The Moon of House
The beauty of nature is magical
Medicine for human sadness
I was foetus in a womb
I was dead body in a tomb
When I laid on bed in extreme silence
At dusk in a dark dark house
Gazing the darkness above me
My mind, spirit, Soul and heart
Were in sad stress and divine distress
Absolute quitness warms the house
It so soundless so motionless
But heavily and harsh, the weight of world
Was as if exerting on me.
At lighting speed
I saw a rare flash of light since
I saw a light of the day
I got up, I tiptoed to it
I grasped it, I examined it with nake fingers
Wow, I found it was glowing worm
One of beautiful beauties of nature
I wonder I ponder about this
Lovely tiny moon of the house
Which change colour to colour
It glimmered greenish to yellowish
It glimmered gold to diamond
It glimmered reddish to brightish
The wonderful beam of beautiful colours
The attractive glowing worm
Expanded and contracted in
As it expanded and contracted
My heart expanded and contracted
To it rhythm in sweet pleasure
Of this moon of house
My distress and stress
Faded away in golden rays of worm
O glowing worm!
What a comedy from heaven
poem by David Aoloch Bion
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Related quotes
The (f) Rying Woman....
to pry upon his weakness and to discover
some artifacts from his house is her past time
and every hour when there is a break from the
wanton hours and the monotonous menu of the day
she opens the usual window and watch what the
worm is doing inside the terrarium
she records the possibility that this can be a landmark
of history and significant for what others say as a phenomenon
other people's lives matter
and sometimes the worm that looks at her too asks: why?
the worm, and she does not know this, is also prying upon her
her shrinking breasts, her skin that looks like dry tobacco leaf
her life that to the worm has become more of a raisin
stuffed inside a boxed, with a history of having been dried by the sun
the worm is fair though, in its latest description
she is still sweet though neutral in smell, and deserves still to be liked to be eaten someday
p.s. the worm remarks, kids will like her.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Chambermaid's Second Song
From pleasure of the bed,
Dull as a worm,
His rod and its butting head
Limp as a worm,
His spirit that has fled
Blind as a worm.
poem by William Butler Yeats
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Professor Nutbutters House Of Treats
Cmon kiddies gather round. whos your foremost friend in town?
From main to maple the name resounds, professor nutbutter.
Hes the one, the humble one, the barkley county prodigal son.
Here to serve only you, professor nutbutter.
At old nutbutters house of treats from jellied jams to sacks of
Sweets,
Theres creamy and nutatious spreads for all.
Chemist, master of entomology the professor for a modest fee
Will cure what ails you, guaranteed professor nutbutter.
Its alright, dont fear the worm.
Cmon kiddies dont be shy be youthful til the day you die.
The man the myth, the magic of professor nutbutter.
Hes the one the only one the meeklybville prodigal son.
Here to help us with ourselves, professor nutbutter
Its alright to fear the worm.
[its all right to fear the worm. the worm, the worm is our friend.
Um, but not all of the properties of the worm can be, uh, fully,
Fully, well, appreciated by the, uh, the human body itself, but, um
Its, its, its, its ok to, to fear the worm. um, i, myself, have
Had no, uh, problems with the worm but in a certain situation, uh, i
Would feel like, what, what, uh, ramifications, um, could occur? uh,
Theres, theres really no need to, uh, to fear much of anything, you
Know. fear of the, fear of the temptation is a, more, probably, more,
More, appropriate word in this particular scenario. um, the, uh,
Well, it, depends on what you want, I suppose. it really depends on,
On what you want.]
song performed by by Primus
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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One Light: Three Primary Colors
Red is the colour of blood that flows in the body of all creatures given birth
Green is the colour of grass that like a carpet covers a lot of the soil of earth
Blue is the colour of sky that surrounds this world and is of an infinite girth
All three colours come from a Single Source having an Immeasurable worth.
