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Prince Hohenstiel-Schwangau, Saviour of Society
Epigraph
Υδραν φονεύσας, μυρίων τ᾽ ἄλλων πόνων
διῆλθον ἀγέλας . . .
τὸ λοίσθιον δὲ τόνδ᾽ ἔτλην τάλας πόνον,
. . . δῶμα θριγκῶσαι κακοῖς.
I slew the Hydra, and from labour pass'd
To labour — tribes of labours! Till, at last,
Attempting one more labour, in a trice,
Alack, with ills I crowned the edifice.
You have seen better days, dear? So have I —
And worse too, for they brought no such bud-mouth
As yours to lisp "You wish you knew me!" Well,
Wise men, 't is said, have sometimes wished the same,
And wished and had their trouble for their pains.
Suppose my Œdipus should lurk at last
Under a pork-pie hat and crinoline,
And, latish, pounce on Sphynx in Leicester Square?
Or likelier, what if Sphynx in wise old age,
Grown sick of snapping foolish people's heads,
And jealous for her riddle's proper rede, —
Jealous that the good trick which served the turn
Have justice rendered it, nor class one day
With friend Home's stilts and tongs and medium-ware,—
What if the once redoubted Sphynx, I say,
(Because night draws on, and the sands increase,
And desert-whispers grow a prophecy)
Tell all to Corinth of her own accord.
Bright Corinth, not dull Thebes, for Lais' sake,
Who finds me hardly grey, and likes my nose,
And thinks a man of sixty at the prime?
Good! It shall be! Revealment of myself!
But listen, for we must co-operate;
I don't drink tea: permit me the cigar!
First, how to make the matter plain, of course —
What was the law by which I lived. Let 's see:
Ay, we must take one instant of my life
Spent sitting by your side in this neat room:
Watch well the way I use it, and don't laugh!
Here's paper on the table, pen and ink:
Give me the soiled bit — not the pretty rose!
See! having sat an hour, I'm rested now,
Therefore want work: and spy no better work
For eye and hand and mind that guides them both,
During this instant, than to draw my pen
From blot One — thus — up, up to blot Two — thus —
Which I at last reach, thus, and here's my line
Five inches long and tolerably straight:
[...] Read more
poem by Robert Browning (1871)
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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A Story of Light in Daytime
I was sitting with both my best friend (mind well and dirty minds)
Mind well: Why do you? Been a few days I noticed you always anxious?
Dirty minds(suddenly jumped and danced in front of us)
Me(surprised) : Hey, you surprised me..! !
Dirty mind, he says: Forget him, forget him. I say, forget him.. lalalalaa...
Mind well (screaming) : What do you mean? !
Dirty minds: Why do you continue to keep him in mind? While you certainly feel hurt! What a fool you. (Mind my evil stare sharp)
Me: I'm...
Dirty minds: stupid people! That's right, stupid! Its still just thinking about it, expect it. Did you know he's thinking the same as you? Stupid, stupid, stupid.. lalalalalaa (dirty minds again danced for joy)
Mind well (up to me to hug me) tried to calm myself: You shut up - not noisy and ugly dancing like that in front of us.
Dirty minds: Yes yes yes because she is foolish.. Hahaha.. Silly girl! (Laughter off shrill and deafening) . Did not she already get a replacement then why still hold him in all his feelings? Huh!
Mind well asked me: Yeah right he said. I agree and I know it, you've got someone better than him, why are you still double your heart? What is against you about him? While the new arrivals he is better than he that old?
Me(only able to look at both my best friend without the energy of heart) . I throw away my eyes from them, staring blankly existing floor..
Mind well: Follow your heart. Because he is 'the voice of your Lord' - he'll lead you to the peace of your heart..
Dirty minds (replied) : Yaa she is right.. Forget him. Once again, forget about him, stupid girl. Take care of the new arrival, get rid of him a long time because you will not need it anymore.
Me: My best friend! (I cried) Now I know what to do now! And who I care about now! Yes yes yes, I know now - I know it now..
I grab the hands of dirty minds I took him to dance..
Dirty minds try to tease me: Heyy, take your hands out of my hands, clever girl! Hahaha.. We were laughing and dancing together.
