From time to time a poem

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20 Aug 2013 19:24 #115840 by Kohadre
Replied by Kohadre on topic From time to time a poem
Divalproex Rainbow
=============================

It’s not much to me, dreaming for what I can’t see
I beg, I plead, but still I see
You’ll always be a part of me
Oh!

So take the pills
To make life nil
Today’s yesterday’s tomorrow
So take the pills
To end the sorrow

Turn the page, burn some sage
Too mellow to feel any rage
Feeling the dawn of a new age
Yeah!

So take the pills
To make life nil
Today’s yesterday’s tomorrow
So take the pills
To end the sorrow

(Solo)

Feeling colder, turn the shoulder
Some of them say I’m Bi-polar
Maybe I won’t be when I get a little older
Check!

So take the pills
To make life nil
Today’s yesterday’s tomorrow
So take the pills
To end the sorrow

So take the pills
To make life nil
Today’s yesterday’s tomorrow
So take the pills
To end the sorrow

So take the pills
To end the sorrow

-Kohadre

Remember the doctrine; embody the code.
Live the creed; embrace the 16 teachings.
Honor your vows.
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23 Aug 2013 02:49 #116037 by Reliah
Replied by Reliah on topic From time to time a poem
The happiest day -- the happiest hour
My sear'd and blighted heart hath known,
The highest hope of pride and power,
I feel hath flown.

Of power! said I? yes! such I ween;
But they have vanish'd long, alas!
The visions of my youth have been-
But let them pass.

And, pride, what have I now with thee?
Another brow may even inherit
The venom thou hast pour'd on me
Be still, my spirit!

The happiest day -- the happiest hour
Mine eyes shall see -- have ever seen,
The brightest glance of pride and power,
I feel- have been:

But were that hope of pride and power
Now offer'd with the pain
Even then I felt -- that brightest hour
I would not live again:

For on its wing was dark alloy,
And, as it flutter'd -- fell
An essence -- powerful to destroy
A soul that knew it well.

--Edgar A. Poe--

...
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30 Aug 2013 15:22 #116672 by Donkey
Replied by Donkey on topic From time to time a poem
Seamus Heaney, Ireland's foremost poet who won the Nobel Prize for Literature in 1995, died Friday after a half-century exploring the wild beauty of Ireland and the political torment within the nation's soul. He was 74.
Slainte!

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30 Aug 2013 23:41 - 31 Aug 2013 00:05 #116709 by Alexandre Orion
χάρη (Grace)

