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PostPosted: Wed Apr 29, 2015 7:19 pm 
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Here's a pretty one by Mary Elizabeth Frye, entitled: "Do Not Stand At My Grave and Weep."

Do not stand at my grave and weep:
I am not there; I do not sleep.
I am a thousand winds that blow,
I am the diamond glints on snow,
I am the sun on ripened grain,
I am the gentle autumn rain.
When you awaken in the morning’s hush
I am the swift uplifting rush
Of quiet birds in circling flight.
I am the soft starshine at night.
Do not stand at my grave and cry:
I am not there; I did not die.


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PostPosted: Sun Jun 28, 2015 12:48 pm 
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Beautiful poem, Cole !


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PostPosted: Sun Jun 28, 2015 12:55 pm 
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This is from my book:

Light 27: a prayer of two poets
By Dina Grutzendler

King David:
El is my light and my salvation
whom shall I fear?
El is the stronghold of my life
of whom shall I be afraid?

Dina:
When did You give me my expansion
When did You tell me “be” and I “was”
When did You offer me your first word “love”
And I became love
When did You allow me to know You were You, and I was I
When did You tell me “you will know” and I “knew”
When did You place me “here” and “everywhere”

King David
One thing I ask from El,
this only do I seek:
that I may dwell in the house of E1
all the days of my life,

to gaze on His beauty
and to seek Him in his temple.

Dina
What can I give You back, if all that I am , You are
How can I thank You if not with my tears of adoration
I am here far away, lost in cold sidereal travel
but You are still my central sun
my spirit burns
because it was never hidden, never disguised, never covered

King David
I will sing and make music for El
My heart says of You, “Seek his face!”
I will see His goodness
in the land of the living.

Dina:
I want to remain in memory as I really am
The essence, the center, the tenderness
The being who utters all the words without words
Who enriches all space with the music of silence
And adores Him who sits in his throne of All-Nothingness


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PostPosted: Fri Aug 28, 2015 5:08 am 
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Here's one from Robert Frost called, "The Road Not Taken."

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;

Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I-
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.


Last edited by MichaelCaldwell on Fri Aug 28, 2015 4:30 pm, edited 1 time in total.

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PostPosted: Fri Aug 28, 2015 9:04 am 
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Ahh, the genius of Robert Frost. Thanks for posting.


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PostPosted: Tue Sep 01, 2015 11:25 am 
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Hello all,

A poetry thread is very cool :) I'm writing poetry all the time and I'd be glad to share some.

The book "The Artist's Way" by Julia Cameron really helped me align the creative process with my spirituality. Really helpful book for me that I recommend to all.

I wrote this poem some months ago for a poetry night with the war in Syria as the theme.

- The Desert -

I'm walking through the desert
With the sun being an expert
In making me crawl in escape
With my gun that's out of shape.

In my stormy eyes of grief
I jumped within over a cliff
And blindly fell in the dark
That pumped inside a spark.

"You there ! Why the war ?
Hasn't it gone way too far ?
Everywhere that I set my eye
Is hit by rocks from the sky.

Answers are all I can beg
While daunting is my broken leg.
Prayers are all I can decide
While haunting is my heart's divide."

I'm sleeping in the cold desert
With the moon being an expert
In waking my dreams from the tear
Of my balloon that pops in fear.

My surprised eye of calm
Pierced across my open palm
And summarized his light
With gloss all over her night.

"You there ! Why the call ?
I'm shaken but I don't fall.
Am I aware of the crimes
That have taken over our times ?

Is silence all I should feel
While slowly spins her wheel ?
Is patience my holy rail
As surely his train won't fail ? "

I'm smiling through the desert
As my love is always an expert
In protecting me from pain
As from above falls the rain.

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PostPosted: Thu Sep 03, 2015 2:22 pm 
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SILENCE BRIGHTNESS-LIGHT by Dinah (Dina Grutzendler)

the sound wave slips serpentine
isolating notes from the chaotic noise

the ocular ray rebounds on the rock
refracting its boomerang-photo of corrugated surface

the pulmonary sponge expands its alveoli
to the sea of pre-prejudice aroma

a hand of outlining mass tolerates its first electric mutation
when caressing the iron rod

a sucker mouth inflames the nipple
savoring milk and saliva secretion

...the pilgrimage of experience through the layers of time
pulverizes ego into oblivion
the being-enemy alloys tender wisdom
and death arrives with torch tongues
incinerating the decadent organs
and blushing illuminating existence

silence, brightness-light
the sound waves weave sonatas


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PostPosted: Sat Sep 12, 2015 7:38 pm 
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I wrote Fire in a bus ride.

