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I want your dreams
& I desire to taste
the saline that fills
the riverbed
of your pretty spine.

For you,
you Dear Woman,
are the finest river
I have ever seen
& the contours
of your
beautiful countryside,
I want to follow.
you will not like what
you will soon imbibe...

long has a single moot court team
infernal internal debated,
the if's and of's, among itself:

"To Read, Or Not To Read?"

in solitary confinement,
place one's self,
undisturbed but for stale bread,
but unpolluted water

letting only visions sprung internal
guide thy words and world,
from tongue to paper,
creating as pure as one can,
unperturbed by the
rocket's glare of another's poetry

risking all but certain knowing,
it is my fawlty fault alone,
no compare, all laid bare,
no infection of inflection,
no reflection of yours,
in mine mirrored image

my issued seed, entire genetic,
it's only inked environment what is
pre-seeded by blood and *****,
my eyes filter all sight by this light,
this lonely light alone

for the moment, when,
I bend my head to thy stream
to partake when inspiry is parched,
the knowledge that what you
write and wrought,
so much better
than my small portions,
I am condemned in perpetuity
not to the agony mot of defeat,
for I could not
cease to write,
any more than I could
cease to breathe,
or despair of all hope
for messianic better days

but, if to be burdened
by the too real title of
second best,
then my poems,
all sadness to be.

this I cannot have,
so let my pieces,
mediocre or even trash,
live peacefully unencumbered
by the site lines of the living
and the dead

thy finery exceeds my plain grasp,
when I read yours,
my self-pity self-suffocates,
and I ask,
nay, I beg of myself:

let my voice be still
but not stilled,
let my thoughts be boundless,
but not in thine clasped,
let my heart speak my truth,
even unto admitting my yellow courage,
let it not be disparaged by,
for my rank of commonality,
it's low caste author's curse

"for who would bear the Whips and Scorns of time"

I have read the best

once, I wrote
to laugh,
reminded and reminding,
they too feared,
the compare to those who
wrote before their own hour

now I know better,
my only solution,
let my additive, be uncomplicated
my images, uncompromised,
by that, my eyes have n'ere seen,
in languages unspoken, but yet believed,
that were given birth only
for a poet's needs

you may dispense
with my droppings,
as you please, but when
I read you and yours,
I am,
so dangerously pleasured,
my creativity,
my one true god and deity,
oft no longer speaks to me,
it's silence a death sentence
that no court, not in any land,
on earth or unheaven,
may e'er grant clemency,
that of course,
unkindest cut of all

"Thus conscience does make cowards of us all,
And thus the native hue of resolution
Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought,
And enterprise of great pitch and moment
With this regard their currents turn awry"

"The undiscovered Country, from whose bourn
No Traveler returns, Puzzles the will,
And makes us rather bear those ills we have,
Than fly to others that we know not of"

You see, already cursed and contaminated,
All my sins italicized, except for my original one,
The imposition of mine own hand,
To dare to write and dream in line and meter, verse


*To be, or not to be, that is the question—
Whether 'tis Nobler in the mind to suffer
The Slings and Arrows of outrageous Fortune,
Or to take Arms against a Sea of troubles,
And by opposing end them? To die, to sleep—
No more; and by a sleep, to say we end
The Heart-ache, and the thousand Natural shocks
That Flesh is heir to? 'Tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wished. To die, to sleep,
To sleep, perchance to Dream; Aye, there's the rub,
For in that sleep of death, what dreams may come,
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,
Must give us pause. There's the respect
That makes Calamity of so long life:
For who would bear the Whips and Scorns of time,
The Oppressor's wrong, the proud man's Contumely,
The pangs of despised Love, the Law’s delay,
The insolence of Office, and the Spurns
That patient merit of the unworthy takes,
When he himself might his Quietus make
With a bare Bodkin? Who would these Fardels bear,
To grunt and sweat under a weary life,
But that the dread of something after death,
The undiscovered Country, from whose bourn
No Traveler returns, Puzzles the will,
And makes us rather bear those ills we have,
Than fly to others that we know not of.
Thus Conscience does make Cowards of us all,
And thus the Native hue of Resolution
Is sicklied o'er, with the pale cast of Thought,
And enterprises of great pitch and moment,
With this regard their Currents turn awry,
And lose the name of Action. Soft you now,
The fair Ophelia. Nymph, in all thy Orisons
Be all my sins remembered.
11:13 this Saturday morning, composed to Pavarotti singing
Nessus Dorma!

as noon approaches, the day divided, I will here pause as long as my eyes, permission me to stop seeing...
Lets be kids again and fall in love with everything we find along our journeys in this world.
Lets recapitulate all the moments of innocence and happiness we once lived.

Walk with me;
tell me about your day as if you were planning for tomorrow.
Express every detail with passion and energy.
Describe to me exactly how you feel.

Ponder with me;
question everything like it's the only thing you've ever known.

            Mature with me;
understand life for what life is,
we cannot control it's terms;
      we cannot always be there.
Spend time with yourself instead of worrying about others for a change. Reevaluate yourself as honest as can be. Get to know who you really are.
Accept that person,
    cherish that person,
        never let them go.

Consider the times where you thought you'd never see tomorrow but still woke up the next morning and things got better as time killed everything with age.
Find comfort in the present, live for the moment, and don't be afraid to fall in love..

         It's what kids do.
I wrote this for the most beautiful girl.
for bala, one more time*

secrete and excrete
ingest and imbibe

only a few,
select and exceptional
only the rare,
incomparable and imbued

can pour oil
from the heart daily

they, the oil-anointed ones,
marked as future kings
singer of songs,
poets and psalmists,
return their anointment
to the people who granted it
by pouring oil from the heart,
The title was taken from a comment about a poem (often a source of inspiration) from Bala, that was stored away for a poem. Today, it arrived.

K Balachandran   Feb 20
a poignant thought, a calm flame
every son of the soil keeps burning, pouring oil daily from the heart,
when one broods, on life, it becomes clear--
what else one can aspire, after everything is said and done..
Thank you Nat

A second dedication for this poem
To Ms. Jeanne Midtowns,
another of the select and exceptional
only the rare,
incomparable and imbued...

this is for she, one who loves poetry as much as life itself...
 Apr 2014 Ellen Dawson
lina S
My words have failed me
I can no longer explain
From my own thoughts
I'm drained.

All I know is I want you .
 Apr 2014 Ellen Dawson
Without you…
I find I can no longer be…
 Apr 2014 Ellen Dawson
The rain meets the roots
Watering my heart again
*A lot’s at stake here
There is a certain beauty
found in silence, terror too.
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