10. 000 Lightyears
10.000 lightyears somewhere out in space
They practice love and they know what it takes
No competition and no jealousy
Living in freedom and humanity
10.000 lightyears away, lightyears away far from pain
Came to a place full of grace and of peace
10.000 lightyears away from our fear
Suddenly its ringing in my ears
Why is it now I dont wanna be here
I feel like flow in that clock at the wall
God, how I wish that this dream would go on
10.000 lightyears away, lightyears away far from pain
Came to a place full of grace and of peace
10.000 lightyears away from our fear
10.000 lightyears somewhere out in space (10.000 lightyears)
10.000 lightyears somewhere out in space (10.000 lightyears)
10.000 lightyears somewhere out in space (10.000 lightyears)
10.000 lightyears somewhere out in space (10.000 lightyears)
3rd verse - on promo-lp 206 318-000 only!!!
Reality comes knocking at my door
I face the same obligations once more
Dreams took me 10.000 lightyears away
Id give all I got if thats where I could stay
song performed by by Boney M.
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Related quotes
Future World
I know a place we all can go
Dont wanna live here anymore
I see a planet slowly die
And I get tired of wondering why
Come and join the right future world
Dont you wanna be free and alive
Come and join the right future world
To a world where we all can survive
Get on board and fly with me
To the future world (future world)
To let our children grow up there in peace
We can live in harmony
In another world (another world)
10.000 lightyears away
10.000 lightyears away
Get on board and fly with me
To the future world (future world)
We can build a better world up there
Love is not just make-believe
In another world (another world)
10.000 lightyears away
10.000 lightyears away
10.000 lightyears away
10.000 lightyears away
Dont waste the precious life away
The spaceships taking off today
Leave your belongings all behind
Everything you need is in your mind
Get on board and fly with me
To the future world (future world)
We can build a better world up there
Love is not just make-believe
In another world (another world)
10.000 lightyears away
10.000 lightyears away
10.000 lightyears away
10.000 lightyears away
10.000 lightyears away...
song performed by by Boney M.
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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20. Th Century
In the beginning
There was no light
No teenage heaven or hell
No songs or voices came from across the outlands
Where oceans were ment to be, where oceans were ment to be
Oh my god, I feel so alone
Some million lightyears far from home
How about you who are living in the 20th century
Carol
You better stop to get the tickets for the starlite show
Everybody wants to be there
What a dream
So if you dont mind, will you join me
On my way through the eye
Up to the light
Into the world
Gold/1985
song performed by by Alphaville
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Solar Driftwood
The Big Bang.
The ultimate hero of low frequency. The divine intergalactical bass drum connecting
the tribes of our solar system.
If we could communicate from our tiny piece of solar driftwood into another galaxy
what would we say?
We can send out pictures, symbols, chemical formulas or language.
The magic of music is a sign of consciousness that could be understood on far-flung
worlds millions of lightyears from our horizon.
Music is an interstellar language from a highly insignificant planet one of nine in
our system which sails through time and space till the next one, the next inevitable
Big Bang...
song performed by by Yello
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Solar Driftwood
The Big Bang.
The ultimate hero of low frequency. The divine intergalactical bass drum connecting
the tribes of our solar system.
If we could communicate from our tiny piece of solar driftwood into another galaxy
what would we say?
We can send out pictures, symbols, chemical formulas or language.
The magic of music is a sign of consciousness that could be understood on far-flung
worlds millions of lightyears from our horizon.
Music is an interstellar language from a highly insignificant planet one of nine in
our system which sails through time and space till the next one, the next inevitable
Big Bang...
song performed by by Yello
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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I Know You Are Here
i know you are here
i have this sense of smell of a fox
a dog, a cat
and i smell your decency in your discreet
appearances
in the air in the atmosphere where you keep your silence
and secret
presence
you love me i know and you would have wanted to touch me
as i too
do
but the world has its own rules and laws of
nature
and physical dictates
its axis
its determined revolutions the way the zodiac
put the stars
you are at one end and i am at the other
we smell
each other's presence we sense each other's longings
even in a distance
of lightyears
of this interplanetary distances
yet i am the earth and you are the sky
i am the sun and you are the moon
you are the farthest star
and i am the pebble
thrown to the deepest part of the ocean floor
it is simply this memory that links us
something unfulfilled
the empty space
and the passing wind invisible always till the end of time
i feel the coldness of us
on the skin
of my cheek
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Ivory Tower
Here is the news
From my little hideaway
My sweet ivory tower
Ive sent you songs about so many things
Mighty moondogs skipping waves
Dolphins playing their lives away
Golden circus girls and pharaohs
Fallen angels, streetside romeos
Patricias park and anyway
Eternal youth and neverending summerdays
Lonely girls, music halls, the mysteries of love
In the event
That I dont return
Please take this message to understand
In the event...
