
of your own homelessness
like a long sad farewell
to all those things that never came
like the sea to your feet
as if every wave
were meant to fit you
like a glass slipper,
then I suggest
with only a whisper
of night in my voice
to tempt the light out of hiding
that the next time you cry
like a wounded sword
that no longer divides
the empty grotto of the pain
that separates lovers
like two halves of the same brain,
look up at the nightsky
as if you were looking into the eyes
of your own prophetic tears
and see and be more deeply
than any kind of telescope
or wishing well
in every single one of them
the dark pregnant mother
of the billion chandeliers
that hang like stars above you.
poem by Patrick White
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
The Practical Uses Of Poetry
Not to be practical, not
to mean, be, do,
no more than the wind
to insist upon itself, to
move like the wind,
like a disembodied intelligence
over the mindfields
practicing the twin disciplines
of light and rain,
scattering the mystic pollen
of intuitive seeds
that bloom like roseate fire
in the shadowless gardens of the abyss
arranging the cosmos like a wild bouquet
in the blood vase of the human heart.
To remind us
we're not fireflies or stars
stuck on a chromosome
of intellectual flypaper,
a buzzing that will stop,
but a passion of native iron
in the arms of alien oxygen,
urged into creative consummation
by carbon.
Free as water, free as God
the night she put the universe on
like make-up
to attend to the beginning of everything
with a cosmic efflorescence of fireworks,
to speak for the stones, the stars, the trees,
to say them into being,
to say us, to whisper us
into the enormity of her solitude,
the inconceivability of her darkness,
a secret she couldn't keep anymore.
Experience is a child playing,
not function, not a job, not a career.
What's practical about singing alone
because the mysterious nightbird
has come like a blossom of joy
to the bough of the tree in winter?
Or must dancing have a use,
music be enchained to the stone ear of utility?
Bleeding isn't very practical either
but how would you ever know
you were a rose scarred by your own thorns
if you didn't?
Sooner renounce the sweetness
of the star-flavoured summer night air
or teach the wind a compass and a map,
the sky to consult a control tower
than try to grind the stars of poetry
with a stone and an ox
into a function and a fee.
The wages of poetry are always a gift
that takes the recipient by surprise
with the beauty of its subtlety
and a coin as true as the moon.
Who asks to be paid
to dance alone with God?
And even the abyss
has provided you with a world
like a passport to anywhere you want to go.
Among the birds and the leaves
flowing along with this pilgrimage of stars
to shrines that are older than knowing,
if the sun or the moon
should open your voice like a flower
in the deep woods
to hear you singing in the light,
and you are urged into poetry
through a gate as open as the cosmos,
and you discover colours have echoes
and the notes of your song
are a palette of gardens,
and everything you paint with your picture-music
is the portrait of someone you're becoming
until you look like everyone
from the inside out,
every passion
the longing of a planet
to burn with life,
and the deepest watershed of your humanity
is itself
the fountain
where the goddess drinks from her own reflection,
and you understand
that the word in the morning
is the word at the end of the day,
and that the life that adorns your body within
is the wine of the worlds
in a cup of clay
encrusted with stars
and you are the delirium the dream seeks,
the lightning and lucidity of the dark sage
your roots consult like a storm,
would you then look upon the first crescent of the moon
and try to fix it to a plough,
would you look forever
into the wells of now
like the eyes of a lover
who combs out the tresses of the willow like the wind
as if he played the whole of the night
on the blue guitar of your heart,
would you renounce the music as impractical?
To walk through this world aware,
with a spear of moonlight through your heart
like a poet, to feel
everything a human can feel
and have the courage and the art
to sing
the joys and sorrows,
the gardens and intimate hells alike
with compassion and understanding,
even when you often don't understand
because the shadow of the world
eclipses your eyes,
or the windows are saturated with pain,
to be able to do that, to be that
is beyond assessing
because there is no intention to life
or the running of the river
or the unspooling of a poem
that conceives of its seeing as progress.
What the eye writes
on these pages of percipient sky
that bring the world to a focus in us
is not a reality in advance
of the dream that shadows it.
poem by Patrick White
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Another Child Moves On
The flowers in a still life painting never move
The phonograph needle on a record album never leaves the same groove
But in another town in another place
Another child is born to the human race
And another child moves on
We dream a little less each day
We suffer in some new way
Soon we discover a bright new lover
Then realize we were born for demise
As another child dances in front of our eyes
And another child moves on
The flowers in a still life painting never move
The phonograph needle on a record album never leaves the same groove
but in another town, in another place, another child joins the human race
and another child moves on
And when another child moves on
Tell me what is gained when he's gone?
In the great green valley of life
Another death cuts us like a knife
We play baseball in the lights at the park
Discover a new kiss by the moonlit dark
Watch silly shows as the picture tube glows
edit our speech to soothe our friends
Knowing full well how this all ends
And then another child moves on
The flowers in a still life painting never move
The phonograph needle on a record album never leaves the same groove
But in another town in some new place
Another child is born to the human race
And another child moves on
And another child moves on
Tell me who has lost whose won?
A mother sighs and a mother cries
A father merely lowers his eyes
And in another town in another place
A bright smiling child joins the human race
And the whole world smiles along
Beau Golden
1989
poem by Beau Golden
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
In Strange Land
How long will you remain in strange land?
People call it illusory, foreign and dreamland
I am unaware of this slippery world
Develop fear now with feet turning cold
I am unable to make out what you can just be?
Lovely, good looking, white in color or black tree
Lovely moon face or glittering shine on cheeks
I am confused now how to ask for and seek
Beautiful things with apparent show has always fascinated
If I am drawn towards then it must not be co-related
As I am normal human being with all worldly desires
If I seek, what has been just pulsating, must be admired
Oh, those diamond jewelleries on beautiful ears
Necklace on neck with all pomp and show without fears
Simple and elegant walk just to pull a man in charmer’s net
I think all works as magic play simply stare and bet
Female as whole is considered as divine form
We must be conscious of it and remain well informed
At every stage that role is magnificently changed
As an actor we play different roles as orchestrated and managed
At some stage we loose some of our common sense
When she has been seen as beautiful object with nonsense?
Whole concept of glamorization appears before eyes
We go deep into bottom and then all such fancy flies
Most memorable aspect of female is her beautiful face
Then good smile and well intentioned move to invite in race
If those things are coupled with little show off and smart move
There remains nothing to be worth trying to prove
Sometimes I shifted to her face and then to her temperament
She was elegant, beautiful and made smart movement
All these things made me restless and pushed to deep thinking
The stage had nearly come where I was about to go down with sinking
Well, this is nice stage where beautiful heart pulsates
So many faces come on screen, compare and equate
Force him to focus on certain dominant features and compel
Dream of beautiful company and expect it to go well
poem by Hasmukh Amathalal
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!