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Andrew M Bell Feb 2015
You should practise joy more often,
it becomes you
and the radiance in your eyes
when you receive what others take for granted
is, for me, the greatest gift
and the deepest sorrow.
For you should not have to live on the crumbs
and these small kindnesses are your due,
what you deserve
not what you should have to crave.
I cannot understand how one so giving of her love
has received so little in return.
So, like a beautiful antique bureau that has been moved
too many times by careless owners,
your burnished mahogany heart
has been chipped and scarred and
my cargoes of love often find anchor in
a harbour of doubt.
My words may fall short of your hesitant ear but
perhaps your mouth believes my kisses,
your body believes my arms
and in my eyes can you see how your joy
begets my joy?
Copyright Andrew M. Bell
Paris Raine Oct 2014
Here comes the countdown,
The ring of twelve awaits,
I lay bare in my chamber,
Nothing past this will ever equate.

He never came through the window,
Nor did I catch his shadow,
To take me to his Netherland
And live as innocence incarnate.

The fresh second has passed,
I inhabit the other side,
I stand sheathed among the others,
I stand as Adam, with dignity
By my side.

The ship is leaving from the shore,
Here are my records from life abroad,
The twelfth ticking finger; the other side,
Aboard the Grand Expectation, at high tide.

I remember those days in practising
Youth, to obtain those leisure’s, I
Now pursue. Wishing for time to burn
Away whilst the paper’s smoke, astray.

I have no hand to follow,
Only my own two feet,
Down the path to *‘prepare the face,
For the faces that I will meet.’

My shelter has been broken,
I face this open world,
Life expels, whilst hope
Is tortured and contorted.

Yet, I will find a place to stand,
Among a band of life’s grand
plan, To sit with the others,
Plated in Dionysian armour.

We will set upon the stage
And light Pandora’s candle,
So the last flicker of hope,
Will blind Failure’s scandal

And I will look back,
At the awe of innocence,
Through eyes who have seen a
Thousand smiles, whilst laughing

We are Life’s but inner-child.
*T.S Elliot - The Love Song of J.F Prufrock
Ernesto Estefan Jan 2018
Cigarettes after cigarettes after cigarettes ,
Barrels of nicotines
Sometimes green flowers with harsh smoke veil ,
Her tunnel she mazed with mist of darkness ,
Weaving the oblivion never knew where it leads ,
How it ends ,
She kept practising over and over again .

His voice was cold ,
Yet heavy and bold ,
Paving the dim yellow lights
He drilled the night's routine ,
Chased the bewildered dream ,
Like a wind and unseen ,
Reached the volcano's end ,

He saw her glistening eyes ,
No matter how dark the shade was ,
How in distant it was ,
Still shined like the silver queen of the sun ,

In her nest , panting ,
uncanny was her dance beat ,
Euphoric ideas enthralled by his sight ,
Roared in her veins ,

Like a blue bird she wanted to fly away ,
Like a humming bird she was crooning to his breath ,
A gorgeous gladiolus that she smelled ,
Quivered her toes from beneath the planet .

Between the bars two glances were met .

©
8.
A man must die.
Every evening at eight.
When he sips the coffee with,
Hot chocolate cake.

Whatever is begotten,
      Born and dies.

But A woman is not,
And I'll show you why.

A woman must be,
A picturesque deity,
Giving and taking all the
Evening in her.

The harmony, the health,
The warmest of thoughts.
A woman's a farmer
Every evening at eight.

Watching the steam,
And taking within,
The fetish of hate,
Every evening at eight.

Makes her a woman,
Who isn't born to be great.
But kind and mild,
And As timid as a cow.

A woman never dies,
For she is never loved.

Since she is born to witness
A death.
And, A man is a member of a community,
Of men.

Practising a composition,
To produce hatred.

   Every evening at eight,
With hot chocolate cake.
Thushena Jun 2015
the night
your mom walked out the door
in her paisley dress,
she brushed you off her shoulders so easily,
it made you wonder how long she had been practising.

you still think about how
you weren't the only thing that fell off
the peaks of her bony shoulders;
birthday cards, goodnight kisses, home-made banana bread,
these things lay dead on the staircase she walked down too.

so you try to be kinder;
wait for me to finish my sentences;
make me pasta dinners when I come home;
all messy hair and tired eyes,
so exhausted from trying to love myself.

but I want you to know
that you don't have to love me too hard;
don't have to shove love into my crevices,
to make up for the love your mama never gave you.

so be kind to yourself;
try to get out of bed at a decent time,
make yourself some hot cereal for breakfast.

stop waiting for me to come home;
for my voice to echo through the hall and fill up
the empty spaces in your heart;
the ones you always trip over.

put on a new shirt,
go outside,
and sit by the park bench;
you can always go back
to writing poems,
like you used to.

stop waiting for me to come home;
stop waiting around for someone to love,
you can fill yourself up first;
and rip out the weeds that lace your lungs;

I'll be right beside you,
armed with metaphorical shears
and tangible kisses,
but you've got to promise me,
that you'll learn how to love yourself first.
L Johnston Mar 2013
Was it worth 2 minutes of lustless ignominy
A misogynist practising polygamy
Years were hacked
Walls that were built with purpose
Everything said was fallacious and deluding
Pure gratification
Eating to feel full and drinking to get drunk

Heaven forbid I say you're just like the rest. The rest are just like you.
this is messy and bitter. but it was therapeutic to write and thats all that matters.
mannley collins Sep 2014
When I do not write poetry!
When I cant write poetry!

