On a pain scale 1-10 death is a 0.

Zero for the deceased and a ten for breathing.
Appreciation at 1 when they come & always a
10 when we're forced to watch them leaving.

Days are numbered for us, for the people we love, & the plants that gift us breathe.
Would you still care? Would you still crave that job? Would that heart break still hurt if the clock was almost done ticking & you knew you were facing death?

A scratch wouldn't sting If it simultaneously occurred along with a stab.
The small joy of a giggle loses its stimulation when placed next to a stomach squeezing laugh.

More and Less, More or less? The words are meant to be a measure of the amount of things, or people, but in reality they are the enhancement and suppression of appreciation.
Ten dollars is appreciated until twenty is seen. Take someone who complains about asthma as if it's the worse curse & diagnose them with cancer, they'll suddenly forget asthma is even involved in the situation.

More or Less are just synonyms for Better and Worse. Better makes us blind and numb to what we have, those joys we already feel; introduce worse & we no longer need Better to see these blessings.
Everyday we count things, we count everything except for the things that count, lack of appreciation deprives us from making the days count, & then we wish we could have them back once begin stressing.

We always want more of anything pleasureful we recieve when it's really appreciation that should be given and received with repititon.

Life is a gift but More or Less makes us mortal, makes us ungrateful, & turns life into a competition.

The day we cease to appreciate our lives because we fall victim to the perception of More we start to live less and less, before you know it you've died while you're still breathing.

Ultimately we need pain. It teaches us to appreciate & ignore the more, we must hurt before we benefit it's like a baby teething.

**If you're alive, you're blessed, more or less.

Lotus flew over the
Surface of my
Consciousness

The synergy
Surrendered to
synchronicity

Within
Stillness
Of your being

The
Blossoms
Of love rains
Blossom

Caressing my gaze
for the first time
struck by magic
thunderbolt

And fires rode
In awe,

Written
Upon your
Tamed times

And absolute
Seeded pine
Trees

Written like a wild
dew drops glow on
a black tulip.

nor very cool to feel for every ***** or beggar or
low-life
there are just a multitude of them to cry over

it doesn't pay me a ******* cent
walking to town to watch the whorish
wave down traffic

angry is a bit of what I gnaw on
the gum of **** that makes me gag
almost or puke or wanna ****

any mother who allows their child,
yes we all, even the low cast out **** bottom
basement ******* for a dime ****** ***** got one

lets her child become this , **** her  **** yes
******* the *******,
******* the dripping *****

that walked away tucking their ***** of brains
back into their shorts onto the streets , oh what hustlers what
cruel ******* idiots

even them, even those ***** donor dead souls,
it is too much to feel for,
etc....

Times can be stressful
When you are going through a change
Nothing seems certain
As things get rearranged
Matters can be puzzling
No one can seem to understand
Implement an ideal strategy
That can be a great plan

why must we all be different?
He replied, " it protects us, diversity is needed to ensure
life's continuing.....
just look at how many types there are:
Black White and most every color in between.
Small Big again in varying degrees.
Trees large small grasses and even smaller flora and fauna
just trying to survive. Categories and divisions have a place,
and life goes on fighting.
I think,"  Pops said, " that wars and peace are of
the same design. In the end the strongest survive. But the strongest varies with time, that's why!"

it is the night
lit by the moon  
    best if it’s full
that gives strange shadows to familiar things
when poets are supposedly inspired
to write about their pain   their love  
     often the same
important thoughts of life and death
their joys of the quotidian   and
that you catch the day
and live it like it were your last

    you never know
    just a split second
    and your life has turned into your past

benignly, though, the moonlight introduces softer thoughts
of passion and of the beloved
    distant in space but always close in mind
romantic moments lingering in afterthoughts

some times  I think  that if it were not for the distance
that always separates those who have pined
for their reunion
the world’s treasure of poetry might just be half
of what it is today

the same may well be true for all the lines
penned under tears about that unrequited love
addressed to those unwilling subjects of desire
who often  in the course of writing
turn into objects of the writers’ ire

the moonlight’s pristine shine
    in fact a mere reflection of the sun
for a few hours of the night
changes our vision
opens up doors to different worlds
    full of desire, hope, and desperation
allows us glimpses of ourselves
that daylight never shows

we feel we can speak words
under the pale light of the moon
or the dark corners of the night
that would not make much sense
under the brilliance of the sun

the quiet splendor of the moonlight’s grace
lets us experience that other space
we tend to close and keep apart
in our hasty tour of every day

that’s why
in our few calm moments
we all should listen to what they
    our poets
have to say about the night
the moon’s  strange light
and how it keeps their thoughts in flight

A knock, she hears
Upon the front door
Startled, she drops
It all on the floor

Who could it be?
Why are they here?
The calm moment gone,
Now shattered in fear.