My smile is back now - I will see any peace with you, O, my new lover. Thank my Lord for blessing me.
Copyright © 2012
poem by Sari Mavi
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catch Them Young' I Say..
I will blend two minds and will shout aloud
To the world, ' Here is the final human mind'.
I will infuse two hundred passions in to it and will sing aloud
To the throngs, 'Here is a mind that sans no glory heard ever'.
I will invent two million ordinary mortals and will speak
To their hearts, ' Here is your role model to frame a mind still'.
I search for the minds to be blended
And many minds flash before my eyes.
I like none - 'All are too narrow', I tell.
I search for the minds once again
And many more minds flash by, none appealing.
An agony strikes me, 'Where are those great minds? '
A millenium passes,
In the drought of mothers who give birth to none great
My blending dreams remain as a mirage
And I begin to write an elegy on the death of minds.
In the inner self of my mind that can never be blended with any other
A nightmare roams with all its scaring images.
I will blend two minds one day but I will not tell about it.
Or else I will tell someone to find them and catch them.
' Catch them young', I will tell him.
poem by M.d Dinesh Nair
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How Do You Use Your Gifts?
I'm using my blessings and faith,
To create identifiable miracles.
And you?
How do you use your gifts?
In the begging of stuff?
That others have?
By using their own,
Faith kept persisted.
And what they have manage to materialize,
Makes you jealous and mad?
Your selfishness is pathetic!
How do you use your gifts?
Do you help lift other minds around.
How do you use your gifts?
Do you help lift other minds around.
How do you use your gifts?
Do you help lift other minds around.
How do you use your gifts?
In the begging of stuff?
That others have?
By using their own,
Faith kept persisted.
How do you use your gifts?
Do you help lift other minds around.
How do you use your gifts?
Do you help lift other minds around.
How do you use your gifts?
Do you help lift other minds around.
How do you use your gifts?
Do you help lift other minds around.
How do you use your gifts?
Do you help lift other minds around.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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It Takes A Mind To Stop All Wars
Bloated with promoted poses,
Upheld and exposed.
And...
Picked to be the ones depicted,
To combat and end conflicts.
Images portraying bravery,
Do not end the fears...
Of the ones who have the looks,
But use them to pretend.
It takes a mind to stop all wars.
And not a muscled image given.
Minds will stop all wars,
If the cause is for peace.
It takes a mind to stop all wars.
And not a muscled image given.
Minds will stop all wars,
If the cause is for peace to leave.
Bloated with promoted poses,
Upheld and exposed.
It takes a mind to stop all wars.
And not a muscled image given.
Minds will stop all wars,
If the cause is for peace.
It takes a mind to stop all wars.
And not a muscled image given.
Minds will stop all wars,
If the cause is for peace to leave.
And not a muscled image given,
To give and pretend.
It takes a mind to stop all wars.
And not a muscled image given.
Minds will stop all wars,
If the cause is for peace.
It takes a mind to stop all wars.
And not a muscled image given.
Minds will stop all wars,
If the cause is for peace to leave.
Bloated with promoted poses,
Upheld and exposed.
And...
Picked to be the ones depicted,
To combat and end conflicts...
[...] Read more
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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The Interpretation of Nature and
I.
MAN, being the servant and interpreter of Nature, can do and understand so much and so much only as he has observed in fact or in thought of the course of nature: beyond this he neither knows anything nor can do anything.
II.
Neither the naked hand nor the understanding left to itself can effect much. It is by instruments and helps that the work is done, which are as much wanted for the understanding as for the hand. And as the instruments of the hand either give motion or guide it, so the instruments of the mind supply either suggestions for the understanding or cautions.
III.
Human knowledge and human power meet in one; for where the cause is not known the effect cannot be produced. Nature to be commanded must be obeyed; and that which in contemplation is as the cause is in operation as the rule.
IV.
Towards the effecting of works, all that man can do is to put together or put asunder natural bodies. The rest is done by nature working within.
V.
The study of nature with a view to works is engaged in by the mechanic, the mathematician, the physician, the alchemist, and the magician; but by all (as things now are) with slight endeavour and scanty success.
VI.
It would be an unsound fancy and self-contradictory to expect that things which have never yet been done can be done except by means which have never yet been tried.
VII.