When all I can write is strings of meaningless associated  words
about my meaningless associated experiences
in  any of my meaningless associated lifetimes.
Spent committing meaningless associated actions.
Avoiding meaningless associated people with their
meaningless associated GroupMinds.
All meaningless without the Isness of the Universe's hand in mine.

Wandering through life with few companions.
Clad in yellow  dust.
Doing my Raja Yoga practices.
Doing my Tantric Yoga practices.
Doing my Bhakti Yoga practices.
Doing my Gnana Yoga practices.
Doing my Karma Yoga practices.
Doing my Hatha Yoga practices.

Raja Yoga.
waking--sleeping--sitting --lieing--standing--walking--running--eating--*******-swimming--r­ock climbing-trekking the  high  Himalayas---and always doing deep nasal Kriya Yoga breathing as I contemplate the passage of my days and nights and seek the answer to the eternal question of --
Who am I?.
Who am I?.
Surely not the vain and deceitful Mind?
Am I really a small but equal individual,independent,nameless,formless,genderless and non physical individual Isness formed from the Isness of the Universe?.
An individualIsness chasing after being in the
ultimate state of Separate and Merged with the Isness of the Universe.

Tantric Yoga.
Doing various sweaty and pleasure filled acts of ***  with male or female or femboy or boygirl or ******* or pansexual or anyone I fancy with a **** or a ****--and a minimum of love.
My stiff **** in a ****.
A stiff **** in my mouth.
A stiff ****  in my *******.
My stiff ****  in an *******.
*** dribbling down the inside of my legs.
*** dribbling down my chin--all over my face.
Licking wet swollen **** lips.
Licking swollen *****.
Always aiming to arouse ******--to turn on Kundalini.
To reach out and touch the hem of the Isness of the Universe's robe

Bhakti Yoga.
Singing and dancing and painting and glassperlenspiel and cooking and laughing and crying and playing----.
Saxophones and clarinets and flutes and drums and  stringed instruments and the "fool".
Especially my beloved Selmer Alto Clarinet--curved like a
serpent drunk  on life
But the greatest of my instruments is-the "fool".
Foolish for life.
Foolish for unconditional love.
Foolish for to make people laugh.
Foolish for believing that I can solve the riddle of "who am I"?.
All for the delectation of the Isness of the Universe.

Gnana Yoga.
Reading books and pamphlets and essays and sutras and suras and verses and scribbles on grubby pieces of paper.
Searching for that elusive string of associated words that tell me that an honest woman or man passed this way before me.
Not a worshipper of any "god" or "goddess" or any other Celestial being made by the Isness of the Universe to mask  its innocence.
No enlightend beings for me-oh no!.
No buddas for me-oh no!.
No beings in Gnosis for me-oh no!.
No avatars for me--oh no!
No sons or daughters of any "god" or "goddess" for me --oh no!
Just a person,*** irrelevant but compulsory, that had realised,existentially, for a brief moment that they too are a part of the essence of the Isness of the Universe.

Karma Yoga.
Every act I commit adding or subtracting from that accumulation of
Karmas,good and bad or neutral, from every lifetime I have lived.
Boy you gonna carry that weight!!.
Roll that boulder up the hill.
Only ever making Neutral Karma.
Beyond the deceptions of Duality or Non-Duality.
Neutral Karma that only arises
by practising the Six Fundamental Yogas.
But not as an obsession or a lifestyle choice.
Hey Isness of the Universe-give me a helping  hand here!

Hatha Yoga.
Keeping my current body healthy enough so I can
do all other five of the Six Fundamental Yogas.
Cooking million star meals.
No 5 star chefs in my houses.
Eating Organically and drinking water from lifes many springs.
A green leaf salad every day
Taking part in the exercise of living.
No contortions or posturing for me.
Ha! the ingoing breath.
Tha! the  outgoing breath.
Breathing set as conditioned reflex--living on automatic.
Random deep nasal breathing--waking and sleeping.
Dreaming of the Isness of the Universe.
Waking up in the Isness of the Universe's arms.
Feeling the Isness of the Universe's breath on my fevered brow.
Listening to the Isness of the Universe murmuring in a billion billion different ways--
I love you.

Hearing the Isness of the Universe say--
I breathe through your nose and lungs.
I smell through your nose.
I see through your eyes and insightfulness.
I look through your eyes.
I lick the  juice of **** or **** with your tongue.
I taste Vanilla Ice-Cream with your tongue.
I blow a wet **** or stiff **** with your mouth.
I breathe life into the Alto-Clarinet with your mouth.
I touch nakedness of others with your fingers.
I feel the Void with your fingers.
I wake into consciousness at your urgent voice.
I spring into life at your very step.
I experience all through your body.
I experience existence through your life.
I love unconditionally through being
loved unconditionally by you.
I am humble before you.
My beingness is  exalted by your humility
Your beingness is exalted by my humility.

www.thefournobletruthsrevised.co.uk
Olivia Kent Dec 2014
White elephants of the icy sea flopping, struggling.
A dynasty of protection.
Hierarchy of wrinkled beasts.

The polar bear with cubs in tow, perfect footing,
Just look at her go.
Her feet anchored to the ****** snow.