I am a stranger
In a strange land
Welcome stranger, to the land of the free
Welcome, carol, to fantasy
Oh my god, I feel so alone
A million lightyears far from home
It seems to be a tragedy
How can I live in germany
Another house is burning down
Its time to face the cruel reality
This is a game no more
Desasters in the twentieth century
In the event that I dont return
Please, take this message to understand
In the event
In the event
Gold/1994
song performed by by Alphaville
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Catatonic Optimist
Candy with breakfast makes everything brighter
Turns my feelings hygenic, and make orange juice lighter
Junk mail and traffic are no longer my hassles
When I take from a vial that makes me see castles
Catatonic Optimism
It hits faster then a missle
Heading out towards havanah
Where mushrooms form inside nirvana
Neighbors bad dealings, and boses cold grins
Disregard all the tension from a neutralizing syringe
I used sigh heavey and lay under green blankets
But now its treacle, and with hookah I can slack it
Catatonic Optimism
You'll collide with cartoon vission
Taking rides inside bubble's
Flying lightyears from any trouble
The sound of muzak, floats in the palace
Of cubicle dungeons, with no insulin
Secrateries gossip, with acrylic talongs
Though I swim the breeze on the wings of a dragon.
poem by Kevin Patrick
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These Huge Vast Thoughts Of You
These huge vast thoughts of you
prove nothing
except they're too hard to carry.
They're the same old Sisyphean stones
I've been rolling uphill
ever since you left me
standing on quicksand
like a half-finished pyramid
that just lost its reason for dying.
And I'm way past crying.
I'm dark water locked in the heart
of a distant planet
that doesn't support life.
I look up at the nightsky now
remembering you as you were then
and I'm always one house shy of a zodiac.
There.
At the end.
There's a space
where that last sign of you
used to be
and a galactic black hole
that keeps sucking me in
like a bird into a jet engine
to try and see in the dark
if there's a way out of here
I haven't tried before.
I've followed my footprints
like scars in the deserts of Mars.
Using my direction of prayer for a compass
I've been an undercover boyscout
looking for signs of life on Venus.
Now there are too many event horizons between us
too many bent dimensions
too many worlds
too many millions of lightyears away
too many swords and bells
too many full moons
crossed out on the calendar
like Xs on boarded up plague doors
for longing to bridge the gaps
in the unimaginable vastness of space
by jumping from one constellation to the next
like an ancient collection of starmaps
looking for one that shines
as you once did
when things that were hidden
deep in the heart of the night
were revealed
without resorting to signs.
I've never stopped missing you
though it would be good advice
in sensible shoes
if I could.
And it's not out of respect for the dead
that the wound never heals
that parted us like the Red Sea
but more the way love feels
when it's leaving Egypt
for a promised land
it's not allowed to enter.
Which one of us was the cause?
Which one of us was the effect?
How could anyone answer that
when I remember looking at you
through the doorway into your studio
reworking your canvas
over and over again
late into the night
and I used to think
as you mixed your colours like instincts
even our flaws are perfect
when our eyes are a work of love.
poem by Patrick White
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The World Is Only As Big
The world is only as big
as the size of the life going on in me.
If I wanted to take the full measure of the sky
what could that be
compared to the lightyears it takes
to get from one side of my mind to the other?
And look how huge the darkness is
that can be cast by one star
like the negative of its shining.
And what road has anyone walked
that was ever longer than their shadow?
Eternity's just another way of saying
you've run out of space for time.
I don't think I'm going to live forever
but my life will go on without me
just as it always has.
I'll get up in the morning
like the ghost of someone I can't remember
and I'll have a coffee and a cigarette
as I wait for the obscurity to clear
like steam on a bathroom mirror
to see if I can recognize
anything about me
that was true yesterday.