The productions of the mind and hand seem very numerous in books and manufactures. But all this variety lies in an exquisite subtlety and derivations from a few things already known; not in the number of axioms.
VIII.
Moreover the works already known are due to chance and experiment rather than to sciences; for the sciences we now possess are merely systems for the nice ordering and setting forth of things already invented; not methods of invention or directions for new works.
IX.
The cause and root of nearly all evils in the sciences is this -- that while we falsely admire and extol the powers of the human mind we neglect to seek for its true helps.
X.
The subtlety of nature is greater many times over than the subtlety of the senses and understanding; so that all those specious meditations, speculations, and glosses in which men indulge are quite from the purpose, only there is no one by to observe it.
XI.
As the sciences which we now have do not help us in finding out new works, so neither does the logic which we now have help us in finding out new sciences.
XII.
The logic now in use serves rather to fix and give stability to the errors which have their foundation in commonly received notions than to help the search after truth. So it does more harm than good.
XIII.
[...] Read more
poem by Sir Francis Bacon
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Manifesting In Arrested Sleep
Left behind.
Most have jumped into safety nets.
Held by clinging vines.
And time has stopped.
Minds are blocked.
Onlookers can't believe,
People frozen yet they breathe.
And time has stopped.
Minds are blocked.
Onlookers can't believe,
People frozen yet they breathe.
Manifesting in arrested sleep.
Time has stopped!
Manifesting in arrested sleep.
Minds are blocked!
Manifesting in arrested sleep.
And onlookers can't believe,
People frozen yet they breathe.
Left behind.
Most have jumped into safety nets.
Held by clinging vines.
And onlookers can't believe,
People frozen yet they breathe.
Time has stopped!
Manifesting in arrested sleep.
Minds are blocked!
Manifesting in arrested sleep.
And onlookers can't believe,
People frozen yet they breathe.
Time has stopped!
Manifesting in arrested sleep.
Minds are blocked!
Manifesting in arrested sleep.
And onlookers can't believe,
People frozen yet they breathe.
Time has stopped!
Manifesting in arrested sleep.
Minds are blocked!
Manifesting in arrested sleep.
Time has stopped!
Manifesting in arrested sleep.
Minds are blocked!
[...] Read more
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Street-Cheap-Meat
You've given me up to boost danger.
A mistake made with a stranger.
Who knocked on your door proposing,
With a cut glass rock and plated gold.
And street-cheap-meat!
Oh...
You've given me up to boost danger.
A mistake made with a stranger.
Who knocked on your door proposing,
With a cut glass rock and plated gold.
Our minds were united,
And tight for a lifetime.
We sought for that right time...
When we'd be together,
Forever and ever.
Our minds were united,
And tight for a lifetime.
We sought for that right time...
When we'd be together,
Forever and ever.
But,
You've given me up to boost danger.
A mistake made with a stranger.
Who knocked on your door proposing,
With a cut glass rock and plated gold.
And street-cheap-meat!
Oh...
Our minds were united,
And tight for a lifetime.
We sought for that right time...
When we'd be together,
Forever and ever.
But you prefer street-cheap-meat.
Our minds were united,
And ripe for that lifetime.
But you prefer street-cheap-meat.
Our minds were united,
And ripe for that lifetime.
But you prefer street-cheap-meat.
Our minds were united,
And ripe for that lifetime.
But you prefer street-cheap-meat.
[...] Read more
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Good Man
Album : Silencer (2001)
You never had much style about you
We never knew the reason that you
You sat around almost every hour
And quickly lost your bargaining power
You can't be me
I'm convinced you're twice the man we are
And you cannot clear your mind
Cos in our eyes we're fine
And you're running out of time
But its not to do with us
And you cannot clear our minds
Cos in our eyes you're blind
And its such a waste of time
The threads you wore were something tragic
The words you spoke were so emphatic
The records that you make are tasteless
And eloquence with you is wasted
So whats your method, whats your scheme?
