She sees you
as greater than what you really are
She sacrifices herself
for your name
She is entirely
He doesn't wish to hear her name
He cares not about what She does
He is past the embraces they shared
for every moment of intimacy
She tries to make him see
that She is his potential everything
He, however, is so lost in his image
the only thing He wishes to see is
in all his greatness
She sees it too
in her own self
yet chooses to ignore it
in favor of wasting her greatness
grovelling at his feet
and begging for forgiveness
She never did
I didn’t make you know how glad I was
To have you come and camp here on our land.
I promised myself to get down some day
And see the way you lived, but I don’t know!
With a houseful of hungry men to feed
I guess you’d find…. It seems to me
I can’t express my feelings any more
Than I can raise my voice or want to lift
My hand (oh, I can lift it when I have to).
Did ever you feel so? I hope you never.
It’s got so I don’t even know for sure
Whether I am glad, sorry, or anything.
There’s nothing but a voice-like left inside
That seems to tell me how I ought to feel,
And would feel if I wasn’t all gone wrong.
You take the lake. I look and look at it.
I see it’s a fair, pretty sheet of water.
I stand and make myself repeat out loud
The advantages it has, so long and narrow,
Like a deep piece of some old running river
Cut short off at both ends. It lies five miles
Straight away through the mountain notch
From the sink window where I wash the plates,
And all our storms come up toward the house,
Drawing the slow waves whiter and whiter and whiter.
It took my mind off doughnuts and soda biscuit
To step outdoors and take the water dazzle
A sunny morning, or take the rising wind
About my face and body and through my wrapper,
When a storm threatened from the Dragon’s Den,
And a cold chill shivered across the lake.
I see it’s a fair, pretty sheet of water,
Our Willoughby! How did you hear of it?
I expect, though, everyone’s heard of it.
In a book about ferns? Listen to that!
You let things more like feathers regulate
Your going and coming. And you like it here?
I can see how you might. But I don’t know!
It would be different if more people came,
For then there would be business. As it is,
The cottages Len built, sometimes we rent them,
Sometimes we don’t. We’ve a good piece of shore
That ought to be worth something, and may yet.
But I don’t count on it as much as Len.
He looks on the bright side of everything,
Including me. He thinks I’ll be all right
With doctoring. But it’s not medicine—
Lowe is the only doctor’s dared to say so—
It’s rest I want—there, I have said it out—
From cooking meals for hungry hired men
And washing dishes after them—from doing
Things over and over that just won’t stay done.
By good rights I ought not to have so much
Put on me, but there seems no other way.
Len says one steady pull more ought to do it.
He says the best way out is always through.
And I agree to that, or in so far
As that I can see no way out but through—
Leastways for me—and then they’ll be convinced.
It’s not that Len don’t want the best for me.
It was his plan our moving over in
Beside the lake from where that day I showed you
We used to live—ten miles from anywhere.
We didn’t change without some sacrifice,
But Len went at it to make up the loss.
His work’s a man’s, of course, from sun to sun,
But he works when he works as hard as I do—
Though there’s small profit in comparisons.
(Women and men will make them all the same.)
But work ain’t all. Len undertakes too much.
He’s into everything in town. This year
It’s highways, and he’s got too many men
Around him to look after that make waste.
They take advantage of him shamefully,
And proud, too, of themselves for doing so.
We have four here to board, great good-for-nothings,
Sprawling about the kitchen with their talk
While I fry their bacon. Much they care!
No more put out in what they do or say
Than if I wasn’t in the room at all.
Coming and going all the time, they are:
I don’t learn what their names are, let alone
Their characters, or whether they are safe
To have inside the house with doors unlocked.
I’m not afraid of them, though, if they’re not
Afraid of me. There’s two can play at that.
I have my fancies: it runs in the family.
My father’s brother wasn’t right. They kept him
Locked up for years back there at the old farm.
I’ve been away once—yes, I’ve been away.
The State Asylum. I was prejudiced;
I wouldn’t have sent anyone of mine there;
You know the old idea—the only asylum
Was the poorhouse, and those who could afford,
Rather than send their folks to such a place,
Kept them at home; and it does seem more human.