Walrus wanders, her youngster plays.
Not playing, practising, the survivor's artistry.
Not a carpenter in sight.
(C) Livvi
I watched a program about polar bears and walruses.
Shabnam Apr 2019
Reality is biting painfully,
Virtuality is pleasing infinitely..
In the real world happiness is rare & the struggles are always there;
In the virtual world there are endless fantasies & it's a dream world..
Idealistic people seldom practising; or
showing off their gleeful side..
Only a few friends in reality & a never ending list virtually..
But beware there's endless trauma.. when reality and virtuality interchange.
Terry Collett Oct 2014
We were allowed out
of the coach
to stretch our legs
and have a quick look
around Poitiers
in France

Miriam stretched
her arms out
and kicked out
her legs
almost got cramp
she said

I could have massaged
them for you
I said
I’m an expert
at massaging
away cramps

sure you are
she said smiling
but not
on the coach
it's too impersonal

we walked around
Place de Gaulle
looking in shop windows
and cafés and restaurants

how about some coffee?
I asked

if you're paying
she said

anything for a lady
I said

and what did you want
in exchange?
she said
putting her hands
on her hips

who said anything
in exchange
I just want to buy
you a coffee

she smiled
OK if you say so
she said

so we sat outside
a small café
and ordered
two coffees and cake
and the waiter went off

I lit up a cigarette

what's the book
you're reading
on the coach?
she asked

it's called The Apostle
I said

what's it about?

St Paul

isn't he the guy
who fell from his horse
or donkey
when a voice
called to him
at Damascus?

yes something like that
I said

why are you
reading about him?

he interests me
I said

why?

well he went
from being a persecutor
of what we call
Christians now
to actually joining them
and becoming one
of their leaders

enough already
she said
I heard he
was against ***
and all that

I guess
he was not keen
on the idea

and you want to read
about him?
*** is a brilliant thing
without it
no one would
be here
not even that Paul guy
she said

the waiter brought
our coffees and cake
and went off

beside
she said
you weren't practising
what this Paul guy
was preaching
on the coach last night

never said I was
practising anything
but it was dim
on the coach
and most others
were asleep

she ate her cake
and I recalled
the coach radio
playing some Mozart piece
the night before
while she and I
tried to explore.
A BOY AND ******* A TOUR OF FRANCE IN 1970
Marshall Gass Jun 2014
It all looked clean, crisp, picturesque postcard promise
The river reflecting skyblue shimmers
Mists rising wisps of secrets
Trees and plants glossy, full bellied, nutritious happy
The birds practising new song and twitching wings
of fancy in the bright 440 volt sunshine
Filtering through
the senses to settle softly.

All was really not that clean and crisp.
The photographer could not zoom in
On a dead kea choked on a 1080 trap
Dropping from the sky like a manna treat
Four fish gobbling pellets pulled upstream
Mouth agape as poison shut the fluttering gills
Two other magpies lost their raucous tone
Deprived by early morning bait
Possums slept softly high up in the tress
With last nights buds bursting in their full bellies

The photographer could not see beauty and ugliness
Together.
The lens could not question the crystalline view
The click was not from gun
digital film rolled irrespective
And his dream of a pristine forest
with no pustules told one side of the story.

The other side
Balanced the books
And tore the heart of the very creatures
That spoke beauty with being there.

The picture was captioned;
Clean and Green.
Was it?
A picture speaks a thousand words
Sprinkled with three hundred lies and lives.
Author Notes

This poem accompanied a lush photograph of forest with a little stream flowing through. In the same area where the photograph was taken, helicopters bombed the forest with 1080 poison pellets to knock off the possums which were eating through the fresh shoots and leaves.

The end result was more than the possums going to thy kingdom come.

There are serious environmental undertones in this poem.

http://www.nzherald.co.nz/nz/news/article.cfm?c_id=1&objectid;=11260667
© Marshall Gass. All rights reserved, 18 days ago
Towela Kams Feb 2015
For quite a while you've been questioning my understanding of how things have come to be.
You've been wondering why my so-called love is not prospering and you don't lie when you say you've tried everything. So you keep coming back like a new-born baby dying for love from daddy.

It appears to me
That your insecurities and flaws are all results of my wrongs but I'd never admit to being the one at fault if it had to cost me kneeling down on the floor and confessing that the minute I walked out on you, my whole life went on pause.

And even though I was crowded by many, I felt discomfort in the midsts of applause. My lust for popularity gain had strangled me up again the wall and I was left with no one to call.

See, after the last time you saw me I took matters into my hands and asked the devil for a dance because he seemed like the latest trend but the second he swept me off my feet and removed my blindness to see, I had my conscience open to a Towela severely broken.

It had been a while since we had spoken so I didn't know whether to reach out or stay speechless. Because the sight of the broken you took my breath away and hardly in the good way because I felt guilty. Tell me, how else was I going to be able to swallow my inequity rather than practising ignorance?

My soul is filthy and reeking of deeds I rushed into without thinking. I attempted wishful thinking. I pushed you out of the way and tried going on dates with darkness and she introduced me to wicked play. But Towela, don't hate the player, hate the game.

I'm sorry for not being able to be sorry. For depicting the direction of your life story and forcing you to cope with such deviation.

Last night, in a dream I saw you. And this time you looked amazing. Your once teary eyes had healed and there was no sign of what had once been. For the period of 11 years I lived with you, I had never seen you smile the way you did with the One who was with You. I'm not love but I can tell what He has for you is real. I reached out my hand because I envied what He was doing to your heart - renewing it and teaching it how to love.

And so I wept. I wept because I would've wanted to be who He was to you and do the responsibility He gave me to You. As I speak to you, I'm in this state of regret-filled thoughts like "I could've, I should've, I would've."

We've switched lanes. You have fulfilment and satisfaction while I suffer from immense pain. You may think I'm insane but trust me when I say I know that for the first time, you're secure Towela, you're safe.

