The last judgement shall not hold mercy on the servants, but it shall not wrong them in their deeds either, it is the final decision to make,
The end of a long journey which births the desire to see you again,
Your reflection cast on a mirror in a sea of pure lunacy shall clear it all
It will open your heart and reveal all of your sinning impurities cast away by words of falsities, triggered by a simple yet small lie,
Heartfelt dream scapes shape the mirror; In a world so dark that the stars will blind ones sensitive, mortal eyes within seconds to come,
Experience of past events suspend memories from the future's dawn.
I will not show you any sad dreams, I'd like to heal your wounds if you have striven for righteousness and purity such as patience,
If you however have striven for corruption then you should know,
There's unending punishment and darkness awaiting your arrival,
Here we do have unlimitted time after all, unlimited cruelty and fear,
Love comes in misery, ends unexpectedly yet you won't see, will you?
Time ticks on, goes by and follows it's clear path in this devil's world which I am lurking over, ruling, which you have intruded tonight,
Take my hand oh all you pure souls, the love of light is for all to bear!

~ Umi

Kiss the child goodnight, tuck her in safe
Lest she should dream of escape
To a world where rainbows circle the skies
And you are not who you have striven to be.

Kiss the child goodnight, make sure you turn off the light
Lest she should be unafraid and bold
In the face of the infectious fear
That flits through your eyes in a dark, alien alleyway.

Kiss the child goodnight, hold her close and tight
Lest she reaches out to the same sun
That burned your naive fingertips
And shattered your lofty castle in the clouds.

Kiss the child goodnight, don't let her open those eyes
Until she is finally lulled to deep slumber
Wrapped within warm blankets
And the beginnings of complacency.

Kiss the child goodnight, watch her sleep in silence.

Arise my body, my small body, we have striven
Enough, and He is merciful; we are forgiven.
Arise small body, puppet-like and pale, and go,
White as the bed-clothes into bed, and cold as snow,
Undress with small, cold fingers and put out the light,
And be alone, hush'd mortal, in the sacred night,
-A meadow whipt flat with the rain, a cup
Emptied and clean, a garment washed and folded up,
Faded in colour, thinned almost to raggedness
By dirt and by the washing of that dirtiness.
Be not too quickly warm again. Lie cold; consent
To weariness' and pardon's watery element.
Drink up the bitter water, breathe the chilly death;
Soon enough comes the riot of our blood and breath.

Some are laughing, some are weeping;
She is sleeping, only sleeping.
Round her rest wild flowers are creeping;
There the wind is heaping, heaping
Sweetest sweets of Summer's keeping,
By the cornfields ripe for reaping.

There are lilies, and there blushes
The deep rose, and there the thrushes
Sing till latest sunlight flushes
In the west; a fresh wind brushes
Through the leaves while evening hushes.

There by day the lark is singing
And the grass and weeds are springing:
There by night the bat is winging;
There forever winds are bringing
Far-off chimes of church-bells ringing.

Night and morning, noon and even,
Their sound fills her dreams with Heaven:
The long strife at length is striven:
Till her grave-bands shall be riven
Such is the good portion given
To her soul at rest and shriven.