Will I feel as I do now like a leftover
from the night before
pushed to the side of the plate
as everything in the room
reviles me slightly
and gets back to the silence
they were engaged in
before I interrupted them so impolitely
I smeared their meditation
with my intrusive incoherence?
They all seem to be waiting
for someone to make an appearance
but it definitely isn't me.
It's beautiful outside
but when I look
I'm always looking at the beauty
of someone else's bride
and I turn away like night from the orchard
as if I were always the best man
at the wedding of Adam and Eve.
Eden.
In clay-bound Sumer
from the word Edin
meaning the southern marshes
of the Tigris and Euphrates rivers
whose mouths were always full of food
and the living was easy and good.
Same garden.
Same tree.
Same apple.
Same suggestive serpent.
But I've always understood
from the first bite
of self-knowledge
the baffled man in me
eats the apple to know things
about the lucid woman in me
who eats it to grow wings on a snake
to raise that up high
which has been cast down low.
Now all gods and dragons are estranged oxymorons
and Nicholas of Cusa's Coincidence of the Contradictories
is the yin and yang
the lingham and yoni
of a grand biodynamic plan
to sow clarity in the heart of confusion
to see what kind of chaos we can make of it
that might randomly advance
the creative mischance of evolution
happening everywhere the same
to everyone all at once.
Though to think it has balance and purpose
is to build two retaining walls
in the corner of the one dunce.
It's the kind of war
where you go to peace against the other
and there's a commotion
in the heart of the stillness
that is distinctly human.
Something stirring
about the enduring effect
of love and compassion
when it happens without a cause
and the mirrors don't look through the laws
of iron bars
like skies in captivity
deprived of stars in their solitude
or words to lighten the mood.
Of course it's absurd.
Life's only playing at being serious
and a childlike madness
a crazy wisdom
that isn't imperiously innocent
of its own experience
is the only way to express
the lucid triviality of what's sublime
about its creativity
like stars in the daytime
lost in the lightless depths
of an expansive mind
that's come to the limit of things
like a Martian rover
by realizing
there's no edge to go over.
poem by Patrick White
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Dying Young In Autumn
Dying young in autumn,
the ideal death of a flower or a star
whose beauty's still as obvious
as a door that's been left ajar at night.
The fireflies are search parties
out looking for someone
who's made an escape through the woods,
or they're lamp lighting deer
out of the dark into the glare of their insights.
Train whistle in the distance
works its ghost to death
Doppler-shifting its lament
into an infra-red eclipse of existence.
And then the stars in the eyes
of the recurring storm of the trees,
flaring over-eagerly like candles and dragons
to burn for the sheer delight of it.
I make my way through a labyrinth
of foliage and moonlit shadows
to nowhere in particular
with a rocky slope glacially graded
down to what the locals say
is a fathomless lake none of their childhoods
were ever deep enough to plumb.
I lie down upon the cool poultice of the earth
and I can feel it drawing
all the fever out of me like the effluvium
of swimming the thousand polluted mindstreams
I've become osmotically enculturated to
like a dendritic form of spiritual gangrene.
The moon puts a new dressing on my wound.
I urge the pain to rest like a homing bird
on a limb that's healing like the rafter of a house
that broke under the weight of what it upheld
when a three alarm fire in the heart
sought sanctuary from an ice storm
and it was nobody's fault but my own
that I didn't let it go out like a flagging comet
with the rest of the daylilies
that died in harness like parachutes.
I've kept it alive for lightyears
like a book of the occult in an industrial library.
I've cupped its light in my hands
like an ancestral offering
to the enlightenment of my peers
and though the clouds have raved
and the wind turned vicious
it still burns in me like a dragon in an aviary,
a canary in a mine, a muse in a lantern,
a genie in an old lamp, a female demon
that only blooms in fire like a black waterlily
with nothing to fear from the new moon.
Or the fireflies trying to find it on a star map.
poem by Patrick White
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And It's Funny How
And it's funny how we carry each other
within ourselves like mingled waters
that taste of the moon,
that taste of bruised orchids
in the shadow of all those glass greenhouses,
Eden in a Mason jar,
that learned to throw stones,
and mysteriously engaging
that we go on creating each other as we have
forever inseparably each on his own
alone together with everyone
wondering why we exist
to know one day we won't.