On that note, there's another confession I'd like to make. The so-called love I supplied with you all these years was fake. You were so caught up in my game that You never thought to seek God's face so by default, I always won. No one would blame you if you began to call me a con.

The One you're with is love and in him there is no wrong. So you can sit back and relax because in Him, there are no traces of insecurity or inequity - there is no sin. There is no heart that bleeds or soul that roams aimlessly hurting and seeking for love from anything worldly.

But wait, I just caught sight of Him embrace you. And half a smile was what I could offer at this view. He took up my responsibility, paid whatever debts I had been owing you, destroyed the one who tried destroying you and resurrected your life so it could be brand new.

And if I gained permission to see Him, I'd tell Him 'Thank You I've seen the way she's happy whenever she's with You and I know that without You, my daughter would have been gone before her time was due.'
I'm just one of those teens dealing with having a distant dad. Hahaha, I have what people like to call, "Daddy issues". He doesn't communicate his feelings much so I kinda wrote them for him. /.\ lol.

Sometimes, my poetry doesn't make sense. ._.'') I know. xD

Oh by the way, I kinda wanna venture into Spoken Word poetry. So can any of you guys give me tips or something? Kthanksbye. :)
"OH, when I was a little Ghost,
A merry time had we!
Each seated on his favourite post,
We chumped and chawed the buttered toast
They gave us for our tea."

"That story is in print!" I cried.
"Don't say it's not, because
It's known as well as Bradshaw's Guide!"
(The Ghost uneasily replied
He hardly thought it was).

"It's not in Nursery Rhymes? And yet
I almost think it is -
'Three little Ghosteses' were set
'On posteses,' you know, and ate
Their 'buttered toasteses.'

"I have the book; so if you doubt it - "
I turned to search the shelf.
"Don't stir!" he cried. "We'll do without it:
I now remember all about it;
I wrote the thing myself.

"It came out in a 'Monthly,' or
At least my agent said it did:
Some literary swell, who saw
It, thought it seemed adapted for
The Magazine he edited.

"My father was a Brownie, Sir;
My mother was a Fairy.
The notion had occurred to her,
The children would be happier,
If they were taught to vary.

"The notion soon became a craze;
And, when it once began, she
Brought us all out in different ways -
One was a Pixy, two were Fays,
Another was a Banshee;

"The Fetch and Kelpie went to school
And gave a lot of trouble;
Next came a Poltergeist and Ghoul,
And then two Trolls (which broke the rule),
A Goblin, and a Double -

"(If that's a *****-box on the shelf,"
He added with a yawn,
"I'll take a pinch) - next came an Elf,
And then a Phantom (that's myself),
And last, a Leprechaun.

"One day, some Spectres chanced to call,
Dressed in the usual white:
I stood and watched them in the hall,
And couldn't make them out at all,
They seemed so strange a sight.

"I wondered what on earth they were,
That looked all head and sack;
But Mother told me not to stare,
And then she twitched me by the hair,
And punched me in the back.

"Since then I've often wished that I
Had been a Spectre born.
But what's the use?" (He heaved a sigh.)
"THEY are the ghost-nobility,
And look on US with scorn.

"My phantom-life was soon begun:
When I was barely six,
I went out with an older one -
And just at first I thought it fun,
And learned a lot of tricks.

"I've haunted dungeons, castles, towers -
Wherever I was sent:
I've often sat and howled for hours,
Drenched to the skin with driving showers,
Upon a battlement.

"It's quite old-fashioned now to groan
When you begin to speak:
This is the newest thing in tone - "
And here (it chilled me to the bone)
He gave an AWFUL squeak.

"Perhaps," he added, "to YOUR ear
That sounds an easy thing?
Try it yourself, my little dear!
It took ME something like a year,
With constant practising.

"And when you've learned to squeak, my man,
And caught the double sob,
You're pretty much where you began:
Just try and gibber if you can!
That's something LIKE a job!

"I'VE tried it, and can only say
I'm sure you couldn't do it, e-
ven if you practised night and day,
Unless you have a turn that way,
And natural ingenuity.

"Shakspeare I think it is who treats
Of Ghosts, in days of old,
Who 'gibbered in the Roman streets,'
Dressed, if you recollect, in sheets -
They must have found it cold.

"I've often spent ten pounds on stuff,
In dressing as a Double;
But, though it answers as a puff,
It never has effect enough
To make it worth the trouble.

"Long bills soon quenched the little thirst
I had for being funny.
The setting-up is always worst:
Such heaps of things you want at first,
One must be made of money!

"For instance, take a Haunted Tower,
With skull, cross-bones, and sheet;
Blue lights to burn (say) two an hour,
Condensing lens of extra power,
And set of chains complete:

"What with the things you have to hire -
The fitting on the robe -
And testing all the coloured fire -
The outfit of itself would tire
The patience of a Job!

"And then they're so fastidious,
The Haunted-House Committee:
I've often known them make a fuss
Because a Ghost was French, or Russ,
Or even from the City!