*… a clandestine piece of Light falls upon a fragmented innocence, mathematics ramp up to threshold and the circuit closes to activate an opening into uncertainty. Jumping through evermore stings the sensibilities of an antique time-teller who exists but in poetic reveries times one, two, three, ten thousand and one again, connexions and then jumping out of it all again … Would one realise a dream or dream a reality if given a choice between Lunacy and Love ? Eleventy thousand million Worlds collaborate on a moment of Perfect Beauty, right here, there, now, remembered on a second-hand heartbeat and forgotten once more or less at forever … Understanding cuts thrice-sided slices out of crises of perception, listening to the gold and gamma rays spilling out of a few dozen supernovae into a hundred and one blossoming buds quivering with promises ; the waiting times-up and through nurturing, sticking it all together, watering it nicely and then it all turns quite a lively Green. Once and evermore, an effigy of an angel whispers sweet sounding Geometry, only briefly coloured blue, reading left to right in white symbols, tones that sing a world into order, rising and falling rhythmically on a mid-summer afternoon, resting upon the sunset of a century ago and dreaming of the hyper-light flight from Orion, soft brown hairs billow on the Zephyr sighing into the Orient … Events take shape as delicate things in space-time, fluttering over dreams that inform the universe, blue in a moment, then moving the moment into every hue, arranging galaxies into gardens, hands held in the centre, heart-ward and home-bound … All around the Sky waves longingly, slow and ubiquitous red borders the blue, shifting from one to the other in luminous undulation then collapsing into the centre where the whispering angel walks along the ultraviolet … Blue moments engrave upon the subconscious of the next to last of the Aristos their dreams of galactic gardens woven into geometries of right to left white suns-song, read through red orbits 'round and dark darkening circles, widening with the rise and fall of Empires, civilisations and demagogues, paying the price of pleasure with exceptionally pleasant pains extended across all the horizons and all the seas … From the garden, gracefully gazing upon the stone, shrubbery in shadow and bone cleverly arranged, sculpted and pruned toward reflexions rivalling History, other-most angel-stuff ponders evolution, late arrivals and eager departs ; extinction results an hour after election-day for a fugitive tear catching the sunlight … Above, in shades of blue moments lingering sleepily out of clocks and calendars unwound, unbound and uncovered, stirs the freshness of a newly opened rose, softly unaware of time-telling, drops of Devil's dew drip, drip, dripping into the dream and the stain swirls into the galaxy gracing the milk and honey of morning coffee … Spoons bend in the Solar wind, straightening only at each end of midnight where auroras twist back on alike things, and that is when butterflies recall caterpillars, ground-bound 'til silent in spun-silk sanctuary, counting the phases of the moons pulling up tides and tidings of flight … Even on the odd days one loves, one would love for the day to last throughout the night, ‘til the suns swell up with a belly-full of iron that becomes the most dazzling of alchemy ! coughing up a two pence worth of Philosophers’ Stones while as many Worlds all come to Life … One, two, three, ten thousand and one at a time, connexions jumping across other event-horizons, just to be a little afraid of the dark and keep the monsters under the bed well fed ; instead of telling lies, we tell one another faery-tales and other things that could be true … Old books abound, stacked under the dust of stories yet to be told for new ones happen even in the old, germs of feeling dormant in thoughts and dreams, grains which sprout when barren soil comes alive again, nourished by the freedom of fantasies raining out of the thunderhead posed upon a feather pillow … Paradise and Purgatory in the same Place, placed with a whisper between Spica and Rigel while peering out at peers paired by budding blossoms, the promises broken over calendars and clocks winding, binding and covering the Eastern horizon with the next generation … Yellow suns sing too, to listeners of lighter metals, some in the sea, some in the wood and some in the City where the shaky, shady needle of the sundial does not tick-tock-tick through its suggestions, losing all its hours after sundown and thus runs time-tellers out of tales to tell … And the other-most ascends through the spiral, ignoring all the glass and steel (and the heat involved in them) to take another look at what even wishing-wells rarely take penny-payments for, pays it up a pound for the privilege and plans another holiday toward the sunny other end of absurdity … There the sun is still setting beyond the effigy, still whispering, white notes still chiming on the blue, and the Geometry rising and falling its sighs to the Orient, sliding seductively toward September crowned with clock towers and garden walks at least three seasons high ; all eleventy thousand million Worlds work as One, wandering through Eternity and forgetting for only a moment Forever … Choosing between Lunacy and Love, one holds a pounding heart-full – one hell of a lot - of both and both realise dreams dreamt in some other reality jumped out of and left behind a century on either side of now, that moment of Perfect Beauty, a memory of light and lightness, whispering from within the romantic reveries harbouring philosophers and poets of every alternating age, the shadow of smoke circulating on a sigh … Evermore and once the sunshine cascades over the garden and the court, half-open windows witness the Event behind the time-teller’s eye beholding Beauty, the soul opens to the centre, from which … *

"Chaque homme a des devoirs envers l'homme en tant qu'homme."
~ Henri Bergson
Last edit: 31 Aug 2013 00:05 by Alexandre Orion.
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12 Sep 2013 22:10 #118180 by Donkey
Replied by Donkey on topic From time to time a poem
I read this today....
Rain by Frederick Seidel

Rain falls on the Western world,
The coldest spring in living memory everywhere.
Winter in mid-May means the darling buds of May uncurled
On an ice-cold morgue slab, smilingly shaking loose their beautiful hair.
London rains every day anyway.
Paris is freezing. It's May, but Rome is cold.
Motorcycles being tested at the factory in Varese north of Milan are gray
Victims screaming in place and can't get out and won't get sold.

It's the recession.
It's very weird in New York.
Teen vampires are the teen obsession,
Rosebud mouths who don't use a knife and fork.
Germany at first won't save Greece, but really has to.
It's hot hot in parts of Texas, but rain drowns Tennessee, people die.
It's the euro. It's the Greek debt. Greece knew
It had to stop lying, but timeo Danaos, they're Greeks, Greeks lie.

Canoeing in the Ozarks with Pierre Leval: the rain came down so hard
The river rose twenty-three feet in the predawn hours and roared.
Came the dawn, there was improbably a lifeguard,
There was a three-legged dog, the jobless numbers soared.
Dreamers woke in the dark and drowned, with time to think this can't be true.
Incomprehensible is something these things do.
They bring the Dow Jones into the Ozarks and the Ozarks into the EU.
A raving flash flood vomits out of a raindrop. The Western world is in the ICU.

Entire trees rocket past. One wouldn't stand a chance in the canoe.
A three-legged dog appears, then the guy it belongs to.
You instantly knew
You'd run into a hillbilly backwoods crazy, itching to kill you.
Berlin and Athens, as the Western world flickers,
Look up blinking in the rain and lick the rain and shiver and freeze.
They open black umbrellas and put on yellow slickers
And weep sugar like honeybees dying of the bee disease.


