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 Oct 2015
betterdays
awakened by the purr
of the little blue cat,
seeking warmth,
on this crisp spring morning

we, the little blue cat and I
take our breakfast outside
walking across the dew damp grass
to sit at the old wooden table

he, steps high, waggling his feet
me, i step deeply into the grass
enjoying the verdant, green smell
that rises,
enjoying the brief  commune with
nature
enjoying the return to childhood

we sit, companionably, eating
he leftover roast chicken,
me, purlioned cocoa puffs,
my son's saturday treat,
that he will surely never miss

as we sit, the sounds of the world waking
drift past us.
windows opening, the snort and cough
of an early rising smoker, cars starting
the birds chat and chirk, and the plop
of the fish as the break the surface of the pond.
the garbage trucks stop and start trek up the street.

and now in the house, the radio, and kettle begin
a shower turned on, a bass voice sings, not well
but with joy.

now the day has truly begun...
one last mouthful of half remembered childhood
and then back to the daily grind
as the sun makes it's way past the low lying clouds

the blucat, chooses to stay, out watching the birds.
 Oct 2015
irinia
What,
what shall I do with you?
My gipsy, my fix, my oyster, sea —
only a few spiritual members
gather in front of you, speechless:
my eyes, lips, *****, hands…
— And the heart, my love, where is the heart?
Here and here, and there, my love,
in every place
that your lips touch.

Amir Or from *Let's speak you
 Oct 2015
Arcassin B
By Arcassin Burnham


More than my life ,
More than yours,
I have no burdens,
And no  remorse,

why you gotta ruin everything,

Make a choice,
Take a chance,
The type of joy that
Makes you wanna dance,

why you gotta ruin everything,

I can make light,
Of situations,
Make you smile,
No hesitation,

why you gotta ruin everything,

You and me,
On a beach,
Seven seas,
The mountains peak,

why you gotta ruin everything,
why you gotta ruin everything,

Why you gotta ruin everything that
I've worked for just to gain your self-worth,
If anything I could be sporting some local
Cutie on the base of the clockwork,
Touching roads when you get in your moods,
Yeah they do swing,
Take me out of your insecurities,
While buying some jewelry,
Life inside and out,
Will leave you seeing all of your entities,
I could make light of bad situation while
Putting in numbers,
I called my anxiety yesterday, he said the
Only thing holding you back is your mother,
No shame,
No pain,
No turning back now,
I'm looking forward to the future without
You,
If I could see it somehow,

We could touch
Ripples that follow,
I need a kiss,
But you just swallow,

why you gotta ruin everything,

I use to love,
The silk of your hair,
The color fits,
And people stare,

why you gotta ruin everything,

You put me in,
A state of hate,
That I don't
Appreciate,

why you gotta ruin everything,

We use to laugh,
We use to talk,
A lot of things left behind,
For the walk,

why you gotta ruin everything,
why you gotta ruin everything,

_________

I could be everything you want,
The sun,
The moon,
The stars,
To Venus,
To mars
But........
.....I'm killing myself,
I shed tears for you,
The sun,
Seems lonely,
Attention based,
And in its final hours,
We see nothing,
I pray for you,
In any term of love,
We'll get something,
We'll learn something,
We are masterpieces.
Love it
 Oct 2015
ajit peter
why
Born in its world to live
Love in heart to give
Yet carried to grave none
Ìn earth's home life done
Moment and time doth change
War and peace life unfortunate yet strange
Torn apart by hands of fate
Bitterness pile up in heart of hate
Why
Why
Why
 Oct 2015
Gaffer
You look great in those boots
But can you walk
Walk all over me
Straight up to your thighs
One kiss, and I’ll l surely die
Come on give me the eye
No point asking why
Okay, I want inside you
Five hundred dollars doesn’t lie
You can say you love me
That way, we’ll both get by
Life is so short between your thighs
Do you feel it
Deep inside
Makes you want to cry
I know you hate me
But you made the pact
Now it’s time to act
You look great in those boots
But can you walk
Walk all over me
Now it’s the talking part
Two strangers, heart to heart
Truths and lies
Smoke and why’s
I need to see you in my mind, you’ll get me through the tough times
You need the money
Seems rather funny, no money where I’m going
How about you, kids and all
How we fall
Two people in the night
Just getting through
As you do
Your boots on the floor
The last glimpse as I close the door.