"Some dialects are objected to -
For one, the IRISH brogue is:
And then, for all you have to do,
One pound a week they offer you,
And find yourself in Bogies!
jeremy wyatt Jan 2011
He was parked up a hundred yards from her house
imagining Louisa
not too picky, judging from the run-down old houses
several were boarded up.
He was becoming quite absorbed with one of those.
A bad place. Soon to be notorious, a good house for a woman to be afraid in......
He had dug through all the Metal tapes in the vw.
Found Pride and Glory. Played Harvester of Pain over.
Till he was ready.
I'll show her hearts and love, god he was mad.
Hope Daisy gets to watch, wow that excited him.
The light came on early.
He waited until dusk, then walked around the back of her house.
Then in.
****.
****, she had a cat.
Old as well, would it starve?
Then he saw her in the chair.
Jesus! Older than the cat.
And smiling at him.
He drove away an hour later.
Felt like hell inside. Forgetful old ***** thought he was her home help.
So he made her a coffee, fed the cat.
Sanctimonious cow gave him money.
Her husbands photograph was on the wall faded brown like she was.
Died in the war, drowned practising for D-Day.
So he spared her, for that and for the sake of the cat.
He stole an old bottle of whisky on his way out.
No sobriety test on the road to hell.
Six hours later he kicked a teenage ******* to death.
Dressed like that, you can't have a mother or a mirror.
Left the old ladies money on her corpse,this one's for Her.
Àŧùl Dec 2016
Come, my love, let's sleep.
Not just for few hours,
Not for many hours,
Not even for some weeks,
And not even for merest months.
Let's sleep altogether for years,
Let's sleep for many centuries.

Come, my love, let's hibernate.
Not forgetting immortality,
Not practising immorality,
Not overlooking modesty,
And just sleep together holding tight.
Like we do when cold descends,
Let's go to our sleep mode.

Come, my love, let's snooze.
Not just for few more seconds,
Not just for some more minutes,
Not just for bit more hours,
And kindle the dream in the long night.
Like we did when curse worked,
Let's go to our carefree world.
HP Poem #1332
©Atul Kaushal
Nigel Morgan Jan 2013
I’m thinking about you today. Hard not to, the specialness of it all. Today you’re putting up of an exhibition. Some artists call it a show, but you’re quite consistent in not calling it that. I admire that of you, being consistent.
 
I was thinking today about your kindness. You phoned me as soon as the children had gone to school, making time to call before you left. I know you were drinking your start-of-the-day coffee, but it was a kind thought all the same, phoning me. You knew I was upset. Upset with myself, as I often am. It’s this being alone. Not so much as a cat to keep me company. Just my work, the reading I do, my thoughts of you, those letters I write, and my attempts at poetry.
 
During the last few days I’ve tried to write directly of what I’ve observed, not felt, observed. Like those wonderful Chinese poets of old describing in just a few characters the wonder of the seen rather than the speculation of the felt, avoiding all emotion and fantasy. I try to write in a way that holds to the ambiguity and spread of meanings the poems those ancient Chinese composed.
 
It’s winter-time. Yesterday we were expecting the first snowfall of winter, and it arrived late in the night making the morning darkness mysteriously different, changing the indistinctness of distant trees to become a web of silver lines, in the no-wind snow resting on branches, clinging to boughs and trunks.  I stood in the pre-dawn park in wonder at it all, holding each moment to myself, in the cold breath-stopping air. I thought of one of the Chinese snow poems I know and some of those different ways it has been translated. Here are three:
 
A thousand mountains without a bird
Ten thousand miles with no trace of man.
A boat. An old man in a straw raincoat.
Alone in the snow, fishing in the freezing river.
 
A thousand peaks: no more birds in flight.
Ten thousand paths: all trace of people gone.
In a lone boat, rain cloak and a hat of reeds
An old man’s fishing the cold river snow.
 
Sur mille montagnes, aucun vol d’oiseau
Sure dix mille sentiers, nulle trace d’homme
Barque solitaire: sous son manteaux de paille
Un vielliard pêche, du figé, la neige.

 
So beautiful, arresting, different. It holds the title River Snow and the poet is the Tang Dynasty philosopher and essayist Lui Zongyuan.  My snow poem First Fall, written last night as the snow fell on the wet street outside, as you were falling through my thoughts, softly, but not onto a wet street, but a distant garden we know and love, but have yet to see in winter’s whiteness.
 
And now today you’re driving to a distant location to hang your work of paper, silk and linen, full of expectation, every contingency and plan in place to enable the work to make its mark in a location you know, where people may recognize your name and will come to say warm words of encouragement, maybe a little praise. And at the end of the week when the exhibition opens I’ll be there, trying to be invisible, taking photographs if I can of you and your admirers and supporters, and thinking (myself) how wonderful you are, your lovely smile lighting up the gallery, being welcoming, beautiful always.
 
Only today you’re further away from me than ever. Around coffee time I miss your quiet explorative ‘it’s me , like a mouse on the telephone. The inflections of those words questioning the appropriateness of the call, meaning ‘Are you busy? Am I interrupting?’ It may take me a little while to ‘come to’, but interruption? Never, just the sheer joy that it’s you colouring the moment.
 
I think of the landscape you’ll be driving through. I’m imagining the snow-sky clearing and becoming a faint blue with the sun’s brightness clarifying those wold lands, those gentle folds of fields between parallelograms of woodland standing stark under the large skies and promulgating the long views gradually, gradually stretching towards the sea coast.
 
I like to imagine you are singing your way through the choruses of Bach’s B Minor Mass, but in reality it’s probably the Be Good Tanyas or Billy Joel playing on the CD player. Such a relief probably after those silent journeys with me. I usually relent on the homeward leg, but I crave silence when I’m a passenger, and I’m now always a passenger, so I crave silence for my thoughts, such as they are.
 