But it’s not so: the place is the asylum.
There they have every means proper to do with,
And you aren’t darkening other people’s lives—
Worse than no good to them, and they no good
To you in your condition; you can’t know
Affection or the want of it in that state.
I’ve heard too much of the old-fashioned way.
My father’s brother, he went mad quite young.
Some thought he had been bitten by a dog,
Because his violence took on the form
Of carrying his pillow in his teeth;
But it’s more likely he was crossed in love,
Or so the story goes. It was some girl.
Anyway all he talked about was love.
They soon saw he would do someone a mischief
If he wa’n't kept strict watch of, and it ended
In father’s building him a sort of cage,
Or room within a room, of hickory poles,
Like stanchions in the barn, from floor to ceiling,—
A narrow passage all the way around.
Anything they put in for furniture
He’d tear to pieces, even a bed to lie on.
So they made the place comfortable with straw,
Like a beast’s stall, to ease their consciences.
Of course they had to feed him without dishes.
They tried to keep him clothed, but he paraded
With his clothes on his arm—all of his clothes.
Cruel—it sounds. I ’spose they did the best
They knew. And just when he was at the height,
Father and mother married, and mother came,
A bride, to help take care of such a creature,
And accommodate her young life to his.
That was what marrying father meant to her.
She had to lie and hear love things made dreadful
By his shouts in the night. He’d shout and shout
Until the strength was shouted out of him,
And his voice died down slowly from exhaustion.
He’d pull his bars apart like bow and bow-string,
And let them go and make them twang until
His hands had worn them smooth as any ox-bow.
And then he’d crow as if he thought that child’s play—
The only fun he had. I’ve heard them say, though,
They found a way to put a stop to it.
He was before my time—I never saw him;
But the pen stayed exactly as it was
There in the upper chamber in the ell,
A sort of catch-all full of attic clutter.
I often think of the smooth hickory bars.
It got so I would say—you know, half fooling—
“It’s time I took my turn upstairs in jail”—
Just as you will till it becomes a habit.
No wonder I was glad to get away.
Mind you, I waited till Len said the word.
I didn’t want the blame if things went wrong.
I was glad though, no end, when we moved out,
And I looked to be happy, and I was,
As I said, for a while—but I don’t know!
Somehow the change wore out like a prescription.
And there’s more to it than just window-views
And living by a lake. I’m past such help—
Unless Len took the notion, which he won’t,
And I won’t ask him—it’s not sure enough.
I ’spose I’ve got to go the road I’m going:
Other folks have to, and why shouldn’t I?
I almost think if I could do like you,
Drop everything and live out on the ground—
But it might be, come night, I shouldn’t like it,
Or a long rain. I should soon get enough,
And be glad of a good roof overhead.
I’ve lain awake thinking of you, I’ll warrant,
More than you have yourself, some of these nights.
The wonder was the tents weren’t snatched away
From over you as you lay in your beds.
I haven’t courage for a risk like that.
Bless you, of course, you’re keeping me from work,
But the thing of it is, I need to be kept.
There’s work enough to do—there’s always that;
But behind’s behind. The worst that you can do
Is set me back a little more behind.
I sha’n't catch up in this world, anyway.
I’d rather you’d not go unless you must.
Dress in saris, wear ornaments in gold
Around your neck and on the breasts;
Be a girl; be shy; be womanish bold;
Be a wife; be a cook; be spiritually good;
Adore men, especially your husband;
Be submissive; be polite; be loyal;
Be the servant of goddess lotus!
Dwell in clay; live under the water;
Show light to sun; moon and stars!
Be soft; embrace in love; fade into water!
I offered you? all that is of my being
I never met you!
but now you know my every desire
You have the power to indulge my every thought!
I wait... knowing you are watching my every move
you intoxicate the air that I need-
the nourishment I crave-
the love I require!
Your command is my eternal pleasure
I await the miracle of your vision
I am, and always will be your
~ ~ ~ ~ ~
Nostalgia crawls up my door,
So I hide behind the entrance and
Slit her throat with my dire retention.