Gates and roads and miles and whispers away
and a longing that can only be measured
in the lightyears of a star
and all the eras, all the trances of time
of passion and extinction,
of despair that turned on hope like a toxin
and hope that flared like the third man on a match
learning to brighten the stars
by deepening its darkness,
I have lived from eclipse to eclipse
like an unintelligible abyss who misses everyone
for the quality of breath and death and emptiness
that makes me me
when I want to be impossibly alone
and the memories have issues and agendas of their own
like a dead branch trying to witch for water at a window.
Where are you now?
Who were you?
Have I survived?
Whose ashes are these?
Now I am the tree. And you are the wind
and the pursuit of nothing flows on endlessly like life and water.
And all the lovely deserts that enhanced the moon
and coaxed me out of my old delirium
into a deeper one
by drinking the viper in the grail
they lifted to my lips like a gate
that everyone comes to like a stranger
prodigally returning to his own homelessness,
following the wind like a siren of sand
have slipped through my fingers like music,
though my voice still tastes of them
when I drink from their reflections,
not knowing whether I have become
a darkness in the light
or a light in the darkness
but grateful for the grander perspective
from the bottom of the well
where they showed me their stars at noon
and the sun at midnight
and how the fires that nourish love
cannot be put out like torches
in their own shadows
anymore than a bird can fall from its feathers.
poem by Patrick White
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You Don't Need To Put A Supernova In The Window
You don't need to put a supernova in a window
like a candle in a telescope
to help me find my way back to you
from the next galaxy over. I'm gone
like a sixties light show after the music was over.
But I didn't close you like a door behind me,
I didn't find you like a threshold
in the spirit's lost and found
and try to return you to the house you belonged to.
I've always been a little ahead of myself
so when I said good-bye, it will be light years yet
before you know anything about it.
It's just that time doesn't linger in the doorway
of enlightenment, and eternity isn't any closer to God
than the next moment is. A hundred billion stars
two thousand lightyears away and you,
checking the wiring on blasting caps in a beaver dam
that's threatening to flood the road you're on
as I go off like a firefly already
two mellenia into the future that's looking forward
to meeting you eye to eye in a brighter place than this
just to see if you recognize me as I am.
Black matter in the lifemask of a blossom
peaking through the keyhole of the universe next door
to see if I've returned to my room like the moon
with a curfew it's in my nature to break forever
whenever we are, if the timing's not right.
If you can't see in the dark what the light owes
to the shadows who have died for it
just to attract your attention from afar again
like a man who's been tarred and feathered
and set aflame like a phoenix in the rootfires of the sumac.
Like an immolation that scatters the ashes of a burning house
all over the garden you've been tending
like a urnful of flowers about to come out.
Like a candle in the darkness enlightenment
snuffed out on the dark side of the moon
to keep you from being lost in the blazing like a star at noon.
I lead you away from me, like all I've ever wanted.
I say good-bye to keep death from saying hello along the way
as if it had met you somewhere before I came on the scene
like a flame thrower with a flare for arson burning
like the passion flower of a dragon on a pyre beside the Ganges.
To raise you up shining out of the grave of your aspirations
like lightning and fireflies in the updraft of my expedient means.
So when you cry over someone you're missing like me,
your tears have the power of a sunflower in the garden after dark,
and the ashes turn green. And scarlet runners bind themselves
like the happy home fires of heretics to the triune axes of your tent poles.
poem by Patrick White
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The Night In The Wounded Mirror
The night in the wounded mirror
is only a childhood away from my face
and there's always a shattered window
between me and my starless shining,
and a dead bird upturned on the sill
as if the sky, too, had its quota of roadkill.
Looking back from all these
lightyears and constellations away,
on the black day I was born under an eclipse
like a flower clenched into a fist,
an eye without an iris darker than a shark's,
I suspect there was a lot more suffering back then
than I was able to live my way through,
estranged in the corner of a kitchen
that was a feeding frenzy of knives.
I still can't leave one out on the counter
without fearing it's just another punctuation mark,
the claw of a comma in a long sentence of blood.
At best, it's the silver scar of the moon
that slashed me open like a well-honed loveletter
that wasn't meant for me.
And I still don't know how to approach
the child I was, the child I still am
time-travelling through himself like a glacier
as if he could put a stop to evolution
or survive his extinction
by keeping to himself like ice.
I look upon his solitude and silence,
the unaccusing indictment of his face,
like a cold, brass plaque
commemorating the unidentifiable victims
of an atrocity that can't be understood.