The whole scene knows what you already mean
And you cannot clear my mind
Cos in our eyes you're fine
And you're running out of time
But its not to do with us
And you cannot clear our minds
Cos in our eyes you're blind
And its such a waste of time
But its not to do with us
And you cannot clear our minds
Cos in our eyes you're fine
And you're running out of time
But its not to do with us
And you cannot clear our minds
Cos in our eyes you're fine
And you're such a waste of time
But its not to do with us
And you cannot clear our minds
Cos in our eyes you're fine
And you're running out of time
But its not to do with us
And you cannot clear our minds
Cos in our eyes you're fine
And you're such a waste of time
song performed by Zed
Added by Lucian Velea
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Old Granny Sullivan
A pleasant shady place it is, a pleasant place and cool -
The township folk go up and down, the children pass to school.
Along the river lies my world, a dear sweet world to me:
I sit and learn - I cannot go; there is so much to see.
But Granny she has seen the world, and often by her side
I sit and listen while she speaks of youthful days of pride;
Old Granny's hands are clasped; she wears her favourite faded shawl -
I ask her this, I ask her that: she says, 'I mind it all.'
The boys and girls that Granny knew, far o'er the seas are they,
But there's no love like the old love, and the old world far away;
Her talk is all of wakes and fairs - or how, when night would fall,
''Twas many a quare thing crept and came,' and Granny 'minds them all.'
The day she first met Sullivan - she tells it all to me -
How she was hardly twenty-one and he was twenty-three.
The courting days! the kissing days! - but bitter things befall
The bravest hearts that plan and dream. Old Granny 'minds it all.'
Her wedding-dress I know by heart; yes! every flounce and frill;
And the little home they lived in first, with the garden on the hill.
'Twas there her baby boy was born; and neighbours came to call,
But none had seen a boy like Jim - and Granny 'minds it all.'
They had their fights in those old days; but Sullivan was strong,
A smart quick man at anything; 'twas hard to put him wrong…
One day they brought him from the mine… (The big salt tears will fall)…
''Twas long ago, God rest his soul!' Poor Granny 'minds it all.'
The first dark days of widowhood, the weary days and slow,
The grim, disheartening, uphill fight, then Granny lived to know.
'The childer,' ah! they grew and grew - sound, rosy-cheeked and tall:
'The childer' still they are to her. Old Granny 'minds them all.'
How well she loved her little brood! Oh, Granny's heart was brave!
She gave to them her love and faith - all that the good God have.
They change not with the changing years; as babies just the same
She feels for them, though some, alas! have brought her grief and shame:
The big world called them here and there, and many a mile away:
They cannot come - she cannot go - the darkness haunts the day;
And I, no flesh and blood of hers, sit here while shadows fall -
I sit and listen - Granny talks; for Granny 'minds them all.'
Just fancy Granny Sullivan at seventeen or so,
In all the floating fin
poem by John Shaw Neilson
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Back To The Facts
From minds the chains are gone.
From minds the chains are gone.
From minds the chains are gone.
From minds the chains are gone.
And it's...
Back to the facts.
Back to unpack those facts,
Packed.
Back to the facts!
To dust them off and stack them tall.
Back to the facts...
To unwrap and stack.
Medieval evils,
No longer can be forced on people.
Walls are falling.
And used as steps for those who crawl.
To see life without limits,
With a higher consciousness.
And it's...
Back to the facts.
Back to unpack those facts,
Packed.
Back to the facts!
To dust them off and stack them tall.
Back to the facts...
To unwrap and stack.
Medieval evils,
From minds the chains are gone...
To keep the people,
From a...
Bouncing off the walls.
Medieval evils,
From minds the chains are gone...
To keep the people,
From a...
Bouncing off the walls.
And it's...
Back to the facts.
Back to unpack those facts,
Packed.
Back to the facts!
To dust them off and stack them tall.
Back to the facts...
To unwrap and stack.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Looking At The Many People
Looking at the many people.
Looking at the many people,
Waiting to live a life they like.
The many people...
In a luxurized hype.
Looking at the people,
Waiting for a life they like.
The many people.
Looking at the many people.
Embittered and lamenting.
Looking at the many people.
Living venting and resenting.
Looking at the many people.
Condescending and offending.
Looking at the many people.
Expressing their sad sentiments...
And in their minds they're losing sense.
Looking at the many people.
Looking at the many people.
Waiting for a life they like.
The many people.
Looking at the many people.
Looking at the many people.
Waiting for a life they like.
The many people.
Looking at the many people.