- Fire -

The fire that soars within
Which straightens the hair on my skin
Is not only a reminder that I'm alive
But a lesson of one sense, not five.

I could try to make it go
By pouring a water of rationality
By thinking and deciding if I know,
But the fire blossoms with beauty,
So I stop my mind's stormy flow
By letting the flames forever glow.

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PostPosted: Mon Sep 14, 2015 7:27 pm 
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THE PURGATORY OF THE WORD

On the edge between the breath out and breath in,
a wave crests where life is freed from come and go;
body and appearances are gone,
and our essential natures freely flow.

There are no things there to hold our vacuums,
and being's not what we have come to think,
not personal, not particular, just rhythms
like light-waves - like star-blink.

On the ledge between the breath out and breath in,
life's not seen, but - like music - felt and heard,
and there words turn into poetry.
There is the Purgatory of the word.




A MEDITATION

As a bubble in the water by its own levitation
rises up to its own, in its own is destroyed,
death is an event continuous as creation
whose season ceases in consummate void.




A COLD EYE

Wisdom is awareness
of the futility of communication
and the prodigality of the
communication of futility:
Wisdom is bareness.

Books are dead trees
and marketing and choked drains,
and poems are dead cells
from dying brains,

through whose intent, intention,
intentionality
the vivid randomness of life and nature
has been turned to death
by planned inequity and inequality.



I said: 'You're very harsh.'

'But,' He answered,

'My harshness comes from goodness,
not from rancour, not from spite.

I strike down those who enter saying, "I..." -
for this is Love's tabernacle, not a cocktail party.

Rub your eyes...behold the image of your heart!'


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PostPosted: Mon Feb 15, 2016 5:18 pm 
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Here are a couple of humorous poems.
The first one is by Alfred Noyes, entitled "Daddy Fell Into The Pond."
The second one is by Jack Prelutsky, entitled, "Be Glad Your Nose Is On Your Face."

Daddy Fell Into The Pond
by Alfred Noyes

Everyone grumbled. The sky was grey.
We had nothing to do and nothing to say.
We were nearing the end of a dismal day,
And then there seemed to be nothing beyond,
Then
Daddy fell into the pond!

And everyone's face grew merry and bright,
And Timothy danced for sheer delight.
"Give me the camera, quick, oh quick!
He's crawling out of the duckweed!" Click!

Then the gardener suddenly slapped his knee,
And doubled up, shaking silently,
And the ducks all quacked as if they were daft,
And it sounded as if the old drake laughed.
Oh, there wasn't a thing that didn't respond
When
Daddy Fell into the pond!

Be Glad Your Nose Is On Your Face
by Jack Prelutsky

Be glad your nose is on your face,
not pasted on some other place,
for if it were where it is not,
you might dislike your nose a lot.

Imagine if your precious nose
were sandwiched in between your toes,
that clearly would not be a treat,
for you'd be forced to smell your feet.

Your nose would be a source of dread
were it attached atop your head,
it soon would drive you to despair,
forever tickled by your hair.

Within your ear, your nose would be
an absolute catastrophe,
for when you were obliged to sneeze,
your brain would rattle from the breeze.

Your nose, instead, through thick and thin,
remains between your eyes and chin,
not pasted on some other place--
be glad your nose is on your face!


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PostPosted: Mon Feb 15, 2016 7:53 pm 
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Awaken from your sleep, and come alive , with the gift of awareness, my friend.
Our best moments, await us, as we perceive this existence, that has no end.
Have no fear, nor dread, neither expectation, rather, be open for life, an its' potential.
Remove the veil, that hides your perceptions, don't war, within, be self consensual.
Not, to the point of self conjecture, approval, instead , resolve inner issues, to what is true.
It, matters not , if your'e a victor , in every inward conflict, more so, your tone, in what you do.
We are eternally,free, boundless, unhindered, by anything or anyone, only, what we intend.
Peace, in our awareness, as we journey and explore life and existence, growing love without end.
We, can be likened to an old oak tree, that provides shade, from the sun, on a summers day.
The , young, tree with few leaves, was ample to convenience, the ants, tasking in soil and clay.