He's still seven and I'm looping through sixty
like the spine of a calendar
shedding me like autumn,
a picture of turning leaves on every page,
until there's no way of telling what age we are
in this season out of time,
and I want to love him, I want
to say things that could heal us both like water
before I take him with me into my grave,
but I don't truly know how,
and there are secret vows of violation
that are taken without a mouth
and assassins of intimacy in the shadows
and children sleeping in snakepits
who make up their own bedtime stories
and dream of things that can't be told to anyone
who hasn't been devoured in their ancient infancy
by the furious innocence of the sea.
Dark-hearted jewel
of a child in the night,
older than light
who has made more of me
than I can make of him,
when I weep for what he knows
and will not say, what am I,
what are these words
in the inky shacks of the trees
but the lengthening shadow
of the darkness that pours out of him like blood,
or duct-tape like moonlight
over the mouth of a scream?
And if I come back now
like the legend I have made of his sorrow
to gather him up in my arms
like a harvest under a full moon,
and if I sit with him all night
without saying anything
here on this skull of a rock
until each of us is the memory of the other,
could it make anything better,
would it take the thorn of the moon
out of the eye of the dragon
that sheds its skin like childhood skies,
not knowing where things end, things begin?
poem by Patrick White
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Primal Death
Space
Time
Space
Travel
Raining
Ai ming
Space
Time
Space
Expanding
Un iting
Increasing
Space
Time
Space
Sweeping
Restraining
Stretching
Space
Time
Space
Wrestling
Throwing
Throwi ng up
Space
Time
Space
Falling
Sinkin g
Overturning
Space
Time
Space
Whi rling
Space
Time
Space
Disturbing
Space
Time
Space
Whirring
Space
Ti me Space
Erring at
Nothing
poem by August Stramm
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All These Bottles With S.o.s. Inside
All these bottles with s.o.s. inside
but not a genie in a lamp among them.
Occasionally the Cutty Sark
in a forty pounder of whiskey,
but the masts snap like matchsticks
whenever I try to pull them out
as if I were trying to give a caesarian
to the chrysalis of a dragonfly
that got turned around somehow. Too often
a viper body surfing the dunes of the Sahara
in the hourglass of a gamma ray burst.
A lot of starfish that have quit shining
that I pick up off this sad, far shore
and bury them in the starfish cemetery
each in their exact place in a starmap
that replicates the constellations perfectly.
It's what the enlightened do when they're bored
and there hasn't been a word
they don't want to hear from anyone
for lightyears. All the sages
have left the house with Elvis
and Morrison's just turned the lights out.
Raw solitude underneath such thin skin.
Hush, the flatliners are meditating.
They're putting transalpine creases
in their theta waves, hoping to levitate
like a lifeboat up off the rocks they're scuttled on.
Neap tide in the affairs of providence
for barges and schooners alike I guess.
Met this man once who said he was homeless
then gave me his card with a name
and a home address, so I asked him
if he could spare any change for postage
and after that, his mail never came here anymore.
Just thought I saw a ghost, but now
I'm convinced it was only a reflection
on the rim of my chromatically aberrated glasses.
O, ya, or maybe they're the magic circles I draw
around my eyes empowering me to exorcise
the apparitions as I please, or spiritual junkmail
that lavishes way more on the promise
than it budgets to spend on its fulfilment.
Whenever I want to remember how the truth feels
I run the blade of the moon along my tongue
and sit in a sacred place where two rivers
of lightning join to split the oak, and if the truth heals
hope it isn't cruel to realize, even to myself,
that most of us are the unrealized simulacra
of things in accord with the contradictions
of what we once wanted to be. The palettes
of the lichens that mixed lunar blues and greens
on the rocks, are scattered all over the place
around here like folk art in a Zen gallery of minimalists.
What's important, crucial, in fact, when things turn infernal
is to observe the protocols of hell if not the content
with unparalled grace and distinction. Demon up
until you've burned all the slag out of your field of view
like asteroids trying to make a big impact on you
like a swarm of blackflies buzzing all around you
like spy satellites and semi-colons. Until
their radios short out. And I'm awash again with stars
in the cooling silence of my dispassionate clarity
with a wry slash of a smile on the deathmask of my face
it would be uncharacteristically ignoble of me
to let anybody else see, even if they had
the eyes and the mirrors for it because
I didn't abandon all hope when I entered here.