Embittered and lamenting.
Looking at the many people.
Living venting and resenting.
Looking at the many people.
Condescending and offending.
Looking at the many people.
Expressing their sad sentiments...
And in their minds they're losing sense.
Looking at the many people.
Looking at the many people.
Expressing their sad sentiments...
And in their minds they're losing sense.
Looking at the many people.
Looking at the many people.
Expressing their sad sentiments...
[...] Read more
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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The Borough. Letter IV: Sects And Professions In Religion
'SECTS in Religion?'--Yes of every race
We nurse some portion in our favour'd place;
Not one warm preacher of one growing sect
Can say our Borough treats him with neglect:
Frequent as fashions they with us appear,
And you might ask, 'how think we for the year?'
They come to us as riders in a trade,
And with much art exhibit and persuade.
Minds are for Sects of various kinds decreed,
As diff'rent soils are formed for diff'rent seed;
Some when converted sigh in sore amaze,
And some are wrapt in joy's ecstatic blaze;
Others again will change to each extreme,
They know not why--as hurried in a dream;
Unstable, they, like water, take all forms,
Are quick and stagnant; have their calms and storms;
High on the hills, they in the sunbeams glow,
Then muddily they move debased and slow;
Or cold and frozen rest, and neither rise nor flow.
Yet none the cool and prudent Teacher prize.
On him ther dote who wakes their ectasies;
With passions ready primed such guide they meet,
And warm and kindle with th' imparted heat;
'Tis he who wakes the nameless strong desire,
The melting rapture and the glowing fire;
'Tis he who pierces deep the tortured breast,
And stirs the terrors never more to rest.
Opposed to these we have a prouder kind,
Rash without heat, and without raptures blind;
These our Glad Tidings unconcern'd peruse,
Search without awe, and without fear refuse;
The truths, the blessings found in Sacred Writ,
Call forth their spleen, and exercise their wit;
Respect from these nor saints nor martyrs gain,
The zeal they scorn, and they deride the pain:
And take their transient, cool, contemptuous view,
Of that which must be tried, and doubtless may be true.
Friends of our Faith we have, whom doubts like these,
And keen remarks, and bold objections please;
They grant such doubts have weaker minds oppress'd,
Till sound conviction gave the troubled rest.
'But still,' they cry, 'let none their censures spare.
They but confirm the glorious hopes we share;
From doubt, disdain, derision, scorn, and lies,
With five-fold triumph sacred Truth shall rise.'
Yes! I allow, so Truth shall stand at last,
And gain fresh glory by the conflict past: -
As Solway-Moss (a barren mass and cold,
Death to the seed, and poison to the fold),
The smiling plain and fertile vale o'erlaid,
[...] Read more
poem by George Crabbe
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The Borough. Letter X: Clubs And Social Meetings
YOU say you envy in your calm retreat
Our social Meetings;--'tis with joy we meet.
In these our parties you are pleased to find
Good sense and wit, with intercourse of mind;
Composed of men who read, reflect, and write,
Who, when they meet, must yield and share delight.
To you our Book-club has peculiar charm,
For which you sicken in your quiet farm;
Here you suppose us at our leisure placed,
Enjoying freedom, and displaying taste:
With wisdom cheerful, temperately gay,
Pleased to enjoy, and willing to display.
If thus your envy gives your ease its gloom,
Give wings to fancy, and among us come.
We're now assembled; you may soon attend -
I'll introduce you--'Gentlemen, my friend.'
'Now are you happy? you have pass'd a night
In gay discourse, and rational delight.'
'Alas! not so: for how can mortals think,
Or thoughts exchange, if thus they eat and drink?
No! I confess when we had fairly dined,
That was no time for intercourse of mind;
There was each dish prepared with skill t'invite,
And to detain the struggling appetite;
On such occasions minds with one consent
Are to the comforts of the body lent;
There was no pause--the wine went quickly round,
Till struggling Fancy was by Bacchus bound;
Wine is to wit as water thrown on fire,
By duly sprinkling both are raised the higher;
Thus largely dealt, the vivid blaze they choke,
And all the genial flame goes off in smoke.'
'But when no more your boards these loads
contain,
When wine no more o'erwhelms the labouring brain,
But serves, a gentle stimulus; we know
How wit must sparkle, and how fancy flow.'