Red is also the colour of danger and a symbol which indicates all to beware
Green is also the colour of the leaves that most of the plants and trees wear
Blue is also the colour of water that covers most of this world which is fair
Three colours are the original blend of all those others found in nature there.
Red is also the colour of anger, passion or pain that is expressed, felt and seen
Green is also the colour of something natural an indication of where it has been
Blue is also the colour of Infinity and the light glowing in a mind which is clean
And all three colours are shades of One Light the essence of all universal sheen.
Of all the three colours I like blue the most as it seems to be uniquely sublime
It speaks to me of loftier and deeper things that were experienced in my prime
It also represents the colour of the biggest phenomena known to man in time
Being a symbol of That in which all exists and from which all began to chime.
------------------------
Note:
There are many other colors but as far as those which form the basis of technology there are only three i.e; as in a R.G.B. monitor and screen projector etc.
poem by George Krokos
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Altars of Light
If the light is the soul
then soul is what's
all around me.
It is you,
it is around you too,
it is you.
The darkness is inside me,
the opaqueness of organs folded
upon organs--
to make light in the house of
the body--
thus to bring the
outside in,
the impossible job.
And the only place to become
the skin
the border, the inbetween, where
dark meets light, where I meets
you.
In the house of world the
many darknesses are surrounded
by light.
To see the one, we need
the other / it cuts both ways
light on light is blind
dark on dark is blind
light through dark is not
dark through light is movement
dark through light becomes,
is becoming,
to move through
light is becoming,
is all
we can know.
poem by Pierre Joris
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Alankar (Decor) -12
What Sort Is He, Bitter Or Sweet....
What sort is He, bitter or sweet to say
Pastime painter black and white, dark and bright
Alltime sadist by nature He His play
Pain or pleasure He seems be His pretext..
Ruing so dark a woman black she hued
Blighted a leaf as withers she shrivels
This day even ahead on stairs cultured
Accursed, a bad society she feels
And look, laughing pride yet another one
Glowing outside fair with conceit inside
This day that all wish for union one
Dispairs her fair skin dark on rungs down slide
Writhing in mind a worm hunting His sort
In vain blaming, praising, admits His sport
poem by Indira Renganathan
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Among All Lovely Things My Love Had Been
AMONG all lovely things my Love had been;
Had noted well the stars, all flowers that grew
About her home; but she had never seen
A glow-worm, never one, and this I knew.
While riding near her home one stormy night
A single glow-worm did I chance to espy;
I gave a fervent welcome to the sight,
And from my horse I leapt; great joy had I.
Upon a leaf the glow-worm did I lay,
To bear it with me through the stormy night:
And, as before, it shone without dismay;
Albeit putting forth a fainter light.
When to the dwelling of my Love I came,
I went into the orchard quietly;
And left the glow-worm, blessing it by name,
Laid safely by itself, beneath a tree.
The whole next day, I hoped, and hoped with fear;
At night the glow-worm shone beneath the tree;
I led my Lucy to the spot, 'Look here,'
Oh! joy it was for her, and joy for me!
poem by William Wordsworth
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Stress
When stress gets me, I’m not alone;
It strikes almost everyone;
Be they my kith or kin or spouse,
Relatives, neighbors near my house.
When stress attacks, I’m not alone,
It affects all known / unknown;
Be they friends or strangers or foes,
In office, class-room or indoors.
When stress hooks me, I transmit it
To those around by habit;
It spares no one, however great,
Almost everyone is its bait!
When stress gets me, I avoid it
And train my mind to remain fit;
Worrying, hurrying will not suffice;
Stress is a leading, lethal vice!
When stress gets me, I ignore it,
Expecting things to ease a bit;
A certain stress is good for health;
Ov’rstress is bad as excess wealth!
When stress gets me, I’m angry;
My house-hold pets too go hungry;
My garden plants get no water;
My world gets shrunk- it does matter!