I transcended it. I got real wicked. And clear.
poem by Patrick White
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I look Into People's Faces
I look into people's faces
and I see the same wound
under many different scars.
I look into their hearts
like a stranger at night
through a passing window
and I see how suffering through
the agonies of life
has ripened some
with sweetness and compassion
and others are already
rotten before they fall.
I look into people's eyes
and some are vast starlit skies
and some are the iota subscripts
of scholarly fireflies
that footnote the constellations
at the bottom of the page
with details off the beaten path
of their MLA mainstream cosmic thesis.
And some are like moons
with parenthetical crescents
with nothing in between
both sides of their smile
that isn't a cynical aside
about the lost innocence
of a phase they've already gone through.
And some stare back like eclipses
that have pulled the blinds down
over their eyes
like sunglasses disguised
by a witness protection program
but you just know
they're oilslicks
on the Sea of Shadows
as they were in the womb
and in the Gulf of Mexico
the black blood
of an incorporated miscarriage
that hemorrhaged like the pot of gold
at the end of the oleaginous rainbow.
I look into people's souls
and I see how afraid
they must be of life
to hide out in the open
like an ocean
that hasn't kept faith
with its own depths
and tries to pretend it's
as airy and light as the sky.
The birds are flying through the roots.
The fish are swimming in the treetops.
I see judas-goats chained
to the stakes of their ego-Is
like sacrificial tiger bait
devoted to their cunning.
I see the anti-muses
that shadow Mt. Helicon
like black holes
in the death valleys
of human imagination.
And I wonder how they ever got here.
What bend in space
led them to this twisted place
like a forsaken road
they keep taking
like a wormhole through time
into the womb
of a stillborn universe
where the moonlight
burns their embryos
on pyres of lime
beside the dry creekbeds
of nameless rivers going nowhere?
Along their flowerless banks
I see the rib-cages of dead snakes
that went witching for water
with tongues and tines
of Kundalini lightning
that ran up their spines
like time through a waterclock
and the hulls of empty lifeboats
that died in the desert
at the bottom of the mirage
they drowned in
hoping to find themselves
among those who survived
by learning to swim through sand
like fish in an hourglass aquarium.
I'd rather walk on stars
reflected in the shattered mirrors
of my last self-image
than repay
the generosity of my solitude
with mass ingratitude.
I listen to people's voices
and they all seem like the same echo
with many different mouths.
I've tried to respect
the mystic specificity
of the thousands of fierce individuals
I've met over the years
but the more I've learned
about myself and others
the more I see the same mind
in many different skulls.
The same genius of inspired water
that poured an ocean
of sentient awareness
into everyone of our cells.
Union differentiates.
Separation binds.
I look into people's faces
however young or old they are
and I see infinite spaces
moonlighting as time
on the nightshift of the stars.
I see horror and compassion.
I see butterflies sipping
the nectar of diamonds
like honey in the promised land
and maggots born in excrement
thriving on offal
like the janitors of the dead
because everything grows best
in the soil it was born into
like karma in the fortune-cookies
of wombs and eggs and cocoons.
I look into people's eyes
like sad stars
through the generous end
of the telescope
that brings the far near
like impact craters
and I see how some people
cling to the memory of themselves
like underground seas
in frozen lockets
of water on the moon.
I look into people's secret shrines
they build like birds
in the eye of the storm
looking for salvation.
And I can hear
the echo of their prayers
bouncing back off hydrogen clouds
like a nineteen twenties radio show
thousands of lightyears away
as if they just said them yesterday
and the universe as usual
threw the words back in their face
like the cosmic background hiss
of snowflakes on a furnace
going out like stars.
I've seen the innocence of fireflies
making halos
and the blood-rose weaving thorns
around the massive blackholes of death
as if they were merely
a pinprick in a voodoo doll
that got into white magic by mistake.
I've looked into
the nuclear blaze of madness
like an A bomb with shades on
and seen the flash and shadow
of embryo silhouettes
spit out like cave paintings
on the firewalls of the fusion wombs
that give birth to the heavier elements
it takes to survive.
But the water's not mad
just because the moon's a lunatic.
The mirror might seem
just as angry as you are
but it doesn't feel a thing.
Learning wisdom is learning space.
It doesn't eat flowers
and the weeds don't sting.
It takes everything it embraces to heart
and nothing's left out
from the very beginning.