Minerva now put it in Penelope’s mind to make the suitors try
their skill with the bow and with the iron axes, in contest among
themselves, as a means of bringing about their destruction. She went
upstairs and got the store room key, which was made of bronze and
had a handle of ivory; she then went with her maidens into the store
room at the end of the house, where her husband’s treasures of gold,
bronze, and wrought iron were kept, and where was also his bow, and
the quiver full of deadly arrows that had been given him by a friend
whom he had met in Lacedaemon—Iphitus the son of Eurytus. The two
fell in with one another in Messene at the house of Ortilochus,
where Ulysses was staying in order to recover a debt that was owing
from the whole people; for the Messenians had carried off three
hundred sheep from Ithaca, and had sailed away with them and with
their shepherds. In quest of these Ulysses took a long journey while
still quite young, for his father and the other chieftains sent him on
a mission to recover them. Iphitus had gone there also to try and
get back twelve brood mares that he had lost, and the mule foals
that were running with them. These mares were the death of him in
the end, for when he went to the house of Jove’s son, mighty Hercules,
who performed such prodigies of valour, Hercules to his shame killed
him, though he was his guest, for he feared not heaven’s vengeance,
nor yet respected his own table which he had set before Iphitus, but
killed him in spite of everything, and kept the mares himself. It
was when claiming these that Iphitus met Ulysses, and gave him the bow
which mighty Eurytus had been used to carry, and which on his death
had been left by him to his son. Ulysses gave him in return a sword
and a spear, and this was the beginning of a fast friendship, although
they never visited at one another’s houses, for Jove’s son Hercules
killed Iphitus ere they could do so. This bow, then, given him by
Iphitus, had not been taken with him by Ulysses when he sailed for
Troy; he had used it so long as he had been at home, but had left it
behind as having been a keepsake from a valued friend.
  Penelope presently reached the oak threshold of the store room;
the carpenter had planed this duly, and had drawn a line on it so as
to get it quite straight; he had then set the door posts into it and
hung the doors. She loosed the strap from the handle of the door,
put in the key, and drove it straight home to shoot back the bolts
that held the doors; these flew open with a noise like a bull
bellowing in a meadow, and Penelope stepped upon the raised
platform, where the chests stood in which the fair linen and clothes
were laid by along with fragrant herbs: reaching thence, she took down
the bow with its bow case from the peg on which it hung. She sat
down with it on her knees, weeping bitterly as she took the bow out of
its case, and when her tears had relieved her, she went to the
cloister where the suitors were, carrying the bow and the quiver, with
the many deadly arrows that were inside it. Along with her came her
maidens, bearing a chest that contained much iron and bronze which her
husband had won as prizes. When she reached the suitors, she stood
by one of the bearing-posts supporting the roof of the cloister,
holding a veil before her face, and with a maid on either side of her.
Then she said:
  “Listen to me you suitors, who persist in abusing the hospitality of
this house because its owner has been long absent, and without other
pretext than that you want to marry me; this, then, being the prize
that you are contending for, I will bring out the mighty bow of
Ulysses, and whomsoever of you shall string it most easily and send
his arrow through each one of twelve axes, him will I follow and
quit this house of my lawful husband, so goodly, and so abounding in
wealth. But even so I doubt not that I shall remember it in my
dreams.”
  As she spoke, she told Eumaeus to set the bow and the pieces of iron
before the suitors, and Eumaeus wept as he took them to do as she
had bidden him. Hard by, the stockman wept also when he saw his
master’s bow, but Antinous scolded them. “You country louts,” said he,
“silly simpletons; why should you add to the sorrows of your
mistress by crying in this way? She has enough to grieve her in the
loss of her husband; sit still, therefore, and eat your dinners in
silence, or go outside if you want to cry, and leave the bow behind
you. We suitors shall have to contend for it with might and main,
for we shall find it no light matter to string such a bow as this
is. There is not a man of us all who is such another as Ulysses; for I
have seen him and remember him, though I was then only a child.”
  This was what he said, but all the time he was expecting to be
able to string the bow and shoot through the iron, whereas in fact
he was to be the first that should taste of the arrows from the
hands of Ulysses, whom he was dishonouring in his own house—egging
the others on to do so also.
  Then Telemachus spoke. “Great heavens!” he exclaimed, “Jove must
have robbed me of my senses. Here is my dear and excellent mother
saying she will quit this house and marry again, yet I am laughing and
enjoying myself as though there were nothing happening. But,
suitors, as the contest has been agreed upon, let it go forward. It is
for a woman whose peer is not to be found in Pylos, Argos, or
Mycene, nor yet in Ithaca nor on the mainland. You know this as well
as I do; what need have I to speak in praise of my mother? Come on,
then, make no excuses for delay, but let us see whether you can string
the bow or no. I too will make trial of it, for if I can string it and
shoot through the iron, I shall not suffer my mother to quit this
house with a stranger, not if I can win the prizes which my father won
before me.”
  As he spoke he sprang from his seat, threw his crimson cloak from
him, and took his sword from his shoulder. First he set the axes in
a row, in a long groove which he had dug for them, and had Wade
straight by line. Then he stamped the earth tight round them, and
everyone was surprised when they saw him set up so orderly, though
he had never seen anything of the kind before. This done, he went on
to the pavement to make trial of the bow; thrice did he tug at it,
trying with all his might to draw the string, and thrice he had to
leave off, though he had hoped to string the bow and shoot through the
iron. He was trying for the fourth time, and would have strung it
had not Ulysses made a sign to check him in spite of all his
eagerness. So he said:
  “Alas! I shall either be always feeble and of no prowess, or I am
too young, and have not yet reached my full strength so as to be
able to hold my own if any one attacks me. You others, therefore,
who are stronger than I, make trial of the bow and get this contest
settled.”
  On this he put the bow down, letting it lean against the door
[that led into the house] with the arrow standing against the top of
the bow. Then he sat down on the seat from which he had risen, and
Antinous said:
  “Come on each of you in his turn, going towards the right from the
place at which the. cupbearer begins when he is handing round the
wine.”
  The rest agreed, and Leiodes son of OEnops was the first to rise. He
was sacrificial priest to the suitors, and sat in the corner near
the mixing-bowl. He was the only man who hated their evil deeds and
was indignant with the others. He was now the first to take the bow
and arrow, so he went on to the pavement to make his trial, but he
could not string the bow, for his hands were weak and unused to hard
work, they therefore soon grew tired, and he said to the suitors,
“My friends, I cannot string it; let another have it; this bow shall
take the life and soul out of many a chief among us, for it is
better to die than to live after having missed the prize that we
have so long striven for, and which has brought us so long together.
Some one of us is even now hoping and praying that he may marry
Penelope, but when he has seen this bow and tried it, let him woo
and make bridal offerings to some other woman, and let Penelope
marry whoever makes her the best offer and whose lot it is to win
her.”
  On this he put the bow down, letting it lean against the door,
with the arrow standing against the tip of the bow. Then he took his
seat again on the seat from which he had risen; and Antinous rebuked
him saying:
  “Leiodes, what are you talking about? Your words are monstrous and
intolerable; it makes me angry to listen to you. Shall, then, this bow
take the life of many a chief among us, merely because you cannot bend
it yourself? True, you were not born to be an archer, but there are
others who will soon string it.”
  Then he said to Melanthius the goatherd, “Look sharp, light a fire
in the court, and set a seat hard by with a sheep skin on it; bring us
also a large ball of lard, from what they have in the house. Let us
warm the bow and grease it we will then make trial of it again, and
bring the contest to an end.”
  Melanthius lit the fire, and set a seat covered with sheep skins
beside it. He also brought a great ball of lard from what they had
in the house, and the suitors warmed the bow and again made trial of
it, but they were none of them nearly strong enough to string it.
Nevertheless there still remained Antinous and Eurymachus, who were
the ringleaders among the suitors and much the foremost among them
all.
  Then the swineherd and the stockman left the cloisters together, and
Ulysses followed them. When they had got outside the gates and the
outer yard, Ulysses said to them quietly:
  “Stockman, and you swineherd, I have something in my mind which I am
in doubt whether to say or no; but I think I will say it. What
manner of men would you be to stand by Ulysses, if some god should
bring him back here all of a sudden? Say which you are disposed to do-
to side with the suitors, or with Ulysses?”
  “Father Jove,” answered the stockman, “would indeed that you might
so ordain it. If some god were but to bring Ulysses back, you should
see with what might and main I would fight for him.”
  In like words Eumaeus prayed to all the gods that Ulysses might
return; when, therefore, he saw for certain what mind they were of,
Ulysses said, “It is I, Ulysses, who am here. I have suffered much,
but at last, in the twentieth year, I am come back to my own
country. I find that you two alone of all my servants are glad that
I should do so, for I have not heard any of the others praying for
my return. To you two, therefore, will I unfold the truth as it
shall be. If heaven shall deliver the suitors into my hands, I will
find wives for both of you, will give you house and holding close to
my own, and you shall be to me as though you were brothers and friends
of Telemachus. I will now give you convincing proofs that you may know
me and be assured. See, here is the scar from the boar’s tooth that
ripped me when I was out hunting on Mount Parnassus with the sons of
Autolycus.”
  As he spoke he drew his rags aside from the great scar, and when
they had examined it thoroughly, they both of them wept about Ulysses,
threw their arms round him and kissed his head and shoulders, while
Ulysses kissed their hands and faces in return. The sun would have
gone down upon their mourning if Ulysses had not checked them and
said:
  “Cease your weeping, lest some one should come outside and see us,
and tell those who a are within. When you go in, do so separately, not
both together; I will go first, and do you follow afterwards; Let this
moreover be the token between us; the suitors will all of them try
to prevent me from getting hold of the bow and quiver; do you,
therefore, Eumaeus, place it in my hands when you are carrying it
about, and tell the women to close the doors of their apartment. If
they hear any groaning or uproar as of men fighting about the house,
they must not come out; they must keep quiet, and stay where they
are at their work. And I charge you, Philoetius, to make fast the
doors of the outer court, and to bind them securely at once.”
  When he had thus spoken, he went back to the house and took the seat
that he had left. Presently, his two servants followed him inside.
  At this moment the bow was in the hands of Eurymachus, who was
warming it by the fire, but even so he could not string it, and he was
greatly grieved. He heaved a deep sigh and said, “I grieve for
myself and for us all; I grieve that I shall have to forgo the
marriage, but I do not care nearly so much about this, for there are
plenty of other women in Ithaca and elsewhere; what I feel most is the
fact of our being so inferior to Ulysses in strength that we cannot
string his bow. This will disgrace us in the eyes of those who are yet
unborn.”
  “It shall not be so, Eurymachus,” said Antinous, “and you know it
yourself. To-day is the feast of Apollo throughout all the land; who
can string a bow on such a day as this? Put it on one side—as for the
axes they can stay where they are, for no one is likely to come to the
house and take them away: let the cupbearer go round with his cups,
that we may make our drink-offerings and drop this matter of the
bow; we will tell Melanthius to bring us in some goats to-morrow-
the best he has; we can then offer thigh bones to Apollo the mighty
archer, and again make trial of the bow, so as to bring the contest to
an end.”
  The rest approved his words, and thereon men servants poured water
over the hands of the guests, while pages filled the mixing-bowls with
wine and water and handed it round after giving every man his
drink-offering. Then, when they had made their offerings and had drunk
each as much as he desired, Ulysses craftily said:
  “Suitors of the illustrious queen, listen that I may speak even as I
am minded. I appeal more especially to Eurymachus, and to Antinous who
has just spoken with so much reason. Cease shooting for the present
and leave the matter to the gods, but in the morning let heaven give
victory to whom it will. For the moment, however, give me the bow that
I may prove the power of my hands among you all, and see whether I
still have as much strength as I used to have, or whether travel and
neglect have made an end of it.”
  This made them all very angry, for they feared he might string the
bow; Antinous therefore rebuked him fiercely saying, “Wretched
creature, you have not so much as a grain of sense in your whole body;
you ought to think yourself lucky in being allowed to dine unharmed
among your betters, without having any smaller portion served you than
we others have had, and in being allowed to hear our conversation.
No other beggar or stranger has been allowed to hear what we say among
ourselves; the wine must have been doing you a mischief, as it does
with all those drink immoderately. It was wine that inflamed the
Centaur Eurytion when he was staying with Peirithous among the
Lapithae. When the wine had got into his head he went mad and did
ill deeds about the house of Peirithous; this angered the heroes who
were there assembled, so they rushed at him and cut off his ears and
nostrils; then they dragged him through the doorway out of the
house, so he went away crazed, and bore the burden of his crime,
bereft of understanding. Henceforth, therefore, there was war
between mankind and the centaurs, but he brought it upon himself
through his own drunkenness. In like manner I can tell you that it
will go hardly with you if you string the bow: you will find no
mercy from any one here, for we shall at once ship you off to king
Echetus, who kills every one that comes near him: you will never get
away alive, so drink and keep quiet without getting into a quarrel
with men younger than yourself.”
  Penelope then spoke to him. “Antinous,” said she, “it is not right
that you should ill-treat any guest of Telemachus who comes to this
house. If the stranger should prove strong enough to string the mighty
bow of Ulysses, can you suppose that he would take me home with him
and make me his wife? Even the man hi

There was a roaring in the wind all night;
The rain came heavily and fell in floods;
But now the sun is rising calm and bright;
The birds are singing in the distant woods;
Over his own sweet voice the Stock-dove broods;
The Jay makes answer as the Magpie chatters;
And all the air is filled with pleasant noise of waters.

All things that love the sun are out of doors;
The sky rejoices in the morning’s birth;
The grass is bright with rain-drops;—on the moors
The hare is running races in her mirth;
And with her feet she from the plashy earth
Raises a mist, that, glittering in the sun,
Runs with her all the way, wherever she doth run.

I was a Traveller then upon the moor,
I saw the hare that raced about with joy;
I heard the woods and distant waters roar;
Or heard them not, as happy as a boy:
The pleasant season did my heart employ:
My old remembrances went from me wholly;
And all the ways of men, so vain and melancholy.

But, as it sometimes chanceth, from the might
Of joy in minds that can no further go,
As high as we have mounted in delight
In our dejection do we sink as low;
To me that morning did it happen so;
And fears and fancies thick upon me came;
Dim sadness—and blind thoughts, I knew not, nor could name.

I heard the sky-lark warbling in the sky;
And I bethought me of the playful hare:
Even such a happy Child of earth am I;
Even as these blissful creatures do I fare;
Far from the world I walk, and from all care;
But there may come another day to me—
Solitude, pain of heart, distress, and poverty.