While you are being the emerging artist – but probably on your way homeward - I have taken myself down to my city’s gallery and to an exhibition I’ve already seen. I have a task I’ve been promising myself to undertake: copying an exhibit. I arrive an hour before the gallery closes. I leave my bicycle behind the foyer desk. There are more staff about than visitors. It’s gloriously empty, but the young twenty-somethings invigilating the spaces group themselves strategically near adjoining rooms so they can talk (loudly) to each other. It’s Facebook chat, barely Twitter nonsense. I have to block it all out to focus on the four pages and a P.S of a sculptor’s letter to a critical friend. The sculptor is writing from springtime Cornwall on 6 March 1951. The critical friend will open the letter the next day (when there were 3 deliveries a day) and the Royal Mail invariably arrived on time. He’ll pick it up from his doormat before breakfast in grimy Leeds, though the leafy part near Roundhay Park. The sculptor begins by saying:
 
It is so difficult to find words to convey ideas!
 
In this so efficient Cambria typeface that introductory sentence loses so much of the muscle and flow of the human hand. Written boldly in black ink, and so full of purpose, I read it a month ago, a photocopy in a display case, and knew I had to capture it. And it’s here entire in my note book, on my desk, carefully copied, to share with you my darling, my kind friend, the young woman I hold dear, admire so much, become faint with longing for when, as she crosses that gallery where she has been hanging her work (in my imagination), I am caught as so often by her graceful steps and turn.
 
I don’t feel any difference of intent in or of mood when I paint (or carve) realistically, or when I make abstract carvings. It all feels the same – the same happiness and pain, the same joy in a line, a form, a colour – the same feeling at the end, The two ways of working flow into each other without effort  . . .
 
Outside my warm studio the snow has retreated east and I’ve opened the window to hear the Cathedral bells practising away, the city on a Tuesday night free of revellers, the clubs closed, the pubs quiet. In this building everyone has gone home except this obsessive musician who stays late to write to the woman he adores, who thinks a day is not a day lived without a letter to her at least, a poem if possible.
 
I’d quietly hoped to be with you tonight, but you must have something arranged as I suggested twice I might come, and you said it wasn’t necessary. But I have this letter, and something to write about. Alas, no poem. My muse is having the evening off and I am gently reconciled to the possibility of a few words on the telephone before bed.
USA
I was not
born in the USA, if I were
I'd be tired of the excuses having to be made
from the wars to the dead Kennedy brothers.

And the Martin Luther Kings.
Anyone who brings glimpses of a World for the better.
Those with the current currency that they clutch tightly.
They will never allow things to become worthwhile for all.

How much
of the population
needs to be soul-serious
to speed up the change
away from the love of money
toward the love of humankind.

The system has lost control.
A vote means nothing
An Election means nothing

Everyone around the World
watches on and their juices get stirred.
The Rich talk about a New World Order.

Something has to change,
war will not change it,
hoarding money and power
will not change it.

The only thing that can change it
is you and me. What if they threw a war
and nobody came.

My views might lean toward a simpler
type of socialism, but one fully gutted.
No Rich with their self proclaimed power
to own places and things. To lay claim to the land that belongs to no one.
The Earth and The Sky is the right of all, not any ruling class not any warring class.

Radical you say, well it is the roots that are rotting.

They want us to be divided, unthinking about anything
other than a ******* car or truck or a house we only think we own
Until the time they want to take it from us. Leaving us nothing,
leaving more and more to beg and to curse the cold: Blaming those who have.

Can you see their arrogance thinly veiled with a shallow smile?
Can you see the destruction of this small planet we all share only
when it comes to taking up a bit of space and a little oxygen.
A revolution is at hand but not one of the sword and shield


If anyone is in need of an intervention it's all of us, every last one of us.
Our disregard for life... all life. Change, 'change has come' is flaunted to many
of the mass but many around the world are waking up. They no longer believe. We must keep this Universal tool of Information so most of us can galvanize with the like minded.

Not to play at a thing called Twitter were in my world Twitter is a place
just south of LA where everyone is practising joke writing for the movies
and TV. And most are failing. Real change is brought about by Leaders knowing that real change begins from within. The stronger we become
the more compassionate we look on our world. The more we want change for all.
Trump scares me. His doesn't understand anything other than getting his own way at anyone's expense. He is treating the Presidency as a joke. World Leaders need a level head. Trumps attitude invites hatred of America.
martha Apr 2016
my shy, hesitant frame was first taken to obligatory ballet lessons when it was only 5 years old
the pale pink clinging leotards and scuffed leather slippers decorated with neat string bows would always outweigh the strain of my mothers scraping nails against my scalp in order to achieve the perfect ballerina bun seconds before each and every lesson in the vastly daunting and vacant room
where our innocent and wide-eyed little selves were our sole company in the face of the towering glass pane staring straight back at us
the sheen of the never-ending polished pole stretched right across the middle
and we strained to try and make ourselves grow taller than each other
to look like real dancers practising their pliés for hours upon hours
and I made my small body bear the unbearable
the strung out aching the myriad of assorted stretches lit in my weak limbs as I tried to train my fingers to kiss my tippy toes
like a desperate attempt at mimicking the distance between fingertips in The Creation of Adam
always almost within reach
but never meeting
soon enough the pink and the pretty and the pleasing image this form of dance appeared to me to be was no longer enough
and the sparkles and sequins and garish glitter costumes began to fade along with reflecting rainbow coloured stage lights and 4 years worth of overpriced Academy Lessons and Exams

I guess I gave up on touching my toes
may be adding more on to this at some point !
George Krokos Feb 2014
Oh Swami Muktananda Paramahansa that bliss of liberation you attained
by Guru Nityananda's grace emancipation in this very life you had gained.
You were a representative of the lineage of poet-saints that had gone before
showing how easy it was, by chanting the name of God, to meditate for sure.

