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Huddled in the lantern light
they sing of life and death
of love long lost but living
in the ashes of time
a yearning for home
walking the long roads sunburnt
in blistered feet
in the knowledge
healing of pain
is only a rain away
and life is too short
but never too short
to bathe in the power of god
that makes a pauper
be a king
under the canopy of stars.
Night with them under the stars, November 12, 8.30pm.
Bauls: Rural folk singers of Bengal, the mystic minstrels.
An achievement in your life, no matter how small is still nevertheless an achievement...be proud of it and respect it, irrespective of whatever people might say or think about it.
for many a thing
we would often stay
a few others would
most likely detour
then lead us astray

for many a deed
are flowers after
a funeral march or a
get-away drive during
an explosive discharge

should we go and
leave behind, our
trophies and triumphs past
what's left's an orange rind
and a lonely sail-less mast
 Nov 2016 William A Poppen
r
Some nights
the moon throws its light
like an old man
who can't hold his liquor in
and spits blood in the morning

Someone ought to kick some sense
into me, if they did I'd hum
like the body of a fiddle

I propose we all strip down
and take a swim with my friends
the dragonflies, but no one will listen
to what I have to say when I throw my voice
like an empty bottle deep in the forest

When I think of all the dark
and swift things of my rivers,
I wonder why time the old boot -
legger hides his maps and goes
on traveling the low roads

Alone I can tell you there is so much
beside the point of the thorn of the rose
and why the moon is with me always
whenever i choose to go it alone

I drink from that blue jar of time
and breathe the breath of sweet infants

Believe you me the dead shepherd
we sent up the river in a faraway land
in a time so long ago still holds us
all by the holes in his hands

You can see the dark clouds up ahead,
my cloisters I am always walking through them
with you children of the lost dreams,
and with you fifty-something snow-headed men

We have just collided with our lost sons
on the high road of morning, we are rising
dust like the dirt on our children's graves
saying nothing to our brothers the stones.
They pulled a *****
With Trump's *******...
I mean Election.
I always mess up consonants.
Bend over, but don't be too ******* yourself. :)
On the ticket for mayor of Sarnia,
Was a sixties bloke, one Wills Rawana;
But the anti-*** vote,
With good conscience can't support,
A politico called Mayor Rawana.
Wills Rawana was a teacher who in fact did run for Sarnia's mayor.
He lost and has since passed away.
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