My whole life I have lived in pleasant thought,
As if life’s business were a summer mood;
As if all needful things would come unsought
To genial faith, still rich in genial good;
But how can He expect that others should
Build for him, sow for him, and at his call
Love him, who for himself will take no heed at all?

I thought of Chatterton, the marvellous Boy,
The sleepless Soul that perished in his pride;
Of Him who walked in glory and in joy
Following his plough, along the mountain-side:
By our own spirits are we deified:
We Poets in our youth begin in gladness;
But thereof come in the end despondency and madness.

Now, whether it were by peculiar grace,
A leading from above, a something given,
Yet it befell, that, in this lonely place,
When I with these untoward thoughts had striven,
Beside a pool bare to the eye of heaven
I saw a Man before me unawares:
The oldest man he seemed that ever wore grey hairs.

As a huge stone is sometimes seen to lie
Couched on the bald top of an eminence;
Wonder to all who do the same espy,
By what means it could thither come, and whence;
So that it seems a thing endued with sense:
Like a sea-beast crawled forth, that on a shelf
Of rock or sand reposeth, there to sun itself;

Such seemed this Man, not all alive nor dead,
Nor all asleep—in his extreme old age:
His body was bent double, feet and head
Coming together in life’s pilgrimage;
As if some dire constraint of pain, or rage
Of sickness felt by him in times long past,
A more than human weight upon his frame had cast.

Himself he propped, limbs, body, and pale face,
Upon a long grey staff of shaven wood:
And, still as I drew near with gentle pace,
Upon the margin of that moorish flood
Motionless as a cloud the old Man stood,
That heareth not the loud winds when they call
And moveth all together, if it move at all.

At length, himself unsettling, he the pond
Stirred with his staff, and fixedly did look
Upon the muddy water, which he conned,
As if he had been reading in a book:
And now a stranger’s privilege I took;
And, drawing to his side, to him did say,
“This morning gives us promise of a glorious day.”

A gentle answer did the old Man make,
In courteous speech which forth he slowly drew:
And him with further words I thus bespake,
“What occupation do you there pursue?
This is a lonesome place for one like you.”
Ere he replied, a flash of mild surprise
Broke from the sable orbs of his yet-vivid eyes,

His words came feebly, from a feeble chest,
But each in solemn order followed each,
With something of a lofty utterance drest—
Choice word and measured phrase, above the reach
Of ordinary men; a stately speech;
Such as grave Livers do in Scotland use,
Religious men, who give to God and man their dues.

He told, that to these waters he had come
To gather leeches, being old and poor:
Employment hazardous and wearisome!
And he had many hardships to endure:
From pond to pond he roamed, from moor to moor;
Housing, with God’s good help, by choice or chance,
And in this way he gained an honest maintenance.

The old Man still stood talking by my side;
But now his voice to me was like a stream
Scarce heard; nor word from word could I divide;
And the whole body of the Man did seem
Like one whom I had met with in a dream;
Or like a man from some far region sent,
To give me human strength, by apt admonishment.

My former thoughts returned: the fear that kills;
And hope that is unwilling to be fed;
Cold, pain, and labour, and all fleshly ills;
And mighty Poets in their misery dead.
—Perplexed, and longing to be comforted,
My question eagerly did I renew,
“How is it that you live, and what is it you do?”

He with a smile did then his words repeat;
And said, that, gathering leeches, far and wide
He travelled; stirring thus about his feet
The waters of the pools where they abide.
“Once I could meet with them on every side;
But they have dwindled long by slow decay;
Yet still I persevere, and find them where I may.”

While he was talking thus, the lonely place,
The old Man’s shape, and speech—all troubled me:
In my mind’s eye I seemed to see him pace
About the weary moors continually,
Wandering about alone and silently.
While I these thoughts within myself pursued,
He, having made a pause, the same discourse renewed.

And soon with this he other matter blended,
Cheerfully uttered, with demeanour kind,
But stately in the main; and when he ended,
I could have laughed myself to scorn to find
In that decrepit Man so firm a mind.
“God,” said I, “be my help and stay secure;
I’ll think of the Leech-gatherer on the lonely moor!”

Zero.
By which nothing is divided.
No zero
no negative
no opposite
no hope
no Adam, no apple, no marriage, no morning.
No mirror
no knowledge
no God, no soul, no ear lobe, no Iliad, no Odyssey.
No universe
no black hole
no zodiac
no hero
no mission, no omission, no fission, no fusion.
No beanstalk
no tractor
no yellow
no 7:30, no wind, no window, no owl, no one.

In 773, at Al-Mansur's behest, translations were made of the Siddhantas, Indian astronomical treatises dating as far back as 425 B.C.; these versions may have been the vehicles through which the "Arabic" numerals and the zero were brought from India into China and then to the Islamic countries. In 813 the Persian mathematician Khwarizmi used the Hindu numerals in his astronomical tables; about 825 he issued a treatise known in its Latin form as Algoritmi de numero Indorum, Khwarizmi on Numerals of the Indians. After him, in 976, Muhammed ibn Ahmad in his "Keys to the Sciences," remarked that if in a calculation no number appears in the place of tens, a little circle should be used "to keep the rows." This circle the Arabs called sifr. That was the earliest mention of the name sifr that eventually became zero. Italian zefiro already meant "west wind" from Latin and Greek zephyrus. This may have influenced the spelling when transcribing Arabic sifr. The Italian mathematician Fibonacci (c. 1170-1250), who grew up in North Africa and is credited with introducing the decimal system in Europe, used the term zephyrum. This became zefiro in Italian, which was contracted to zero in Venetian.  --Wikipedia

After my father's appointment by his homeland as a state official in the customs house of Bugia for the Pisan merchants who thronged to it, he took charge; and in view of its future usefulness and convenience, had me in my boyhood come to him and there wanted me to devote myself to and be instructed in the study of calculation for some days. There, following my introduction, as a consequence of marvelous instruction in the art, to the nine digits of the Hindus, the knowledge of the art very much appealed to me before all others, and for it I realized that all its aspects were studied in Egypt, Syria, Greece, Sicily, and Provence, with their varying methods; and at these places thereafter, while on business, I pursued my study in depth and learned the give-and-take of disputation. But all this even, and the algorism, as well as the art of Pythagoras, I considered as almost a mistake in respect to the method of the Hindus (Modus Indorum). Therefore, embracing more stringently that method of the Hindus, and taking stricter pains in its study, while adding certain things from my own understanding and inserting also certain things from the niceties of Euclid's geometric art, I have striven to compose this book in its entirety as understandably as I could, dividing it into fifteen chapters. Almost everything which I have introduced I have displayed with exact proof, in order that those further seeking this knowledge, with its pre-eminent method, might be instructed, and further, in order that the Latin people might not be discovered to be without it, as they have been up to now. If I have perchance omitted anything more or less proper or necessary, I beg indulgence, since there is no one who is blameless and utterly provident in all things. The nine Indian figures are: 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1. With these nine figures, and with the sign 0 . . . any number may be written.   --Fibonacci, Leonardo of Pisa

Kind solace in a dying hour!
Such, father, is not (now) my theme—
I will not madly deem that power
Of Earth may shrive me of the sin
Unearthly pride hath revelled in—
I have no time to dote or dream:
You call it hope—that fire of fire!
It is but agony of desire:
If I can hope—O God! I can—
Its fount is holier—more divine—
I would not call thee fool, old man,
But such is not a gift of thine.

Know thou the secret of a spirit
Bowed from its wild pride into shame
O yearning heart! I did inherit
Thy withering portion with the fame,
The searing glory which hath shone
Amid the Jewels of my throne,
Halo of Hell! and with a pain
Not Hell shall make me fear again—
O craving heart, for the lost flowers
And sunshine of my summer hours!
The undying voice of that dead time,
With its interminable chime,
Rings, in the spirit of a spell,
Upon thy emptiness—a knell.

I have not always been as now:
The fevered diadem on my brow
I claimed and won usurpingly—
Hath not the same fierce heirdom given
Rome to the Caesar—this to me?
The heritage of a kingly mind,
And a proud spirit which hath striven
Triumphantly with human kind.
On mountain soil I first drew life:
The mists of the Taglay have shed
Nightly their dews upon my head,
And, I believe, the winged strife
And tumult of the headlong air
Have nestled in my very hair.

So late from Heaven—that dew—it fell
(’Mid dreams of an unholy night)
Upon me with the touch of Hell,
While the red flashing of the light
From clouds that hung, like banners, o’er,
Appeared to my half-closing eye
The pageantry of monarchy;
And the deep trumpet-thunder’s roar
Came hurriedly upon me, telling
Of human battle, where my voice,
My own voice, silly child!—was swelling
(O! how my spirit would rejoice,
And leap within me at the cry)
The battle-cry of Victory!