You stressed the importance of repeating the mantra 'Om Namah Shivaya'
and that if done with love would bear fruit regardless of who was the sayer.
There was so much energy about you that one could feel, like an ever present force,
the supreme blessing of Guru Nityananda was with you always being its very source.

You were a living embodiment of chitishakti or divine power-knowledge-bliss
and most of all those who came before you could also easily experience this.
It appeared at times you were unapproachable if one was by your presence overawed
and that you were on the constant lookout for any sincere aspirant who was not bored.

You also emphasized and revealed the true nature of the guru-disciple relationship
stating in plain modern words what was expected of one like in an apprenticeship.
Many secrets of the inner path you divulged and laid bare in all your writings and talks
saying the receiving of Guru's grace was what made a difference on the path one walks.

A book called 'The Play of Consciousness' explained some of the inner experiences you had
your spiritual autobiography for the world at large making many inspired and extremely glad.
To many it meant that someone was still around living these days who had been through it all
and was available to instruct and guide others on the path to the goal he'd been to well before.

You were a living True Saint, Sadguru or Perfect Master to many it seemed
and showed the way or path of the Siddhas being the one which you deemed.
Living at a place called Ganeshpuri in India nearly fifty miles from Bombay
many came from all parts of the world to see you and in your ashram stay.

In the abode you named 'Shree Gurudev Ashram' in that land of yoga where people came
many found what they were after becoming your devotees to whom you gave a new name.
There was a strict daily discipline of chanting certain scriptures, work, study and meditation
and also the occassional all night chanting of the name of God which was a holy dedication.

The atmosphere in that place was so pervaded by the energy radiating from your being
almost as if one were living in another world and could not help what they were seeing.
The whole place resembled that of a temple palace attracting people from far and wide
who came to experience what with your grace you said was to be found but only inside.

You opened up a whole new ancient path of spiritual experience leading gradually to the goal
that people from all walks of life could participate in and regain the lost treasures of their soul.
By one-pointed devotion, self-effort, obedience, meditation and the blessings of Guru's grace
anyone could practice Yoga easily without much struggle and attain that inner peaceful place.

There were many new centres that opened by enthusiastic devotees in far away lands;
with the money, sweat and labour of all those who selflessly gave by their willing hands.
And it didn't really matter at what distance or place this centre was situated from you,
although not physically present your spirit, being all pervasive, was subtly there for you.

You also visited many of the countries where your devotees lived both in the east and west
giving darshan to all those old and new followers of the Siddha path you said was the best.
Initiating many people by either a look, word, thought, touch or even by your physical presence;
and all who received of your grace getting a real buzz, were invited to tell others of its essence.

It was mostly at a certain two day program, held every one or two months, called an "Intensive"
anyone could partake of the Siddha Yoga Initiation offered, at a price, which wasn't expensive.
This was also designed to enhance and recharge those who were already practising meditation
involving chanting, meditation and talk sessions including a lunchtime meal and brief relaxation.

One had to participate fully, from about nine to five, over the two days, usually on a weekend
to get the full benefit of what the program had to offer and experience Guru's grace descend.
This was really the main date on the calendar for all those into meditation that were not to miss
if they had nothing better to do and wanted to get a lift in their 'sadhana' and acquire some bliss.

It remotely seemed to be a bit of a fund raising venture with all the money seen changing hands
but to those who couldn't afford it, must of been painful missing out, one somehow understands.
There was also the question, which crossed one's mind, as to what was being bought and sold?
- a meditative experience the result of Nityanandaji's grace through Swami Muktananda's hold!

Although no one was ever heard to complain about not getting their share of what was being given
and with the attitude of 'the more you put into something the more you'll get back' one was driven.
It also depended a lot on how much in tune you were and what prior preparation had been made;
how sincere you were in your effort also what devotion and faith at the feet of the Guru one laid.

There were no restrictions, it appeared, to either old or young, male or female to begin meditation,
all could profit and benefit in one way or another in the process and practice of Self contemplation.
One had to have an open mind and heart to receive and partake surely of the Grace that was there;
that power of the True Living Master, which was so all pervading, being available for any to share.

Sadgurunath Maharaj Ki Jai
_________________
This is a tribute poem to Swami Muktananda Paramahansa who I went to see and stay in his ashram back in 1978. From my unpublished book "The Seeds Of Life" compiled in 1996.
TW Apr 2016
Emotion can overtake and devotion can motivate,
We all want to know our fate until approaching the Holy gates,
Watching affection fade can lead to pretty lonely days
Not knowing our seconds are being thrown away, and so we wait.

Sensation can blind us, but phrases can guide us,
The cadence may fade but the sayings are timeless,
Some 'bravest' are spineless, some 'brainless' are brightest,
The making's expensive but the painting is priceless,

Passion enhances through passionate glances,
Life is controlling, we're just practising aren't we?
This is my take on how our emotions can cloud our judgement, stopping us from seeing things like what we really want and who people really are. Enjoy!
K Balachandran Feb 2019
The night's deep darkness  wore a cloak of evil,
The time, just ripe for the poison to spread even,
The ghosts went on preening wings with pleasure,
All those bit the dust,  hit by bullets anr on the streets,
Dancing to the crazy movements  of their phantom limbs!
An out the world music filled the air, evoking trance

"The water level rises far above the danger mark"
The evening news rings alarm bells, but already
We are in deep waters and at a point of no return!
"The hurricane hit the coast very badly, beware
All the escape routes are blocked by vehecles"
"Yes, yes, things are all in pretty bad shape, let's admit it"

But the girl is still practising her lines, leasurely
For the blast she has hardly an hour away, if it happens!
The dogs bark aloud alarmingly in the back streets,
Someone, it seems has broken in to the house
Through the weak door,  from behind.
"What do you suggest us to do?"
In panic someone in the phone yells.