Like the whole of the moon and the sky
in every eye of water
that's ever looked into me
and seen that everyone
is the heart of a mystery
whose lucidity
is their only true identity.
It's our seeing
that makes the flowers open
and the stars shine.
It's our hearing that gives
the wind something
meaningful to say
and the grass something
to whisper about.
Whatever you touch
walks in your skin from thereon.
Whatever you taste
be it roses and nettles
or sulphur and wine
or the sour-sweet radiance
of the stars on your tongue
you're the flavour of the day
in everything.
It's your nose
that gives the burning leaves
in the urns of autumn
the spectral fragrance
of chrysanthemums
that are barely holding on.
And it's your mind.
Your heart.
Your blood.
Your body.
Your imagination.
Your intuition.
Your wisdom.
Your ignorance.
Your darkness.
Your light.
Your spirit
enlightened or deluded
whatever you think or feel
is abundantly missing
or dream you're waking up to
that makes the world real
in every mystically specific detail
of who you are.
Who else?
I look into myself
as far as the stars
at the edge of my seeing
fourteen point five billion lightyears away
and I can see how much time and space
how many species of life
generation after generation
have been born to give birth and die.
All the roses swept
from the stairs
of our hopeless tomorrows
because they were a tribute to love
meant for someone else.
All the spontaneous joys
that cast their long random shadows
like occasional fireflies of insight
across the lunar mindscape
of this afterlife of sorrows
where every church is the gravestone
of an unsuspecting god.
I look into my own seeing
like light upon light
in the vast expanse
of an unknowable night
and I'm cosmically astonished
by how many worlds within worlds
eyes within eyes
minds within minds
lives within lives it takes
to make a single habitable human being
meaning everyone of us sacred fools
fit as a genius
for the crazy wisdom
of a creative life
in a self-inspired universe.
poem by Patrick White
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Gathering
There was a gathering of time
in odd spaces.
There was a gathering of spaces
seeking my time, your time, our time.
There was a gathering of the Saving Graces
which bid us to lie down with peace
to bloom in time and space.
This was a gathering of hopes and dreams
in a space, in a time
with an individualized saving grace.
In gathering it seems-
if we come with only our individual sense
of time, space and grace-
we will have not gathered at all
and will have only succumbed to Sweet Ironic Irony.
'Place then' he said
'your eyes upon the Sun
and know that life is such that
sometimes you must be the moon.
'Place then' he said' your hand
knowing your space
sometimes
in life
must be our space or no space at all.'
'How' we all said
'is this trick to be done? '
He said 'no trick. It is the essence of all things
not only to change
but to be in essence
more than one thing;
even to be more than two
at the same time.'
'That is why' he said
uplifting his arm
'we can think two different,
even contradictory things
at the same time.
This is not artifact
but essence.
This is nature-
not mistake.
Who I am;
Who are we
is the same query
and the answer is for both:
both are we
and each is I
for all is multiples;
and Revelation;
there is no
Universal Rule
of Consistency;
we live in multiple multiplicities.
poem by Lonnie Hicks
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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My Space
You entered my space
The space that was mine alone
It was my cocoon
I felt safe there.
Then you thundered in and somehow took over.
I treasured my space, it was only for me.
You came and shook my fragile walls, shattered my peace,
Disturbed my equilibrium.
Now my space isn't my space anymore.
But you gave me something that made my space obsolete,
You gave me your love.
poem by Ernestine Northover
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Out Of So Much
Out of so much experience
so little to signify it
in a language
extraterrestrial life could understand
about our relationship with gravity
and what's crudely human about being a human
we don't even have in common with ourselves.
Out of so much sorrow
so many tears shed
like oceans of wounded salt
like bruised orchids of blood
like the lightyears between windows
living next door to each other
there is so much vastness between us
in an expanding universe
in the way we reach out to each other
like the stars in wavelengths of farewell
toward the red end of the spectrum.
Out of so much radiance
so much shining
not even the ash of anything
to show for it
when the last ghost has left town
with leaving so much
as a loveletter of smoke
propped up against the mirror.
Out of so much that was seen once only for good
and for a moment understood
until we started thinking about it
my eyes taste of what they've seen
like iron apples ripening in the rain
no one can take a bite out of
to improve their education
by learning how to bury the dead
because most of what I've seen
is pain without insight
pain without eyes
like impact craters in the skull of the moon.