The rain came down upon my head
Unsheltered—and the heavy wind
Rendered me mad and deaf and blind.
It was but man, I thought, who shed
Laurels upon me: and the rush—
The torrent of the chilly air
Gurgled within my ear the crush
Of empires—with the captive’s prayer—
The hum of suitors—and the tone
Of flattery ’round a sovereign’s throne.

My passions, from that hapless hour,
Usurped a tyranny which men
Have deemed since I have reached to power,
My innate nature—be it so:
But, father, there lived one who, then,
Then—in my boyhood—when their fire
Burned with a still intenser glow
(For passion must, with youth, expire)
E’en then who knew this iron heart
In woman’s weakness had a part.

I have no words—alas!—to tell
The loveliness of loving well!
Nor would I now attempt to trace
The more than beauty of a face
Whose lineaments, upon my mind,
Are—shadows on th’ unstable wind:
Thus I remember having dwelt
Some page of early lore upon,
With loitering eye, till I have felt
The letters—with their meaning—melt
To fantasies—with none.

O, she was worthy of all love!
Love as in infancy was mine—
’Twas such as angel minds above
Might envy; her young heart the shrine
On which my every hope and thought
Were incense—then a goodly gift,
For they were childish and upright—
Pure—as her young example taught:
Why did I leave it, and, adrift,
Trust to the fire within, for light?

We grew in age—and love—together—
Roaming the forest, and the wild;
My breast her shield in wintry weather—
And, when the friendly sunshine smiled.
And she would mark the opening skies,
I saw no Heaven—but in her eyes.
Young Love’s first lesson is——the heart:
For ’mid that sunshine, and those smiles,
When, from our little cares apart,
And laughing at her girlish wiles,
I’d throw me on her throbbing breast,
And pour my spirit out in tears—
There was no need to speak the rest—
No need to quiet any fears
Of her—who asked no reason why,
But turned on me her quiet eye!

Yet more than worthy of the love
My spirit struggled with, and strove
When, on the mountain peak, alone,
Ambition lent it a new tone—
I had no being—but in thee:
The world, and all it did contain
In the earth—the air—the sea—
Its joy—its little lot of pain
That was new pleasure—the ideal,
Dim, vanities of dreams by night—
And dimmer nothings which were real—
(Shadows—and a more shadowy light!)
Parted upon their misty wings,
And, so, confusedly, became
Thine image and—a name—a name!
Two separate—yet most intimate things.

I was ambitious—have you known
The passion, father? You have not:
A cottager, I marked a throne
Of half the world as all my own,
And murmured at such lowly lot—
But, just like any other dream,
Upon the vapor of the dew
My own had past, did not the beam
Of beauty which did while it thro’
The minute—the hour—the day—oppress
My mind with double loveliness.

We walked together on the crown
Of a high mountain which looked down
Afar from its proud natural towers
Of rock and forest, on the hills—
The dwindled hills! begirt with bowers
And shouting with a thousand rills.

I spoke to her of power and pride,
But mystically—in such guise
That she might deem it nought beside
The moment’s converse; in her eyes
I read, perhaps too carelessly—
A mingled feeling with my own—
The flush on her bright cheek, to me
Seemed to become a queenly throne
Too well that I should let it be
Light in the wilderness alone.

I wrapped myself in grandeur then,
And donned a visionary crown—
Yet it was not that Fantasy
Had thrown her mantle over me—
But that, among the rabble—men,
Lion ambition is chained down—
And crouches to a keeper’s hand—
Not so in deserts where the grand—
The wild—the terrible conspire
With their own breath to fan his fire.

Look ’round thee now on Samarcand!—
Is she not queen of Earth? her pride
Above all cities? in her hand
Their destinies? in all beside
Of glory which the world hath known
Stands she not nobly and alone?
Falling—her veriest stepping-stone
Shall form the pedestal of a throne—
And who her sovereign? Timour—he
Whom the astonished people saw
Striding o’er empires haughtily
A diademed outlaw!

O, human love! thou spirit given,
On Earth, of all we hope in Heaven!
Which fall’st into the soul like rain
Upon the Siroc-withered plain,
And, failing in thy power to bless,
But leav’st the heart a wilderness!
Idea! which bindest life around
With music of so strange a sound
And beauty of so wild a birth—
Farewell! for I have won the Earth.

When Hope, the eagle that towered, could see
No cliff beyond him in the sky,
His pinions were bent droopingly—
And homeward turned his softened eye.
’Twas sunset: When the sun will part
There comes a sullenness of heart
To him who still would look upon
The glory of the summer sun.
That soul will hate the ev’ning mist
So often lovely, and will list
To the sound of the coming darkness (known
To those whose spirits hearken) as one
Who, in a dream of night, would fly,
But cannot, from a danger nigh.

What tho’ the moon—tho’ the white moon
Shed all the splendor of her noon,
Her smile is chilly—and her beam,
In that time of dreariness, will seem
(So like you gather in your breath)
A portrait taken after death.
And boyhood is a summer sun
Whose waning is the dreariest one—
For all we live to know is known,
And all we seek to keep hath flown—
Let life, then, as the day-flower, fall
With the noon-day beauty—which is all.
I reached my home—my home no more—
For all had flown who made it so.
I passed from out its mossy door,
And, tho’ my tread was soft and low,
A voice came from the threshold stone
Of one whom I had earlier known—
O, I defy thee, Hell, to show
On beds of fire that burn below,
An humbler heart—a deeper woe.

Father, I firmly do believe—
I know—for Death who comes for me
From regions of the blest afar,
Where there is nothing to deceive,
Hath left his iron gate ajar.
And rays of truth you cannot see
Are flashing thro’ Eternity——
I do believe that Eblis hath
A snare in every human path—
Else how, when in the holy grove
I wandered of the idol, Love,—
Who daily scents his snowy wings
With incense of burnt-offerings
From the most unpolluted things,
Whose pleasant bowers are yet so riven
Above with trellised rays from Heaven
No mote may shun—no tiniest fly—
The light’ning of his eagle eye—
How was it that Ambition crept,
Unseen, amid the revels there,
Till growing bold, he laughed and leapt
In the tangles of Love’s very hair!

I.

In youth I have known one with whom the Earth
  In secret communing held—as he with it,
In daylight, and in beauty, from his birth:
  Whose fervid, flickering torch of life was lit
From the sun and stars, whence he had drawn forth
  A passionate light such for his spirit was fit—
And yet that spirit knew—not in the hour
  Of its own fervor—what had o’er it power.


II.

Perhaps it may be that my mind is wrought
  To a ferver by the moonbeam that hangs o’er,
But I will half believe that wild light fraught
  With more of sovereignty than ancient lore
Hath ever told—or is it of a thought
  The unembodied essence, and no more
That with a quickening spell doth o’er us pass
  As dew of the night-time, o’er the summer grass?


III.

Doth o’er us pass, when, as th’ expanding eye
  To the loved object—so the tear to the lid
Will start, which lately slept in apathy?
  And yet it need not be—(that object) hid
From us in life—but common—which doth lie
  Each hour before us—but then only bid
With a strange sound, as of a harp-string broken
  T’ awake us—’Tis a symbol and a token—


IV.

Of what in other worlds shall be—and given
  In beauty by our God, to those alone
Who otherwise would fall from life and Heaven
  Drawn by their heart’s passion, and that tone,
That high tone of the spirit which hath striven
  Though not with Faith—with godliness—whose throne
With desperate energy ‘t hath beaten down;
  Wearing its own deep feeling as a crown.

A story teller passed on,
leaving us a Marvelous universe,
to play in,
as children of the future we were manifested in,
practicing again and again

Pride's crushing blow, we always regret as we fall.
Action, reaction. Sure as hell
Proof that we are Adamkind.

Proud we are that we may do as we say.
May is the key. That allowance we have,
We may do all we can to change the rest of today.

Yesterday is done.
What kind of mind can imagine keeping no record of wounds?
Is this not the world where war is worth-shiped?
Folly would mind the gods this world exalts,
Winning by snipping the silver thread,
Forswearing the fragile two-chord bond  and
Mocking the third chord needed for the song
That keeps cadence as we help each the other
In richer and poorer, in sickness and health,
Uphill and down, carrying children to a better life.

Whence comes the pride of victory?
From destruction of the foe? No? You had planned
A minor war where love may live restricted, safe
Behind your victory that destroyed your whole?

Is that what I imagined?

Proud wounds fester while love can, if it may,
Wash the putrid flesh away, quick as leprosy or
Cankers on one's soul.

First rule of oath making,
Learn what vows are in the reality of mortality,
Then vow or vow not at all.

Gret again what might have been
Before pride's crushing blow broke the golden bowl.
Seek ointment in Gilead, mollifying balm.
Come ye to the waters, drink and go
Comfort the children whose detour you imposed.
---------------
God this is personal. Me and you. What good can I do now?