It’s raining, death on the hill
No time for the final ****
You did look great in those boots
Will you walk for the final time
All over me.
 Oct 2015
Walter W Hoelbling
frisky freckles frolick
over his fair-featured face
like a flickering fresco
of furious lusting frenzy

a vibrant flirtatiousness
fills all her fibers
she falls into his arms with finesse
foreseeing fond fantasies

******* with fearsome delight
after failure of foreplay
the foman farts in fectasy
his font flushes fondly

though he almost faints in the feat
for his front has become
far more fragile
than in former feasts

    fewer the forays
    more frequent the flops
    further away
    desires formerly frequent

yet his feelings
still flow to flowering females
forever fertile and fragrant

therefore
he never thinks
of a final
farewell
 Oct 2015
T. S. Eliot
S’io credesse che mia risposta fosse
        A persona che mai tornasse al mondo
        Questa fiamma staria senza più scosse.
        Ma perciocchè giammai di questo fondo
        Non tornò vivo alcun, s’i'odo il vero,
        Senza tema d’infamia ti rispondo.

Let us go then, you and I,
When the evening is spread out against the sky
Like a patient etherised upon a table;
Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,
The muttering retreats
Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels
And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:
Streets that follow like a tedious argument
Of insidious intent
To lead you to an overwhelming question…
Oh, do not ask, ‘What is it?’
Let us go and make our visit.

In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.

The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes,
The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes
Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening,
Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains,
Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys,
Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap,
And seeing that it was a soft October night,
Curled once about the house, and fell asleep.

And indeed there will be time
For the yellow smoke that slides along the street,
Rubbing its back upon the window panes;
There will be time, there will be time
To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;
There will be time to ****** and create,
And time for all the works and days of hands
That lift and drop a question on your plate;
Time for you and time for me,
And time yet for a hundred indecisions,
And for a hundred visions and revisions,
Before the taking of a toast and tea.

In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.

And indeed there will be time
To wonder, ‘Do I dare?’ and, ‘Do I dare?’
Time to turn back and descend the stair,
With a bald spot in the middle of my hair—
(They will say: ‘How his hair is growing thin!’)
My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin,
My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin—
(They will say: ‘But how his arms and legs are thin!’)
Do I dare
Disturb the universe?
In a minute there is time
For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.

For I have known them all already, known them all—
Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,
I have measured out my life with coffee spoons;
I know the voices dying with a dying fall
Beneath the music from a farther room.
  So how should I presume?

And I have known the eyes already, known them all—
The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase,
And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin,
When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall,
Then how should I begin
To spit out all the ****-ends of my days and ways?
  And how should I presume?

And I have known the arms already, known them all—
Arms that are braceleted and white and bare
(But in the lamplight, downed with light brown hair!)
Is it perfume from a dress
That makes me so digress?
Arms that lie along a table, or wrap about a shawl.
  And should I then presume?
  And how should I begin?

     . . . . .

Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streets
And watched the smoke that rises from the pipes
Of lonely men in shirt-sleeves, leaning out of windows? …

I should have been a pair of ragged claws
Scuttling across the floors of silent seas.

     . . . . .

And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully!
Smoothed by long fingers,
Asleep … tired … or it malingers,
Stretched on on the floor, here beside you and me.
Should I, after tea and cakes and ices,
Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis?
But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed,
Though I have seen my head (grown slightly bald) brought in
     upon a platter,
I am no prophet—and here’s no great matter;
I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,
And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker,
And in short, I was afraid.

And would it have been worth it, after all,
After the cups, the marmalade, the tea,
Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me,
Would it have been worth while,
To have bitten off the matter with a smile,
To have squeezed the universe into a ball
To roll it toward some overwhelming question,
To say: ‘I am Lazarus, come from the dead,
Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all’—
If one, settling a pillow by her head,
  Should say: ‘That is not what I meant at all;
  That is not it, at all.’

And would it have been worth it, after all,
Would it have been worth while,
After the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets,
After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail
     along the floor—
And this, and so much more?—
It is impossible to say just what I mean!
But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen:
Would it have been worth while
If one, settling a pillow or throwing off a shawl,
And turning toward the window, should say:
  ‘That is not it at all,
  That is not what I meant, at all.’

     . . . . .

No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;
Am an attendant lord, one that will do
To swell a progress, start a scene or two,
Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool,
Deferential, glad to be of use,
Politic, cautious, and meticulous;
Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse;
At times, indeed, almost ridiculous—
Almost, at times, the Fool.

I grow old … I grow old …
I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.

Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?
I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.
I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.

I do not think that they will sing to me.

I have seen them riding seaward on the waves
Combing the white hair of the waves blown back
When the wind blows the water white and black.