When stress gets me, I can’t sleep;
Engulfed’s my heart in sadness deep;
I must relax/ do exercise;
This is the distressing device!
poem by John Celes
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Astonishing Forest
Where the house filled with living
The house continuously giving
Where the house filled with nature
The house filled with adventure
Anything can survive
With the nature it provides
Where the house filled with grass
The house filled with hedges, bushes and plants
Canopy trees be it rain or shine
Will be there for you at any time
Where the green house filled with fresh air
Will shelter you in the heavy rain
O the house of beauty
O the house of sound
So much variety is yet to be found
poem by Sehar Zaman
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Song: The House of Cards
Come look at the house,
the wonderful house,
and admire it's lavish facades.
The hearth's as transparent,
as the heart of young Faust,
in the beautiful house of cards.
And on the balcony suite, where all powers meet;
as made men they're known as goodfellas.
See the play of elites, who admit no defeats,
but display their true corporate colours.
Come look at the house,
the wonderful house,
lest like glass it shatters to shards.
When you hold up a mirror,
they scatter like grouse,
in the beautiful house of cards.
Like fat cats in heat, or on hunting retreat,
at ranches, estates, gated villas.
All pall-bearers beat or quail at their feet,
as befits these natural born killers.
Come look at the house,
the wonderful house,
protected by cameras and guards.
No-one 'scapes notice,
not even a mouse,
in the beautiful house of cards.
And on the mezzanine floor, they scrabble and squall,
to preen their fine hubris, unscissored.
And in congress they roar, they babble and bawl,
their small-minded rubrics like wizards.
Come look at the house,
the wonderful house,
the home of the brazen canards.
The cowboy and spouse,
in faux denim strauss,
in the beautiful house of cards.
Like insects they swarm, as a cold war gets warm,
or pick at the dead flesh like buzzards.
As the press runs to form, in the frat house and dorm,
and hazes the public as dullards.
Come look at the house,
the wonderful house,
once praised by the poets and bards.
What pest not oppressed
will soon be deloused,
in the beautiful house of cards.
While the huge hulking mass, of opinion is crass;
as it sits on it's ass to prove,
that the lumpen foundation of once a great nation,
like bedrock is slow to move.
Come look at the house,
the wonderful house,
for the debris is minimally charred.
The walls may be burning,
but soon will be doused,
in the beautiful house of cards.
Come look at the house,
the wonderful house,
while the world still gives it's regards.
A dream once espoused,
is now lost, and anonymous,
in the beautiful house of cards.
poem by David SmithWhite
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For The Birthday of Edgar Allan Poe
(January 19, 1909)
Poet of doom, dementia, and death,
Of beauty singing in a charnel house,
Like the lost soul of a poor moon-mad maid,
With too much loving of some lord of hell;
Doomed and disastrous spirit, to what shore
Of what dark gulf infernal art thou strayed,
Or to what spectral star of topless heaven
Art lifted and enthroned?
The winter dark,
And the drear winter cold that welcomed thee
To a world all winter, gird with ice and storm
Thy January day-yea! the same world
Of winter and the wintry hearts of men;
And still, for all thy shining, the same swarm
That mocked thy song gather about thy fame,
With the small murmur of the undying worm,
And whisper, blind and foul, amid thy dust.
poem by Richard Le Gallienne
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In The House Of Poetry
there is a house where
i am not wanted
but i keep telling myself
i belong here
the lady of the house
snobs me
the others keep their
abhorrence in silence
but i have the stars in my
hand
and so their nights are
dark
i have the moon in my mind
the sun in my heart
my heart is burning
my head is gentle and cool
the house is lonely
and so i must come and live there
i have the right
the lines of my palm
are the maps
of my claim to keep on
living
the house is telling me
about rules
i am silent
the Goddess says
the rule is the Heart
it is open
always open
always open.......
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Our Final Destination Is With God
What purpose is there
To live in darkness,
To make one’s life dark
Or to accept darkness?
A life void of love
Or generosity,
A life of petty pursuits
That fail to enrich another,
This is darkness.
A life that refuses
To accept the love
Of God or humans,
This is the ultimate
Extreme darkness.