There is stunned silence for a long while when
We could hear the darkness heavily breath and pant.
Then evil laughs like hell from that fierce night.
The stars once bright blink and go blind one by one!
The cadaverous moon bleeds blue blood, copiously.

I can't wait anymore to see you sweet heart,
As the night gets more and more turgid,
Could you make it..?.
mannley collins Jul 2014
that needs or wants  to join and experience the "discipline"?.
Either taking or  giving--we are two way.
All formed from the Isness of the Universe.
male or female,preferably under the age of death of body?
Youthful in appearance.
No fatties or druggies.
Well mannered and trustworthy.
Frustrated for ******.
Reach it through Tantra.
Players of instruments.
(but NOT others styles and energies)
can you travel?
India or Amsterdam or Deia or Kathmandu?.
No wage slaves.
No poets.
No inhibitions.
No taboos.
No deranged or psychotics.
Preferably practising Raja students.
No cost.
Except total dissolution of Mind and Conditioned Identity.
MaYJa Sep 2014
this battle was won before the benining
or lemme say before Genesis,
yeah; I prolly sound crazy
to be saying this.
But See, before Jesus came
God already saw beyond Revelation,
everything was pre-destined to be perfect
even after mans own manipulation.

So all this you see today
and discribe as a radical revolution
was foreseen before time by God as a Chosen genaration,
way back before Adam called himself man
God already saw the possibility of his fall,
dont take me wrong though,
God never intended for man to fall.
He created Him with free will,
gave him the ability to choose between cold or hot,
so we cant blame God for our stone cold hearts,
or for times we literally decide to obey him not;
we were designed to be victors,
not victims that will never live in HIS glory,
we were created to be saints,
even though we pay alot of attention to sin when it comes to our personal life story.

Wait, wait, wait,

dont you find it ironic, that in genesis 1:28,
right after creating man God doesnt tell them to worship him?
Instead be fruitfull, multiply and subdue; conquer
to mention a few; Is what he tells them; cant you see we were meant to be like him.
thats why even Christ on earth as man
Would still exercise all the power and authority man was given,
He didnt need a glorious face like Moses to be noticed,
Or a fancy crown of a king for our sins to be forgiven,
all HE needed was preaching and practising the Fathers life
in each and every step he took; thats why He conquered
The same world He created He died for, and His love for us
kept him on that cross nailed and brutally totured.
Same way the walls of Jericho came down when Joshua and the troops shouted
So did Christ reclaim the world back to us when He shouted 'it is Finished',
the story doesnt end there though, like in the times of Noah He had to go and
prepare more than an ark for us; from the sound of that am relieved.

See, this is the reason I smile everyday
When I look at the picture of the king Jesus,
Seated on the right hand of the Father
for I understand why he was broken to pieces,
I refuse to live a life any less than what I was created to be
due to personal ignorance
Instead I make sure I maximize each and everyday
Leaving no room for negative activities tolarance,
I watch my talking, walking and what I put into my mind to a point were
Psychology certifies am suffering from an uncommon madness,
Thats funny though, I dont understand the reason
They judge me based on there on weakness,
Fear! One of the feelings I never experience
I look striaght into the eye of a storm and say,
'do your worst; I dare you,
I will never raise my fist up
because my God is there too!'
I am more than David with a sling shot,
even more than Solomon, David, Joshua and Goliath combined dude,
I have Christ in me, yes the resurected Messiah dwells within my soul,
So I fought this battle too, and it was over before it even started,
**I just had to remind you!
Deep from the heart to my readers. This is me
Once while sleeping I saw a dream,
In a beautiful ground was playing,
That was lying near a lovely stream,
A pretty smile was the sun displaying,
Grass was tickling when we'd run,
And dew disappeared as shone the sun.

In the game, so fast I ran,
And found myself far away,
Saw back but no friend I sought,
But my eyes met an old mourning man,
May be, he forgot his own way,
I reached him curiously in this thought.

When he turned his lovely face,
I recognized, Ah! Our National Father,
Whose tender heart was full of grace,
'Why thy eyes wet? O my father!
Practising on thy doctrines, now India is free,
But, ye weeping, O ye must be gee.'

Wiping his tears he broke his ice,
'Why to be happy and on that to be gay? '
He spoke in his woeful voice,
They again and again me slay,
My home affected by violent flood,
And my yard is full of human blood.'

'I'm unable to imagine, O what we say?
How thou be slain again and again,
While from thy home thou far away,
And on thy attire, how is this stain?
I've seen thee cheerful in my books,
But, why sorrowful thy face looks?

'Open thy mind and understand me, O child!
Where peace resides the place I attain,
And thou know well that I've been mild,
Thy white clothing leaders made on me stain,
Ah! Gujrat, My Gujrat is full of human blood,
Wild Modi has brought a violent flood.'

In his tearful eyes I saw horrible sights,
Men be killed, burnt, cleft and badly drawn,
Surrounding one be ripped if one who fights,
Tearing womb, infants are wildly drawn,
Infants're cleft before their mothers' eyes,
With a painful cry I closed my eyes.
copyright @ muzzammilshah

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