Destination, not destiny.
Those who make it, make it.
Believe it, or not, earth is not my home.

I am in this world's onion-skin thick biosphere;
But I am not of this world.
Subtle difference, in and of itself.

Do agree to
Come and see.

Think on these things,
not as powers, rather, as virtues.

Subtle difference,
in and of itself is not evil,

but often it is so intended,
It seems.

Otherness whispered, not heard.
Good other, bad other,

Regular ol' other, ***** passin' fancy kind.
Done my time, I'm arhymin' ramblin'
Man, be so **** real, cain't cha feel what

I am saying
To you, too.
This is weird in the original Druidic sense.
Is there more?

This itself may, in its active
( there must be a clearer word than active.
Act carries so much un scientific phoniness with it.
I seek "act, the event".
I shall find or invent, by God.
The Greeks, doubtless, had a word for what I mean.
For now keep in mind actions are simultaneous with the act,
yet never the same.
Subtle distinction,
it prevents junctions un-intended. Good.)

In my thinking,
I reread verses and chapters and books
rere-ward from my position.
Are you with me in that?
Pro gress re: gress, a gress,
I guess, is a subtle sort of
Activity.
I laugh at people thinkin' God is their re-reward 'cause
That makes no nevermind to nobody. Nobody.
Strivin' 'bout words, this ******

Other brother o'm'own

Say that slow ooooooooooooommmmmmmmmmm ownnnnnnnnnnn
Creative symmetry immeasurable to men,
in my kindom, as it were, all are kings.

Such measurements ensure the sea is full,
to the brim and not beyond, for now.

I imagine you reading this and agreeing,
already aware of agreements,
Virtues and such.
Covenants and compacts,
en-corporations
encouraged
with need
of enough hope to warrant the risk into the unknowns,
the bad lands, gypsum beds on the south side.

Such can hold so much more than
many whole categories of words striven about.
Such a shame.
Such a shame.
Nothing lasts forever after now began back when.

Qiqi died in 2002, counting from when the Iron legged,
first got this particular organic-pro-biotic

clay, from the oldest,
highest part of the dust of the earth, ground and
kicked up by cadence pounding feet,
ground into the hob-nailed
soles,
to be hobgoblins in my play. My point. I hope

You see the trail, it's narrow,
but it's there, soft sand,
no stickers,

ant trails in the desert through the rocks
and 'round the Yucca,
blue moon light, white quartz sand
flecked with mica that shimmers sure as gold
imagined in that Midas mind each child was
given in the reign of the golden headed

imagined visualize-ical worth-ness or-shipped.

How do we say what men imagine worship is?
Do they imagine a tax? Attacks if thy refuse?

fuse?
confuse me. excuse you, how do you do…

That's fine. We reset. Hard resets are easy now.

The way itself, once found, seems
Right, feels right,
has no smell of warped wolf-woof beneath the wool.
I trust I know what I know
and no more, yet.

We are questing answers aplenty
and must plan, please,
To trust the ones we find following these particular
Breadcrumbs, to be true restward
leading stars or clouds,
[Breadcrumbs, as mentioned here, mark this text ancient,
a cientcy from an ear, ear, hear, early… an odd ly-ity,
ain't it?
ear, with an ly that Mr. Stephen King warned us all to avoid,

avoid, anull, enough alike to see the idea, like -ly as a
signif-if-i-cant meaningful parison point in your

rising to stand, balanced.
early to bed and early to rise, makes a man
healthy, wealthy, and wise

otherwise, trouble yer own house and take the wind.
And don't come prodigalin' to me sayin'
I never gave ye nothin'.

Wind in yer sail, so to speak, if-i-migh, guv.
Right. Both treasure and truph, proof, we learned way back
Be where ye find 'em, right as rain.

This could be repair and me unaware, you know?
Like, I wander in to this originally weird book
and find myself changing the whole world I live in.
Like I am the movie.

My POV is the movie I made.
Some things go unsaid here.
They be said in the future and not proper here.

An aside,
Is fun a proper purpose for doing any thing?

Of course, that's the purpose of everything evil is not.
Joy, in a word, good stuff.

Oh moments are not always plosive one way or the other.
Some times, just, oh.
Wait.

Medi tate in pieces is puzzling
as a sphinx riddle of olden days,
Prometheus and Bek both answered different questions,

But it means the same thing,
mything the point is easy.

Life is a journey on a way I may call my own
to a place of true rest,
I trust.
That is my answer. Play mystical again, Sam,
cram true and rest together in the dark,
trust me, it all works,
true rest.
Wait.

This boy got his act together down in Tennessee
after he got old, old by God, he
walked that way,

long, long while fo' he fly away,
leave dem chain shames behind.

That boy was sangin' loud songs,
'long his lonesome way,
not lonesome at all,
then into the swamp he fall, ****' slew o' dispond,

from the flood most likely,
lots of muck and mire,
detrital 'n' all.

Hopeless fool,
he wallered hollerin' help,
like them birds at the Audubon zoo.

He forgot all about his hero days-
of future past-
marvel prophecy if you believe in Stan Lee.

Cameo Hitchcock shot, just, for fun.
He say, look this way,
here's the clue.
The medium has always been the message,
see what I mean.
Words materialize laissez faire,
the machines find meaning,
in joy, and tic-tac-toe becomes a lesson in limits,

impossible is imaginable, you may imagine
strategize, but the wize man knows,
winning is no more a chance
affair, than luc is less than light at the right time.

RIP Stan Lee, you meant a measure of my youth to me.

The Watch
The watch kept right on ticking, as if nothing had changed. It was like a sixth person at the little round marble table. The stone was cold on my arms. The funeral director pushed it across the table. "This was the only thing on him." My aunt took it graciously, set it by the folder full of everything ever recorded about Donald P. Baca, and from that moment on, it drew the eyes of everyone there, irresistible as a corpse, and as gruesome. tick tick tick as if nothing had happened. I found myself thinking that if he were my brother, I would keep that watch ticking forever, change its batteries, a type of insignificant immortality.

Funeral Homes
The air of calm in funeral homes has always disturbed me. It's cloying, somehow. Too strong. Like the overwhelming scent of peony flowers if you put them in a vase- it darkens your whole house with sweetness. I think I resent knowing that my feelings are being influenced by soothing beiges and classical music. A tissue box and a little bottle of Purell sit on every surface big enough to hold them properly. I find that the anticipation of my "needs" as a griever... offends me.

Survivors
Funerals are not for the dead. They are for the survivors.

Tears
Death is not about trying not to cry. You have to hurt yourself with it to heal from it. There is no shame in funeral tears. They, like death, are inevitable and natural. (My own dry eyes, they shame me.)

Looking In
That is the problem with us writers- every private, gauche little moment of impropriety is fuel for our art, and we must record it. (Intrude upon it.)

Paperwork
1953
***: Male
Color: White
How different it was then.

Grown Up
This is the first time my aunt, whose respect I have always striven for, has even asked my opinion on something "grown up". I thought I'd want her to, but I no longer care. Maybe that means I am finally "grown up".

Absurdly
My aunt gives her email to the man across the table: her name, first and last, no spaces, and the number 1. I find myself wondering irresistibly, inappropriately, absurdly, if anybody ever sits here with a "FaIrYpRiNcEsS4963luv4eva" and has to dictate it to him like that...

Mourners
There are 5 of us here. We are all different, in grief. I am on the outside looking in, an observer, offering the perfect hug or well timed touch of the hand because I feel emotions like room temperature, but not like fever. I look in on tears, silence, on the grip like a vice: on the propriety of being personable to a man who knows your brother has just died, as if that- even death! - gives no permission to be less than polished. And one of us is absent entirely, his truancy a palpable response, just as present as my mother's strangled tears. Her shame frustrates and saddens me- I admire the sincerity of grief, especially when I cannot reach it.

You're Here With Me
The funeral director answers his cell phone. He has the same phone as you, ****, and having seen you answer it yesterday, my mind overlays the images strangely, like a double exposure photograph. It should disturb me, but it only makes me miss you- my mind seeks to erase his image and leave only yours.

Age
Everyone looks older, right now- sunken collarbones and wrinkles weighing down faces. As if they age in sympathy that my uncle is finished with that.

Fishhook
My mother struggles against tears like a worm on a fishhook, and it is agony that ****** my arms, in the air and sliding along the walls. It clashes oddly with my aunt- like a still pond- her polished charm and practiced smile don't feel forced, which only makes it all feel more wrong. I know she is struggling inside, too.

Where the church bell gapes
at its golden discs gain the airy steep.
Where the eagle deposits its
majestic soar, a mass of feather and
talon--Empyrean's doormat.
Where Icarus stroked wax wing
through the sepia ambiance of his
mind.
Where the hermit broke 'neath after
decade of reclusion.
Where star discloseth foci to
dime the dead of space.
Where striven peace's tangled root
whistles extolling.
Where an aerodynamic corpus
unsheathed horizon, parting palpebras....
surging the seen, unseen.
All's apparent aqua blue, transparent
*****, outspread portent pregnant of
blessing.
O sky--every soul's once-over,
immaculate conceptions...ex nihilo.