When a person finds love
From the universe and for the universe,
There is a light that radiates within
For everyone else to see and feel;
When a human being views a flower
Or a sunrise, when he sees a small bird at dawn
And feels the rush of spiritual promise that says
The world is meaningful and beautiful
And sometimes kind, this is a powerful light.
Suffering and death are forms
Of unavoidable darkness,
An intense darkness that can crush a spirit
That fails to contrast the sadness with the joy,
The sorrow with the laughter,
The goodbyes with the hellos in life.
We must walk the line between darkness and light,
Between loneliness and happiness
Knowing our final destination is with God
Which is the victory of light over the darkness.
Divine Sunlight Rays of hope,
Nurture the light within us to always increase
And shine upon others with the promise
That every struggle can be overcome
And every battle against the heart or soul can be won,
May we live to know love and to share love,
May we be examples of the divine nature
Which is ever to uplift with kindness
And to bring the kingdom of heaven to earth.
poem by Uriah Hamilton
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Worm Either Way
If you live along with all the other people
and are just like them, and conform, and are nice
you're just a worm --
and if you live with all the other people
and you don't like them and won't be like them and won't conform
then you're just the worm that has turned,
in either case, a worm.
The conforming worm stays just inside the skin
respectably unseen, and cheerfully gnaws away at the heart of life,
making it all rotten inside.
The unconforming worm -- that is, the worm that has turned --
gnaws just the same, gnawing the substance out of life,
but he insists on gnawing a little hole in the social epidermis
and poking his head out and waving himself
and saying: Look at me, I am not respectable,
I do all the things the bourgeois daren't do,
I booze and fornicate and use foul language and despise your honest man.--
But why should the worm that has turned protest so much?
The bonnie bonnie bourgeois goes a-whoring up back streets just the same.
The busy busy bourgeois imbibes his little share
just the same
if not more.
The pretty pretty bourgeois pinks his language just as pink
if not pinker,
and in private boasts his exploits even louder, if you ask me,
than the other.
While as to honesty, Oh look where the money lies!
So I can't see where the worm that has turned puts anything over
the worm that is too cunning to turn.
On the contrary, he merely gives himself away.
The turned worm shouts. I bravely booze!
the other says. Have one with me!
The turned worm boasts: I copulate!
the unturned says: You look it.
You're a d----- b----- b----- p----- bb-----, says the worm that's turned.
Quite! says the other. Cuckoo!
poem by David Herbert Lawrence
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The spirit of our planet and family
spirituality and nature
Human nature is the key to a good heart,
I think the mother is a symbol of compassion,
And has taught us the value of compassion,
Everyone has a seed of a good heart,
Nature and our planet,
Is nothing special,
Nothing sacred,
Nothing holy,
We have a love for our house, our family,
We have no other planet,
We have no other house or family,
Except the one we live in,
Or family we have,
Disturbances and problems exist, on our planet,
Solve these problems and disturbances,
For we can not live on other planets,
The moon looks beautiful from a distance,
But we can not settle there, it would be horrible,
It is only my thoughts,
Now take our blue planet,
It is much better, and a happier place,
So take care of our planet,
Take care of our own place,
Take care of our house,
Take care of our families,
It is only my pondering,
On human nature,
Our blue planet,
Our house we live in,
Or the family we have,
poem by Batibchar Mocculta
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Beautiful
Beautiful is the rising sun
that touches the dark world
glowing red hot,
like a coal from the fire
of the gods
Beautiful is the crystal blue sky
that stretches to the horizon,
with its purity and brings serenity
to every living thing.
Beautiful is the yellow moon
that awakens dreams,
of how wondrous
life on this earth
really is.
Beautiful is a wave
crashing over a rocky shore,
that sprays the intensity
and mysteries of nature
on the earth.
Yet all of these things
fade away into insignificance
against the smile on your face
and nothing can describe,
the light and expression
in your golden eyes.