.
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18 Sep 2013 20:46 #118782 by Lykeios
Replied by Lykeios on topic From time to time a poem
Raindrops

Raindrops,

Falling from a sky

Enviously painted gray and black

With the billowy, undulating wisps

Of thoughts and dreams of:

Rain

Raindrops,

Never failing in their falling

To catch my fancy,

At the wondrous, bountiful beauty

Of their hopes and hints of:

Rain

"I sae rantingly, an sae dauntingly, sae wantonly gaed he. He played a tune and he danced all aroond below the gallows tree."

"Now I do not know whether I was then a man dreaming I was a butterfly, or whether I am now a butterfly, dreaming I am a man." -Zhuangzi
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18 Sep 2013 22:26 #118806 by Veltra
Replied by Veltra on topic From time to time a poem
WINTER
By Veltra



The ground glitters, as the lamps hit the snow.
A cold white blanket covers the ground.
Everything is sleeping through the night.
As I look outside , everything is quiet.
But when I fall asleep i'm always cold.
As I dream I dream of all the people in my life.
When I wake, the world is still asleep.
The sun light slowly peeks over the tree tops
and the snow starts to glow and sparkle.
After the earth slowly wakes up from its slumber
soon I will be at school but,
the snow slowly falls,
like cherry blossoms in the spring.
Even though winter is going to come to an end,
I won't feel unhappy about it.
Spring will come after winter,
and then summer after spring.
I now just wait for every day to pass.
Nothing ever changes so it does not matter.
It's cold, but that's the beauty of winter.
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24 Sep 2013 02:47 #119368 by Lykeios
Replied by Lykeios on topic From time to time a poem
Father, what is love?

One day a boy approached his father,

a question deep imprinted on his mind.

"Oh, tell me father,

what is love if truth be told?

Some say 'tis like dreaming

with all one's soul tied in a bind."

Smiling wryly the father thought,

but for a moment for an answer he could find.

"Oh, I'll tell you son,

love is not like dreaming,

if truth be told.

True love is known,

not as a dream,

but when one finds

that thing or person

whom for all one's life unwinds

and appears as a dream.

For when one is near this

person, thing, or beast,

one is truly alive.

That, my son,

is the essence of most precious love."

"I sae rantingly, an sae dauntingly, sae wantonly gaed he. He played a tune and he danced all aroond below the gallows tree."

"Now I do not know whether I was then a man dreaming I was a butterfly, or whether I am now a butterfly, dreaming I am a man." -Zhuangzi
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26 Sep 2013 19:30 - 26 Sep 2013 19:30 #119674 by Kohadre
Replied by Kohadre on topic From time to time a poem
The forest of madness

Within a dream, at times it seems, the way is not always crisp and clean.

As Alice wandered through the forest, she came upon the forest florist.

His name was the Cheshire cat, and he knew where all the paths ended at.

“Mr. Cheshire Cat, can you tell me where my path ends at?” Alice asked

“Well that all depends on where you want to go” The cat replied

“I don’t much care, as long as I end up somewhere” Alice responded

“Well then it doesn’t matter which way you choose, as it seems you have little to lose. You could go here, and visit the hatter; he’s always causing such a clatter. Or you could go there and visit the queen; she’s always doing something quite obscene” The cat said

“Well that’s no good for sure, I want a way that’s clean and pure” Alice remarked

“Such a way does not exist, you little twit. All that’s offered is what you see; you might even come to like it eventually. See the thing which to you is not yet clear, is that we’re all quite mad here” The cat said jokingly

“Well I don’t want to be among mad people, considering that we are unequal” Alice replied

“Well that can’t be helped my dear, if you weren’t mad yourself, you wouldn’t be here” The cat answered as he faded away

Remember the doctrine; embody the code.
Live the creed; embrace the 16 teachings.
Honor your vows.
Last edit: 26 Sep 2013 19:30 by Kohadre.
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30 Sep 2013 10:08 #120070 by sidvkili
Replied by sidvkili on topic From time to time a poem
stood in street.
Bare foot.
Dark night.
Felt dirt and stone under my feet.
Traced over stains of oil, blood, urine.
Walked along street barefoot.
Saw my apartment from afar.
Saw neighbours.
Saw slum.
Traced hand over gutter.
Over blood and filth.




And I understood




Understood why.
Why does the cat escape?
What does it reject?
What is it looking for?


Stood in dark street.
Bare foot.
Cat comes over, lies in the gutter.
Scratching back?
Looking for attention?
Affection?


Walk down road.
Past vandalised complexes.
Past naive churches.
People walk past.
See man without shoes.
Listening to the cat's meow.
Meow for the forest of streets and gutters.
Of stains of blood and oil.
Of a chaos.
It plays song.
Yet can't find singer.


Is that what cat looks for?
what cat can't escape?
Song without singer?
It's getting darker...

death is certain, darkness is certain.

fifth rite
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