As. the old oak, grew, its' beneficiaries, grew also, as in dimension, depth and in, numbers.
Many years later, as the oak, had matured, and was benefactorious, to many, thru the years,
Its', time came to benefit the source of its, beginnings, the earth below its roots.
Old, oak, was uprooted, by wind and rain, and as it lay , on its side, he began to benefit, the soil'
As, the old , began another, growth, going deeper into its source, and adding life to it, along the way.
The life, it was giving, would be source, for many other oaks, trees, and a multitude of varieties within the plant kingdom.
Did, Mr. Oak, die, no, he was blending in with his source, and bringing life , from his experience as the old oak.
If, sleeping, is being , not awake, unresponsive, and unperceptive, of others, then let us take our rest,comfort and rehabilitation, in the unlimited universe of conscious awareness, that our resting, can be felt, by whomsoever, wishes to perceive, such a notion.
Awaken.

Mike.


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PostPosted: Wed Feb 17, 2016 12:21 pm 
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"I sit beside the fire and think"

I sit beside the fire and think
Of all that I have seen
Of meadow flowers and butterflies
In summers that have been

Of yellow leaves and gossamer
In autumns that there were
With morning mist and silver sun
And wind upon my hair

I sit beside the fire and think
Of how the world will be
When winter comes without a spring
That I shall ever see

For still there are so many things
That I have never seen
In every wood in every spring
There is a different green

I sit beside the fire and think
Of people long ago
And people that will see a world
That I shall never know

But all the while I sit and think
Of times there were before
I listen for returning feet
And voices at the door

- J.R.R. Tolkien

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PostPosted: Wed Feb 17, 2016 7:15 pm 
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'- you know, I've either had a family, a job, something
has always been in the
way
but now
I've sold my house, I've found this
place, a large studio, you should see the space and
the light.
for the first time in my life I'm going to have a place and
the time to
create.'
no baby, if you're going to create
you're going to create whether you work
16 hours a day in a coal mine
or
you're going to create in a small room with 3 children
while you're on
welfare,
you're going to create with part of your mind and your
body blown
away,
you're going to create blind
crippled
demented,
you're going to create with a cat crawling up your
back while
the whole city trembles in earthquakes, bombardment,
flood and fire.
baby, air and light and time and space
have nothing to do with it
and don't create anything
except maybe a longer life to find
new excuses
for.

Charles Bukowski

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PostPosted: Fri Mar 18, 2016 7:08 am 
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The poem tells the story perfectly.


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PostPosted: Fri Mar 18, 2016 12:07 pm 
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Our little writing group is given a theme to spark us off and on this occasion it was to write something from the perspective of a body part. I remembered a really vivid analogy Tom used in one of the books to illustrate the inter-connectedness of everything and came up with this. I forgot to give it a title and will offer no prizes for suggestions!

They call me flora,
rather a nice name
for what I do
which is a messy
business really.

My scientific moniker
is microbiota.
I work to glean the energy
from undigested carbohydrates
and the absorption of fatty acids
in the human gut;
I also synthesise vitamins B and K
And metabolise bile acids.

I’m not alone you understand;
there are around 100 trillion of us
labouring away in the dark
and largely undetected
to keep our host healthy
in what is described as
a mutualistic relationship.

They call us the forgotten organ.

Sometimes as I slave away
I have strange thoughts
such as “Is this all that there is?”

My mate Gut Bug says
I’m an old romantic,
that I’m deluded
or worse still - tapped.
So I’ve stopped saying such things aloud.

Then one day when
faced with another huge
pile of carbobydrate,
I muttered to myself
“Dear Lord, there must be more to me than this”.

In that instant
my world turned upside-down:
a cornucopia of
meaningless images
and senseless sounds
invaded my consciousness:
light, wind, rain, soil, crops
animals, people, machinery
factories, transport systems,
shops, homes, refrigerators
meals, mouths teeth, alimentary canals
digestive tracts flashed into my mind.

For one blissful moment
I glimpsed heaven and my place in it;
the sublime connectedness
of all that is and ever has been revealed
as in a glorious dream.

And like a dream it faded:

the gurgling rumble
told me that the next
workload had arrived,
and I was back in my little reality.

RM Dec 2014


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