You are far more
than beautiful to me
and no white Lily
or dark red Rose,
will ever hold
the same significance
that you bring to me.
When all is said and done
my life is completely empty
when you’re gone,
but when you are with me
life plays like the sweetest melody
and my greatest gift from life is you.
poem by Gert Strydom
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Dr Worm
They call me Dr. Worm,
Good morning, how are you? I'm Dr. Worm.
I'm interested in things,
I'm not a real doctor but I am a real worm,
I am an actual worm,
I live like a worm.
I like to play the drums.
I think I'm getting good, but I can handle criticism.
I'll show you what I know and you can
Tell me if you think I'm getting better on the drums
I'll leave the front unlocked 'cause I can't
Hear the doorbell...
When I get into it, I can't tell if you are
Watching me twirling the stick.
When I give the signal, my friend
Rabbi Vole will play the solo...
Someday, somebody else besides me will
Call me by my stage name, they will
Call me Dr. Worm,
Good morning, how are you? I'm Dr. Worm.
I'm interested in things.
I'm not a real doctor but I am a real worm,
I am an actual worm,
I live like a worm.
And I like to play the drums,
I think I'm getting good, but I can handle criticism.
I'll show you what I know and you can
Tell me if you think I'm getting better on the drums.
I'm not a real doctor, but they call me
Dr. Worm!
song performed by by They Might Be Giants
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Doctor Worm
They call me dr. worm.
Good morning. how are you? Im dr. worm.
Im interested in things.
Im not a real doctor,
But I am a real worm;
I am an actual worm.
I live like a worm.
I like to play the drums.
I think Im getting good,
But I can handle criticism.
Ill show you what I know,
And you can tell me if you think Im getting better on the drums.
Ill leave the front un-locked cause I cant
Hear the doorbell
When I get into it I cant tell if you are
Watching me twirling the stick.
When I give the signal, my friend
Rabbi vole will play the solo
Some day somebody else besides me will
Call me by my stage name, they will
Call me dr worm.
Good morning how are you, Im dr worm
Im interested in things.
Im not a real doctor,
But I am a real worm;
I am an actual worm.
I live like a worm.
I like to play the drums.
I think Im getting good,
But I can handle criticism.
Ill show you what I know,
And you can tell me if you think Im getting better on the drums.
Im not a real doctor,
But they call me dr. worm.
song performed by by They Might Be Giants
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Phoenix Of Self!
In this love,
The thirst of eternal love,
The hunger for knowledge,
The aspiration of wisdom.
Made respire not the air,
But that fire of longing!
When ever burning longing in heart,
When heart can't contain,
the stress,
Millions of nuclear bombs
exploded!
That fire burnt all,
Ashes were residue only of
Desires,
greeds,
Only narrow and mean
terrestrial needs remain,
Start spreading in all world the perfume
As fumes of good deeds and
thoughts dispersed,
From that ashes the phoenix of
Self rose and flew high,
Covering all worlds under its wings glowing with Galactic brightness!
In flash of that blazing light,
I never found myself,
How can I be fond of myself,
The point circle,
when expanded into boundless,
or may lost, circumference melted,
I can't say it may be my sphere
of existence,
How can one imagine shape and
name of boundless existence,
Is this that, I was mad after in love,
Or is it that was making me mad
or created me and worlds?
Now madness came to end,
As time, space, thoughts,
knowledge, All lost in a flash of that light of
infinite wisdom!
poem by Ramdas Bhandarkar
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Responsibilitys
when i open like the petals
of a flower
you are the sun to
receive me
i do not burn in your heat
for it is as gentle as
the morning rays
of the lovely beginning
when you close your house
and hide in the orange
tinge of your bedroom
i exude a certain scent
so enticing
so you may sleep with some
dreams
and i shall be there
with you
you have become a
beautiful face
and i am the flower in your
hair
whatever, i am responsible
for this art
of loving
whatever, wherever,
whenever, we shall meet again
when you
become a fruit
i, may even assume to be
the last worm.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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