O, Sweet Liberty,
Can I really be free?
Now a buzzing in my ear,
A perpetual ringing in my ear,
Is that smirking ridicule I hear?
I’m not permitted sovereignty ‘cause
Cruel slavery ceaselessly quiets me –
Always scoffing, forever mocking,
Autonomy swallows my fuming misery
And spikes it with bittersweet Reality.
O, Sweet Liberty,
I’ll never get to dance with thee!
Connection involves a reciprocal flow where being detaches from nothingness into an inseparable unity.
So, let us acknowledge the colours and feel the vibrations as they transcend the parameters of compartmentalism, into an infinite and unified whole.
Attempts continue to socialise us into the abyss of perceptual bankruptcy with materialistic carrots where the fabric is truly frayed despite plausible and intellectual argument.
So, I want to talk with you as we swim in deep rivers of generational statements, which are released from the conglomerate of necrotic unions. I raise my glass to realms which lie beyond tangible and finite chords.
I seek a light in the darkest skies
To teach me to answer the deepest cries
Of my fellow man, my fellow woman, my fellow soul;
Though I gladly pay the toll, I know little of my own true role.
I know not the best way to follow;
But I do feel a little less hollow
In the giving of myself to others,
And the healed hearts of my sisters and brothers.
Pain pales in comparison to love,
And human hearts will gladly greet the mourning dove.
The burden of a thousand mountains I could bare
In your service, my soul will happily stand the wear and tear.
I have many questions, and few answers,
But how often is the harmony heard by the dancers?
Lord, it comforts me more than the warmest hearth,
To know that it is you who calls me forth.
God, oh Father,
oh Lord on High,
I come before you broken,
please hear my cry.
Please grant me this prayer,
please grant this request,
You know me, oh Lord,
how my soul needs your rest.
Please take away the yearning,
that gnaws at my core.
Please heal the stinging wounds
that have left me so sore.
Please stop the false hope,
mine own cruel self deception,
Please replace it with acceptance,
and happy recollection.
Please help me to forgive, God,
the lies I've been told.
Please help me to be godly,
and not be so cold.
Please give me the wisdom
to know your great will,
Please grant me the courage,
within me instilled.
Please end the old habits,
Please make me more holy,
forgive me my sin.
Thank you for the blessings,
for all that you've done.
I'm sorry I forget them,
the happiness, the fun.
Please make me the man
you want me to be.
Please throw off sin's shackles,
help me be free.
I'm a strong man of virtue,
of principle and truth.
But only when I am
in the presence of You.
Please bring me still closer,
drawn in day by day.
From my lips, Lord, please speak
through all that I say.
Please pour out your blessings,
on me overflowing.
Please give me your grace Lord,
please never stop sowing.
Please shield me from harm,
from sin, shame, and pain,
Please fill me with gladness
and joy for your name.
I want to be yours Lord,
and not of this world.
I know I have failed you,
but please stop the discord.
I'm far from deserving,
but please give me the best,
Please, Almighty Father,
grant your servant's request.
i sing only for a purpose
but cannot even carry a tune
there's been this dense misunderstanding.
Rawlings never gvies the credit,
so its the same old waning
with familiar yelping dog
sounding off in the pavallion,
where hesitation seems subservient
and the planning out of kilter .
He worked at the immigration office,
About 65, soon to retire,
Though not quite willing: a vast world
Of golden and silver fish like necklaces
Flashing underwater, dreams and dreams muted,
Barely recognized, barely sensed, pushed down
By experience upon experience; a space
Of potential neglected by poor education;
A network of memories, images of a wife
Loved, a son loved, friends loved (all lost)...
And he was soon to retire... His computer
Would need to be replaced, the chairs in his section
Would need to be replaced; people would be wearing
New uniforms next year, and he'd be receiving
A meagre pension... No one would miss him really,
And when his replacement goes,
No one would miss him or her either...
Maybe a few would wonder about them
For a couple of weeks, but no more probably...
And the papers of people would continue being reviewed,
And the people would continue being reduced...