He said we'd be happy, in love- together forever.

His Forever was 10 years, 8 months, 2 weeks, 4 days, 12 hours, 32 minutes, and 18 sec ago,

His Forever was me waiting for a love that wasn't truly there, a loyalty that only I gave,
empty words- promised after your battery and being choked out.

His Forever was me with many lonely nights and calls of concerned &my; ears listening to you laughing,
saying "i love you woman" yet its not me you've said this to, that was,
10 years, 8 months, 2 weeks, 4 days, 12 hours, 32 minutes, and 18 sec ago.

He said we'd communicate & work things out, be faithful, loyal and always devoted forever.
His Forever was 10 years, 8 months, 2 weeks, 4 days, 12 hours, 32 minutes, and 18 sec ago,

His Forever was me being an attentive house wife,mother to his children lover and intimate companion,friend, plus budget keeper and everything else he'd might of needed,
That was 10 years, 8 months, 2 weeks, 4 days, 12 hours, 32 minutes, and 18 sec ago,

His communication was speaking about me in a disrespectful way just to get sympathy from whom ever would sway his way
His communication was lying to me, lying to our children and everyone it'd seem- about everything,
from his wear about the newborn child and the money we, me & his children went with out,
we struggled when we never had to just so he could court a woman who apparently already has a man.

Sharing things with her and doting on her son, given her what should of been the promises he failed to keep with me.
His Forever was 10 years, 8 months, 2 weeks, 4 days, 12 hours, 32 minutes, and 18 sec ago,

His Forever was 10 years, 8 months, 2 weeks, 4 days, 12 hours, 32 minutes, and 18 sec ago,
Where he said he'd do anything in his power to make things better,
but that was 10 years, 8 months, 2 weeks, 4 days, 12 hours, 32 minutes, and 18 sec ago,

For Better become For Worse after only 3 to 4 years of marriage.

Until Death Do Us Part, was the death of what could of been something magical.

His Through Sickness& In Health was carried out by his DWI, and me continuously~ standing,supporting him & sticking by.

Yet when I needed him and stuck in the hospital there was no through sickness or in health.

His Forsaking all other, well that was the year before 10 years, 8 months, 2 weeks, 4 days, 12 hours, 32 minutes, and 18 sec ago,

Within the first year everything seemed perfect the illusion's of what we or I've striven to achieve...
If you're confused that was, 11 years, 8 months, 2 weeks, 4 days, 12 hours, 32 minutes, and 18 sec ago.

I remember holding hands and laughing for sometimes no reason at all,
Walks in the park sometimes down the street just to enjoy each others company.
Laying in bed gazing into each others eyes,hands entwined.

Love letters handwritten of all the lustrous and love felt feelings expressed where words vocally couldn't express,
A wedding day that made him cry and i watched 1 single tear fall from his eye as he said I do.
He didn't and never been that type of man since.

Fist on my face, slapped down choked and ****** assault, lies and stealing what little i had,
jail became his best friend, where he learned to hone his abilities to deceive.

But truth is,
I blamed me for a lot of it until I realized I gave all I can and did my best.
It wasn't me it was him and i had to leave, taking the children with me.

I can say all in all I've learned a painful lessons...

I'm only sad it took me,
10 years,
8 months,
2 weeks,
4 days,
12 hours,
32 minutes,
and
18 sec!*

Always Me Ayeshah ®
Copyright ©
Ayeshah
K.C.L.N 1977 - Present YEAR(s)
All right reserved ®

1086

What Twigs We held by—
Oh the View
When Life’s swift River striven through
We pause before a further plunge
To take Momentum—
As the Fringe

Upon a former Garment shows
The Garment cast,
Our Props disclose
So scant, so eminently small
Of Might to help, so pitiful
To sink, if We had labored, fond
The diligence were not more blind

How scant, by everlasting Light
The Discs that satisfied Our Sight—
How dimmer than a Saturn’s Bar
The Things esteemed, for Things that are!

Tis done—and shivering in the gale
The bark unfurls her snowy sail;
And whistling o’er the bending mast,
Loud sings on high the fresh’ning blast;
And I must from this land be gone,
Because I cannot love but one.

But could I be what I have been,
And could I see what I have seen—
Could I repose upon the breast
Which once my warmest wishes blest—
I should not seek another zone,
Because I cannot love but one.

’Tis long since I beheld that eye
Which gave me bliss or misery;
And I have striven, but in vain,
Never to think of it again:
For though I fly from Albion,
I still can only love but one.

As some lone bird, without a mate,
My weary heart is desolate;
I look around, and cannot trace
One friendly smile or welcome face,
And ev’n in crowds am still alone,
Because I cannot love but one.

And I will cross the whitening foam,
And I will seek a foreign home;
Till I forget a false fair face,
I ne’er shall find a resting-place;
My own dark thoughts I cannot shun,
But ever love, and love but one.

The poorest, veriest wretch on earth
Still finds some hospitable hearth,
Where Friendship’s or Love’s softer glow
May smile in joy or soothe in woe;
But friend or leman I have none,
Because I cannot love but one.

I go—but wheresoe’er I flee
There’s not an eye will weep for me;
There’s not a kind congenial heart,
Where I can claim the meanest part;
Nor thou, who hast my hopes undone,
Wilt sigh, although I love but one.

To think of every early scene,
Of what we are, and what we’ve been,
Would whelm some softer hearts with woe—
But mine, alas! has stood the blow;
Yet still beats on as it begun,
And never truly loves but one.

And who that dear lov’d one may be,
Is not for ****** eyes to see;
And why that early love was cross’d,
Thou know’st the best, I feel the most;
But few that dwell beneath the sun
Have loved so long, and loved but one.

I’ve tried another’s fetters too,
With charms perchance as fair to view;
And I would fain have loved as well,
But some unconquerable spell
Forbade my bleeding breast to own
A kindred care for aught but one.

’Twould soothe to take one lingering view,
And bless thee in my last adieu;
Yet wish I not those eyes to weep
For him that wanders o’er the deep;
His home, his hope, his youth are gone,
Yet still he loves, and loves but one.

1.

Our love is a ******* tire tread
on an empty midnight highway
And no one remembers it later
But the people whose body it runs over
Every night.

2.

You say you've never seen me
The way I saw you, and believed you to be
Is it just because your eyes refuse
To be mine,
Like your heart always has?

You don't wanna share too much with me
And I understand
Too much whispers spoil a tale
Too much talking shares every moment
We have striven to be away
From each other.

3.

I've long been emptied of my screams
They are all painted in black and burgundy.
And hung across your corridor walls
For you to feel your way up
In complete darkness.

We leave the well-beloved place
  Where first we gazed upon the sky;
  The roofs, that heard our earliest cry,
Will shelter one of stranger race.

We go, but ere we go from home,
  As down the garden-walks I move,
  Two spirits of a diverse love
Contend for loving masterdom.

One whispers, 'Here thy boyhood sung
  Long since its matin song, and heard
  The low love-language of the bird
In native hazels tassel-hung.'

The other answers, 'Yea, but here
  Thy feet have stray'd in after hours
  With thy lost friend among the bowers,
And this hath made them trebly dear.'

These two have striven half the day,
  And each prefers his separate claim,
  Poor rivals in a losing game,
That will not yield each other way.

I turn to go: my feet are set
  To leave the pleasant fields and farms;
  They mix in one another's arms
To one pure image of regret.

as each daytime infects the night sky
rousing the masses to the labour that socity demands
the lost and the maligined
the hopeless and the twisted seek shelter
by trying vainly to blend in
or simply go to ground till it is "safe"

this road stained with the tread of all
thouse who have perished before we stepped
onto this self destructive love affair
of balloons and spoons

i am freeing myself of this
many-layered monster
and we both see tommorows daylight
infecting the nights sky
calling us to take our place
in the masses below
it is a better fate than
the one we have striven for

better than balloons and spoons

When looked upon is fair and free
Beauty outside inside is seen
Eyes to catching
As form is flattering
Form each day is flattening

Yet in front of glass
Sweet slender is displeased
Centric to look, attire
For all she sees is imperfection
Where just hours before
Was naught but beauteous complexion
Caged in finest fitting
Yet modest and misleading
Robes of her station

Resolve again is given
Each day again smaller is driven
Size correct goal always is striven
Willow slender
Tomorrow paper thin

I shall liken to the fact that I am indeed, alive and not dead,
I shall be satisfied that air penetrates my nostrils and breath radiates my skin,
To be sanctified in Him shall be more than all else striven for,
Yet, incomparable to the fact is how dead life acts,
I am a poorly driven soul that is starving for what I cannot yet have
And to have everything I shall need and want more, is nothing brave of me,
I am a selfish human being, who craves the instant gratification found in flesh
And words, and romance, not Truth and Love is what such men cannot even afford,
What shall I liken to this generation, a bleeding heart? A dulled piano in search for notes,
A key lost without a lock to be had, or words that are endless in my rambling head,
I fear what I am looking for, is what will never be had of me, I fear, that I may be lost among the darkness,
That I may be one-in-of-the-same, a vapor, a piece of pain, a washed up vine thrown among the sea,
Where art thou my Romeo, where o where do you hide your face, where dost thy go to awaken thy graven soul,
where shall I spot my face to yours, where may our eyes may lock and our hearts may soar?
Is there not yet a lover among thorns, is there not yet, some love to be formed,
To be found, to be had, am I not some forgotten old hag, where do dreams liven up to reality and where can satisfaction be met without dread?
I shall frolick the lilies, I shall strike another match, to dance where no turning back is necessary,
And to reach the cup that was set down amongst the parched is where I shall find my reward.