A war of windows in a world without vision
without stars
without dawn and moonrise.
Viral eyes that abhor stained-glass
as much as they do the godless clarity
of the most advanced telescopes
playing Russian roulette with the stars
to prove the Big Bang was cosmic suicide
and we're here like living proof of the afterlife
of its bad karma
like a hunting religion in an agrarian society.
Out of so much mystic specificity
so little sense of earthly union
in the fractious sameness
that tries to blame everyone else
for why things are falling apart
as fast as they're coming together.
Five petals open.
And no flower blooms.
The sun rides a victory chariot through Rome.
The moon a deathcart through a slum.
But the stars know
how much the night keeps to itself.
How much it can't say
when the silence clears the sky of birds.
How much there is to express
that leaves even the dead speechless.
Out of so much verbiage
so many words
so many opinions
stuck like bats in burrs
just beyond the porchlight.
Out of so much hatred of life
out of so much hatred
of light and water
air earth and fire
compressed like a fist of coal
around the blood diamonds of the ideologues
who write political suicide notes
for whole nations by proxy
who don't know how to bleed for themselves
or convince the dead
they died for someone else.
Out of so many words
so many civilizations
from the Tower of Babel
to the New York Metropolitan
with its polyglot fire alarms
warning Alexander
about the approach of Caesar
and his love of books.
Out of so many voices
that spoke like trees in the wind
or out of burning bushes
and the light of the stars
or the thunder that follows the revelation
that it's raining on a lifeless Mars.
Out of so much clamour and noise of insight.
Out of so many whispers of stars
and rumours of waves
held up to both our shell-shocked ears
like skulls of oceanic awarenessness
that found us washed up on a beach somewhere
after some serious weather.
Out of so many poems and paintings and heartfelt polygraphs.
Out of so much confessing.
Out of so many speechs.
So many prayers and blessings
So many dead languages that carried their mother-tongue
like mitochondria in the DNA of their mouths
down through the generations
so that every living word
contains the corpse of a metaphor
like a mummy under a pyramid
or Lazarus catching his breath
to be interviewed
about a life after death
that looked exactly like his
when he woke up to this all over again
with nothing much to say about anything.
Out of so many with so much to say
how few are listening
as if their lies depended on it.
poem by Patrick White
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Space
T-minus 60 seconds and counting
Arm light on
Switching command 2 internal
Switching command 2 internal
[missile..internal..]
Affirmative
Ready
Check
Affirmative
Affirmative
Space
I never been 1 2 hide my feelings
Baby, u blow my mind
I painted your face upon my ceiling
I stare at it all the time
I imagine myself inside your bedroom
Oh I imagine myself in your sky
(u) u are the reason theres bass in my boom
(oh u) u are the reason Im high
If u and I were just ten feet closer
Then Id make u understand
That everything I wanna do 2 your body, baby
I would do 2 your head
Then ud be hip 2 the deep rush
Deeper than the boom of the bass
With every other flick of the pink plush
The closer we get 2 the space (the closer we get 2 the space)
(the space)
(the space)
(the space)
Dont u want 2 go? (the space)
Where the souls go (the space)
Where the tears flow (the space)
Where the love grows
Do u want 2 go?
I never been 1 4 this thing obsession
But just keep your eye on my hips
The circles they may be my confession
Just say the word and Ill strip
Ive had dreams of us cuddling on the planet mars
Then when I wake up, Im all covered in sex
With eyes that fall somewhere between rubies and stars
Dont look at me baby or Ill flex
If u and I were just ten feet closer
Then Id make u understand
That everything I wanna do 2 your body, baby
I would do 2 your head
Then ud be hip 2 the deep rush
Deeper than the boom of the bass
With every other flick of the pink plush
The closer we get 2 the space
(the space)
Go (the space)
Flow (the space)
Grow
Do u want 2 go?
(the space)
Where the souls go (the space)
Where the tears flow (the space)
Where the love grows
Do u want 2 go?
Bass
T-minus 60 seconds and counting
Arm light on
The space, the space, the space, the space
Switching command 2 internal
Switching command 2 internal
[missile..]
Affirmative
Ready
Ready
Check
Check
Affirmative
The space, the space, the space, the space
The space, the space, the space, the space
Closer we get 2 the space
The space, the space, the space, the space
song performed by by Prince
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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