We have lingered in the chambers of the sea
By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown
Till human voices wake us, and we drown.
 Oct 2015
Leonard Cohen
Oh the sisters of mercy, they are not departed or gone.
They were waiting for me when I thought that I just can't go
on.
And they brought me their comfort and later they brought me
this song.
Oh I hope you run into them, you who've been travelling so
long.
Yes you who must leave everything that you cannot control.

It begins with your family, but soon it comes around to your
soul.
Well I've been where you're hanging, I think I can see how
you're pinned:
When you're not feeling holy, your loneliness says that
you've sinned.
Well they lay down beside me, I made my confession to
them.
They touched both my eyes and I touched the dew on their hem.

If your life is a leaf that the seasons tear off and condemn
they will bind you with love that is graceful and green as a
stem.
When I left they were sleeping, I hope you run into them
soon.
Don't turn on the lights, you can read their address by the
moon.
And you won't make me jealous if I hear that they sweetened
your night:
We weren't lovers like that and besides it would still be all
right,
We weren't lovers like that and besides it would still be all
right.
 Oct 2015
Leonard Cohen
Like a bird on the wire,
like a drunk in a midnight choir
I have tried in my way to be free.
Like a worm on a hook,
like a knight from some old fashioned book
I have saved all my ribbons for thee.
If I, if I have been unkind,
I hope that you can just let it go by.
If I, if I have been untrue
I hope you know it was never to you.
Like a baby, stillborn,
like a beast with his horn
I have torn everyone who reached out for me.
But I swear by this song
and by all that I have done wrong
I will make it all up to thee.
I saw a beggar leaning on his wooden crutch,
he said to me, "You must not ask for so much."
And a pretty woman leaning in her darkened door,
she cried to me, "Hey, why not ask for more?"
Oh like a bird on the wire,
like a drunk in a midnight choir
I have tried in my way to be free.
 Oct 2015
Sylvia Plath
'Perspective betrays with its dichotomy:
train tracks always meet, not here, but only
    in the impossible mind's eye;
horizons beat a retreat as we embark
on sophist seas to overtake that mark
    where wave pretends to drench real sky.'

'Well then, if we agree, it is not odd
that one man's devil is another's god
    or that the solar spectrum is
a multitude of shaded grays; suspense
on the quicksands of ambivalence
    is our life's whole nemesis.

So we could rave on, darling, you and I,
until the stars tick out a lullaby
    about each cosmic pro and con;
nothing changes, for all the blazing of
our drastic jargon, but clock hands that move
    implacably from twelve to one.

We raise our arguments like sitting ducks
to knock them down with logic or with luck
    and contradict ourselves for fun;
the waitress holds our coats and we put on
the raw wind like a scarf; love is a faun
    who insists his playmates run.

Now you, my intellectual leprechaun,
would have me swallow the entire sun
    like an enormous oyster, down
the ocean in one gulp: you say a mark
of comet hara-kiri through the dark
    should inflame the sleeping town.

So kiss: the drunks upon the curb and dames
in dubious doorways forget their monday names,
    caper with candles in their heads;
the leaves applaud, and santa claus flies in
scattering candy from a zeppelin,
    playing his prodigal charades.

The moon leans down to took; the tilting fish
in the rare river wink and laugh; we lavish
    blessings right and left and cry
hello, and then hello again in deaf
churchyard ears until the starlit stiff
    graves all carol in reply.

Now kiss again: till our strict father leans
to call for curtain on our thousand scenes;
    brazen actors mock at him,
multiply pink harlequins and sing
in gay ventriloquy from wing to wing
    while footlights flare and houselights dim.

Tell now, we taunq where black or white begins
and separate the flutes from violins:
    the algebra of absolutes
explodes in a kaleidoscope of shapes
that jar, while each polemic jackanapes
    joins his enemies' recruits.

The paradox is that 'the play's the thing':
though prima donna pouts and critic stings,
    there burns throughout the line of words,
the cultivated act, a fierce brief fusion
which dreamers call real, and realists, illusion:
    an insight like the flight of birds:

Arrows that lacerate the sky, while knowing
the secret of their ecstasy's in going;
    some day, moving, one will drop,
and, dropping, die, to trace a wound that heals
only to reopen as flesh congeals:
    cycling phoenix never stops.

So we shall walk barefoot on walnut shells
of withered worlds, and stamp out puny hells
    and heavens till the spirits squeak
surrender: to build our bed as high as jack's
bold beanstalk; lie and love till sharp scythe hacks
    away our rationed days and weeks.

Then jet the blue tent topple, stars rain down,
and god or void appall us till we drown
    in our own tears: today we start
to pay the piper with each breath, yet love
knows not of death nor calculus above
    the simple sum of heart plus heart.
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