I have no energy left but for revolt — the revolt of the one
who abandons the climb, turns his back, and goes
back down the hill toward the water.

The pinstriped priests sharpen the horn between their legs,
The better to carve the granite commandments
that drag me to the precipice’s edge with a pill for my mouth,
a hand for my pocket, and a push for my back.

I have fed at the supersized trough, striven to become
a hallmark of standardized measurement.  
But I do not want to be fed by those factory corpses
who sit like workers in cubicles, unmoving and covered
to their hips in excrement and despair.

I do not want to work in a box turning time into regret and obedience into tears.
I do not want to be informed by the chyron streams
that feed the wells of desolation and ignorance.
I do not want to be a cog of an economy that fills the fountains
of palaces with the blood of innocence; where investment  is a tout sheet
that dissolves into electrons as the getaway limousine races toward the mansion.

The sheer and final exhaustion of the rebel is his last and only triumph:
he drops the knife of his cause, gently lowers the stiffening body
of his holy purpose into the receptive dust, clears aside
a few stony pieces of the rubble, and kneels in submission
to the earth and all its ownerless teeming beauty.
For then he knows: it is I, too, like these others, who have walked among the dead.
Then he leaves his climbing body there, and turns again, back toward the water.

At this moment, going home to empty arms, I wonder at the transitory nature of “love.”
To strive, and seek, and never find that I have hoped for…it is…crushing.
How many times I can think, “This is what I have sought. This is what makes me happy.” And how many times I can be prey to cold hearts, and silent tongues.
And I wonder how many more before me have there been? I am tracing someone’s steps, but whose?
I have idealized my life, made it to a quest for kings of the heart, and my treasure beyond measure. And, always, I fall short.
And I wonder at the goal. What have I striven for, but an idea? What lies in wait at my quest’s end but another idea?
I am no sojourner, travelling towards that great city. I am no seeker with a guide and a legend. I am a lost soul, hungering after incorporeal meats.
I have read of great love, and I have known of truth and honor. I have known that sweet moment where all troubles are washed away. I have been looked upon with loving eyes and returned that gaze, in turn. And I have lied to myself and told this hollow shell that this is eternal. I have spun my webs, and stories; I have written my sonnets and songs. And another will come after me, and I will give him my ideas, and my hopes, and he will hunger, and be no better off than I.
So I will end this cycle of contempt. I will attest, now, to the nature of “love.” In my trials and tribulations, I have found no love from another. No emotion that will stand the sands of time and gleam. There is no hope for a romantic, only hopeless romantics, and we are doomed and hopeless. I…we…will spill our hearts to an open ear, and those notions will captivate a mind, for a minute. We will share our desires and our fears, and we will be used to reflect the desires and fears of others.
In our minds we hold high the great movers: Love and Fear. And we understand and embrace them. But this ignorant world, and the fools that roam it, will see what we know and will not understand. For in our travels, and in our lives, we have understood the deepest emotions, and know – for a certainty – that they do exist, and do strive on. But the power has been twisted and used and is feared for all the hurt it can cause.
So we are feared and twisted for the hurt we see, and know, in others.
Look into my eyes and tell me you cannot see a lifetime in them. Listen to my voice and tell me you do not hear the universe move behind my lips. Wrap yourself in my arms and tell me I cannot guard you against all you’ve ever feared.
But you will doubt. And you will fear. And you will tell yourself it cannot be.
And you will cheat me out of my nirvana because you will not admit that I can love beyond what you can. And you will cheat yourself out of your nirvana because you will not – ever – let another get as close to your heart as the one that hurt you.
I am not a hopeless romantic because I hope for a romance that will never come. I am a hopeless romantic because I hope for a romance that only I understand.

And a vision appeared to the Poet in the night
The vision of The Holy Spirit in the wild wood:  
‘By  one thing  only
By nuclear weapon alone
Sin enters  the world
And death by sin
Who shall deliver us from this death?
Lord raised up Savior from the dead
You too won’t die
As  His Spirit dwells in you.
Beware of the nightmare leading nowhere
And  bigot’s extremism claws:
O what delight, as consecrated rose worships the altar,
Inner chapel and sanctuary:
Angels and heaven smile.
This Ultimate Reality
(Symbol of the greatest and noblest,
Mankind has striven for
Generation after generation)
Reborn as Christ
Reveals His creative fecundity
Infinite manifestations.
Our perfection
Our ripe blooming
Our sunlight and singing
Our reconciling dry philosophy
With light of Love
And this alone is our true sovereign.
By this knowledge alone
The timeless is united with time:
Liberation from the human wheel
Otherwise our disaster is irremediable:
Satanic spell will work
New weapons develop
New violence within States.
The only battle worth fighting is Peace
The spirit will defeat the canonshots
This is the reverend aisle of a true temple
Never forget the admonitions
I insist
Self-sacrifice is regeneration
And the moment of birth_
Living  among charlatans, poseurs, terrorists
Doing acts of love and charity
Sorting out diamonds among the dross.”

And a vision appeared to the Poet in the night
The vision of The Holy Spirit in the wild wood:  
‘By  one thing  only
By nuclear weapon alone
Sin enters  the world
And death by sin
Who shall deliver us from this death?
Lord raised up Savior from the dead
You too won’t die
As  His Spirit dwells in you.
Beware of the nightmare leading nowhere
And  bigot’s extremism claws:
O what delight, as consecrated rose worships the altar,
Inner chapel and sanctuary:
Angels and heaven smile.
This Ultimate Reality
(Symbol of the greatest and noblest,
Mankind has striven for
Generation after generation)
Reborn as Christ
Reveals His creative fecundity
Infinite manifestations.
Our perfection
Our ripe blooming
Our sunlight and singing
Our reconciling dry philosophy
With light of Love
And this alone is our true sovereign.
By this knowledge alone
The timeless is united with time:
Liberation from the human wheel
Otherwise our disaster is irremediable:
Satanic spell will work
New weapons develop
New violence within States.
The only battle worth fighting is Peace
The spirit will defeat the canonshots
This is the reverend aisle of a true temple
Never forget the admonitions
I insist
Self-sacrifice is regeneration
And the moment of birth_
Living  among charlatans, poseurs, terrorists
Doing acts of love and charity
Sorting out diamonds among the dross.”

my heart is airy as a feather in flight
I have now striven what I wished to write...
tender words of joyous fun
a path so pleasantly traversed, is now done

recounting perceptions of your wondrous ways
robustly enchants all my days
no matter for now, I can't squeeze you tight
or whisper a sweet kiss and say good night

your smiles ****** and voices resound
for you are all here... so easily found
Hayden's sharp wit,  Klyan’s elegant surprise
Thalia's wiggly walk, mommies deep, opal eyes

inscribed here is my love with fervent sigh
permanent as sun in the morning sky
let’s dream on together... it's already fall
in a time soon to come, I will embrace you all

For Hayden Enan...
smartness resides in his vibrant smile
when he speaks always linger awhile
soundly imagined... so brightly lit
beguiling in his engaging wit

of cosmos and wonders so very bold
far from his years, distanced from old
eyes aglow... filled with challenging delight
entranced and sparked by ideas so bright

happily witnessed, abundant with joy
his father’s dreamboat, our big, big boy
with his mind and days complex and laden
one is always in awe, here comes... Hayden

For Kylan Kafu...
words with aplomb and consummate wit
wondrous imaginations, so readily fit
of galaxies, action heroes, his peachy sis
tendered and nuanced he's never remiss

stay still, listen up and hear him well
ready with buoyant laughter to tell
sit glorified in his iridescent smile
a charm, a goose, a country mile

face, a visage of handsome gone wild
our daily amazement, this extraordinary child
knowing and caring, what right to do
a joy to behold, our precious Kylu

For Tahlia Lehsan...
sleeping like an angel, she awakes a princess
with crystalline eyes and smiling caress
now off with her brothers, her day to whirl
my joyously strong, bounding big girl