She shuffles, she steps
Towards that front door
Her mind, it spins
Dark thoughts, how they soar

Is it her foe?
Shrouded in hate?
Bubbling revenge, and
Unwrapping harsh fate.

She tips, she toes
Closer the front door
Her throat, a knot
A pit in her core

Is it the ghost?
Haunting her dreams?
Banshee spits fumes
While shreaking hot screams.

She trips, she slumps
Against that front door
Her soul, so drained
Can't take any more

Is it the reaper?
Grim to his depth.
Hooded cloak collecting
On the promise now kept.

She weeps, she opens
Dreaded front door
Mere branch, that knocked
Does so no more

It's just the front tree
But the girl does not see,
She does not feel glee
For the girl, she is lost,
Reliving her nightmares three.

our daily information
defies all expectation

reporting in unnerving detail
how trains derail, tour buses fail
   to stay on roads without a rail
how terrorists attacked again
    when nobody expected them
what nonsense politicians spew
    unfortunately quite a few
how the economy keeps getting worse
    yet billionaires still fill their purse
pollution levels have ‘improved’
El Nino has the jet streams moved
millions of refugees are loose
    around the globe, few clothes, no shoes
armies and gangsters flex their muscles
cannot resist the deadly hustle

and for the icing on the cake
thousands of lives are now at stake
we learn  without too strong emotions
that a new virus was discovered
the waters of our rising oceans
     have by now covered
     a third of several island nation's land
no more idyllic beaches with white sand
    
all this mixed in
with those exciting human interest stories
about the latest dog show winners
some brilliant wunderkind beginners
major and minor worries
from  distant neighborhoods
commercials for the latest fads
and all the current healthy foods
self-advertising TV channel ads
who’s s great in sports
    and who of sorts

in short  
24/7 of much useless blather
that neither alters our lives
nor can we change its mostly dreary facts

yet we risk drowning  under this debris
    of cacophonic sound and image bites
unless we learn to
    set our marks
    clear our sights
    turn into info sharks
devouring just those bits
of almost hidden information
we can make sense of and digest
the clues to what is really going on
below the surface of our media-created ocean

it’s the commotions in the depths
    that teach us best
    give us a glimpse behind the curtains of stale words
    make us aware there’s little time for rest

Mahatma Gandhi  
Young visitors in a gallery,
Stood before a portrait of Gandhiji,
Charmed by his toothless smile,
Eyes sparkling through glasses round
And an old watch dangling from his waist,
With his chest bare and a **** cloth
Covering his lean , frail frame.
While they wondered how the good old man
Could shake the mighty British empire
And fight without weapons of destruction,
They were thrilled to behold a vision rare -
The smiling  Gandhi emerged from the frame,
Saying that his weapons were invisible,
Yet, they could vanquish the most powerful
Without hatred and shedding no blood!
His loving voice and childlike smile
Combined with an unbending will,
Wielding the power of truth and nonviolence
Could conquer his mighty ruthless foes
And turn them into everloving friends!.
Feeling amazed, the visitors stared
At the Mahatma moving back into the frame;
Begged him to remain and lead them again.
"My countrymen," he said "seem to have forgotten,
" The bloodshed and horror of partition.
"Terrorists and fanatics **** and burn
" And innocent victims feel miserable and forlorn.
"Twice a year, on my 'samaadhi', flowers are strewn,
" While helpless millions struggle and groan.
"In these days of endless greed and senseless crime, "
"Guided missiles and misguided men,
" My words seem to have no relevance,
"Yet, if they listen to their own conscience,
" Give up greed and serve with compassion,
"The India of my dreams will arrive soon."
Sad and surprised, the visitors stared:
Though the figure vanished, his words inspired
And they resolved to follow his noble ways
And strive for the welfare of all mankind.
                  ***  M.G.Narasimha Murthy
Hyderabad, India.        mgnmurthy4@gmail.com