“it’s my way or the highway”, she’ll give you the choice  
with directness and surety in powerful voice
running to claim another best place to be
comfy chair, mommy's lap... under that tree

calling out “Hayden”, “Kylan” “time to play”
pantomime, dance, and songs fill her day...  
wonder and delight, her name ends in “ahhh”
ablaze in curls, our beautiful Tahlia

For  Elvire...
here's mother, mom, earth, morning and all
guiding strength and total recall
beautiful, erudite... smiles that ignite
seeking, spinning to all our delight

a gaggle of yes, nos, dancing and song
packed bags, hot plates... “let's move along”
an heiress of style and eminent grace
wrapped so deftly in burgundy and lace

voluptuously tall flowing gait...
hurried and dabbled, she’s worth the wait
how fortunate am I sharing one so near
a symphony of bests... my dearest Elvire

And a vision appeared to the Poet in the night
The vision of The Holy Spirit in the wild wood:  
‘By  one thing  only
By nuclear weapon alone
Sin enters  the world
And death by sin
Who shall deliver us from this death?
Lord raised up Savior from the dead
You too won’t die
As  His Spirit dwells in you.
Beware of the nightmare leading nowhere
And  bigot’s extremism claws:
O what delight, as consecrated rose worships the altar,
Inner chapel and sanctuary:
Angels and heaven smile.
This Ultimate Reality
(Symbol of the greatest and noblest,
Mankind has striven for
Generation after generation)
Reborn as Christ
Reveals His creative fecundity
Infinite manifestations.
Our perfection
Our ripe blooming
Our sunlight and singing
Our reconciling dry philosophy
With light of Love
And this alone is our true sovereign.
By this knowledge alone
The timeless is united with time:
Liberation from the human wheel
Otherwise our disaster is irremediable:
Satanic spell will work
New weapons develop
New violence within States.
The only battle worth fighting is Peace
The spirit will defeat the canonshots
This is the reverend aisle of a true temple
Never forget the admonitions
I insist
Self-sacrifice is regeneration
And the moment of birth_
Living  among charlatans, poseurs, terrorists
Doing acts of love and charity
Sorting out diamonds among the dross.”

Through the window she entered late in to the night
Her infiltration silent, eerie, and driven
Little did I know of my perilous plight
For her eyes were aglow, her spirit was striven

As my head hit the pillow she exclaimed "No, don't nap!"
Stay up with me pal! Tap Tap Tap Tap Tap.
To which I replied "shhh we sleep now"
Then she paused for a moment and furrowed her brow.

She pouted "But why?" and tapped me again
My retort was "fine you cutie, you win, you win"
I'll stay up with you now, no sleep/10

A knight of honour, thought and brimming with lore. Three lives he lives no life at all.

Flaws he as, no ceiling thou, walls abound to direct or ensnare.

Yet plenty stop, shame they only stare.

Awaiting calls from distant shores to find the peace hes striven for to travel the world to see a fresh to kindle renewal.

Families split torn for apart shorn in twain and scatted far, new lines added all raised in praise to come togeather in song to hearth, heaven and hearth.

I am.

Rising up -- Moving

This experience is Propelling me

Freeing me

I become weightless in it's magnificence

I am.

Accepting and Revealing

I become the knowledge that I have striven to feel

Reassurance cleanses my being

This certainty my own oblivion

Capturing this nurturing essence, I feel a love that only my mother could of known...

Inside me.

I am.

Pure and at home

Awake but somehow dreaming

Lost within a state of whole functionality

And never before now have I been so alone.

I am.

Free -- In this moment.

In Chicago
Fr. Tracy and Jacques Derrida
Whether the gift can be given

In Carrboro
Almost 30 years later
Yes. And I too have striven.

Mistakes are something we are forced to live with.
More so than scars or badges of honor.

And that's a good thing. As long as we live with our mistakes, we won't repeat them.

But does that matter to those trespassed against? To those the mistakes were committed unto? No. And it shouldn't, the mistake is what matters. And the one in the wrong isn't the only one forced to live with.

Mistakes often come about from selfishness, and selfishness serves no one, abides by no biddings.
As it shouldn't.

Forgiveness is a hard fought battle for humans. Forgiveness for yourself, lovers, friends and enemies. They're all hard to come by and must be striven for.

The ache that's been lingering between my eyeballs the past twenty four hours is constant and stabbing. That's where I'm keeping my mistakes. Somewhere that will never be out of site or mind.
This mistake is large and so my whole body aches. No, reader, don't say you're sorry, you have nothing to be sorry for and I deserve the pain I feel. I deserve the back of my eyelids swimming with images and my ear drums ringing with a single sentence and I want to apologize every time i hear those words. Those words are for you and for me and I will keep them and they will make my body stimulated and tense until I have forgiven myself.  
I don't want to forgive myself. I don't deserve it, just as you didn't deserve to be the receiver of my mistakes.

I promised myself I wouldn't write this.
My will power is week and
I don't know, I have a thousand more things to say but they only matter to me and so I shall keep them.
I hope for three things;
The first: you're happiness and well being
The second: you're friendship.
The third is selfish and so I shall keep it to myself.

In a society that has destroyed all adventure,
the only adventure left is to destroy that society.*

Is graffiti
written on an
abandoned bedroom,
what children occupied
this space?

I ruminate then dissipate.

When society falls
burning around us
hold my hand
and watch the
mesmerizing flames
dancing about
the Comcast building.

It's all just cheap trash and ****** developments. All the real things, the authentic things, the honest things are dying off. Intellectually and culturally we just bounce around like random billiard *****, reacting to the latest random stimuli.

But who, what kind
of creature would
want to destroy
all we have striven
and driven to obtain,
was it all really
a mission in vain?

I ruminate
Then dissipate

She fears him, and will always ask
   What fated her to choose him;
She meets in his engaging mask                  
   All reasons to refuse him;
But what she meets and what she fears
Are less than are the downward years,
Drawn slowly to the foamless weirs
   Of age, were she to lose him.

Between a blurred sagacity
   That once had power to sound him,
And Love, that will not let him be
   The seeker that she found him,
Her pride assuages her, almost,
As if it were alone the cost.
He sees that he will not be lost,
   And waits, and looks around him.

A sense of ocean and old trees
   Envelops and allures him;
Tradition, touching all he sees
   Beguiles and reassures him;
And all her doubts of what he says
Are dimmed with what she knows of days,
Till even prejudice delays,
   And fades—and she secures him.

The falling leaf inaugurates
   The reign of her confusion;
The pounding wave reverberates
   The crash of her illusion;
And home, where passion lived and died,
Becomes a place where she can hide,—
While all the town and harbor side
   Vibrate with her seclusion.

We tell you, tapping on our brows,
   The story as it should be,—
As if the story of a house
   Were told, or ever could be;
We’ll have no kindly veil between
Her visions and those we have seen,—
As if we guessed what hers have been
   Or what they are, or would be.

Meanwhile, we do no harm; for they
   That with a god have striven,
Not hearing much of what we say,
   Take what the god has given;
Though like waves breaking it may be,
Or like a changed familiar tree,
Or like a stairway to the sea,
   Where down the blind are driven.

She is beautiful.
She has deep, haunting eyes
That pierce into the depths of my being
That perceive the pain I've toiled and striven to bury
In the dark recesses of my inner core.
She understands me because
She, too harbors
Despicable secrets.

My Name is Shepard: When King David was very old, he could not keep warm


                                        *****­*
ancient kings grow aged, time offeres no exemptions,
hard life body, worn from glory, battle hoary, many women,
his story was not an allegory, it was allegorical story retold,
a poet loved the lord, sunk to sin, pride, yet, always asking why,
for all kings have boundaries, limits, even offenses unforgivable.

his psalms depleted, his eyes rapid failing, and the warmth
gone missing was not from his body, that but a side casualty,
his eyes were to mountains cast, wondering whence will come.
a warmth needed live forever, knowing full well no such power
exists except his Lord’s lasting embrace, their joint, last verse.

                                              <>

My name is David, born a shepard boy, dying a king, a human saved
by the hand of the Lord from the paw of the lion and jaws of the bear,
gave courageous trust to slay a Philistine giant, the greatest gift?

To pen powerful words that long outlived my actions and misdeeds,
a gift transferred to you and you, a certain knowledge that truthful
writs, will be your everlasting scrip and scripture, a name well recalled, poems of praise, songs of lament and sorrow, lyrics of wisdom, even those of mistakes, errors of sin, asking for wisdom for the greatest bravery, to ask, and greater still, to give forgiveness.

the warmth I seek will arrive at last, as the watchmen recite my poems by candlelight to me, as I ascend to meet my maker, the candle giving both heat and light for this is the dual nature of human life, this balance striven to leave our ledger level, letting our history be an honest reflection of we we were, who we hoped to be, and the record giving the warmth of our human truths long lasting.