It might be so, but no such club-days come;
We always find these dampers in the room:
If to converse were all that brought us here,
A few odd members would in turn appear;
Who, dwelling nigh, would saunter in and out,
O'erlook the list, and toss the books about;
Or yawning read them, walking up and down,
Just as the loungers in the shops in town;
Till fancying nothing would their minds amuse,
They'd push them by, and go in search of news.
But our attractions are a stronger sort,
The earliest dainties and the oldest port;
[...] Read more
poem by George Crabbe
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The Borough. Letter XXIV: Schools
To every class we have a School assign'd,
Rules for all ranks and food for every mind:
Yet one there is, that small regard to rule
Or study pays, and still is deem'd a School:
That, where a deaf, poor, patient widow sits,
And awes some thirty infants as she knits;
Infants of humble, busy wives, who pay
Some trifling price for freedom through the day:
At this good matron's hut the children meet,
Who thus becomes the mother of the street:
Her room is small they cannot widely stray, -
Her threshold high they cannot run away:
Though deaf, she sees the rebel-heroes shout, -
Though lame, her white rod nimbly walks about;
With band of yarn she keeps offenders in,
And to her gown the sturdiest rogue can pin:
Aided by these, and spells, and tell-tale birds,
Her power they dread and reverence her words.
To Learning's second seats we now proceed,
Where humming students gilded primers read;
Or books with letters large and pictures gay,
To make their reading but a kind of play -
'Reading made easy,' so the titles tell;
But they who read must first begin to spell:
There may be profit in these arts, but still
Learning is labour, call it what you will;
Upon the youthful mind a heavy load,
Nor must we hope to find the royal road.
Some will their easy steps to science show,
And some to heav'n itself their by-way know;
Ah! trust them not,--who fame or bliss would share,
Must learn by labour, and must live by care.
Another matron, of superior kind,
For higher schools prepares the rising mind;
Preparatory she her Learning calls,
The step first made to colleges and halls.
She early sees to what the mind will grow,
Nor abler judge of infant-powers I know:
She sees what soon the lively will impede,
And how the steadier will in turn succeed;
Observes the dawn of wisdom, fancy, taste,
And knows what parts will wear, and what will
waste:
She marks the mind too lively, and at once
Sees the gay coxcomb and the rattling dunce.
Long has she lived, and much she loves to trace
Her former pupils, now a lordly race;
Whom when she sees rich robes and furs bedeck,
She marks the pride which once she strove to check.
[...] Read more
poem by George Crabbe
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Stranger in Strange Crowd
STRANGER IN STRANGE CROWD
Dreams stranger’s path divide
from crowd’s uneven t[h]read
who's tissue, issues poorly understood, through dread
is left behind, swirls second rate as flotsam on life's tide,
noise windmills, senses silent, life-blood sped,
bled white, so often fearing fear, by wisdom wide,
unblessed, unsteady set sights low instead.
Despite stress, sentiments denied, imagination set aside,
stranger story stores till head heeds heart, until desires well led
fire understanding rich allied with empathy sustaining ride.
Swift Pegasus is supplied
with neither saddle, A to Zed accoutrements life tears to shreds
when vested interests, motives pure collide.
Defy temptations of soft ride
along straight road which, comfort fed,
selects ‘safe way’, too often dreads
free choice, autonomy. Self-pride
corresponds to quest for bread.
Distrust that moment Fortune’s tide
entwines in fickle thread
conformity, convention wed.
Scorn empty homage, those who glide
through vain p[l]ain life, misled.
Survival instinct, safe homestead, a ‘living wage’, priorities
appear, as opportunities to seize as each spins finite set
tripped, snipped, then ripped by Norms with ease.
Far from madding crowd who dares assign
himself true rôle in life, who thinks,
who sifts chaff, grain, drains lees from wine, palms pearls from swine?
Who, intact, acts and interacts, discerning fiction, facts,
opposes expedience, authority which hoodwinks
manipulated herd unheard, which lacks
true overview impartial, thus reacts
rather than responds, its armour: chinks.
On each new generation weigh rigid systems spawned by Fate unkind.
As pawns most men play puppet parts in Time’s relay game of tiddly-winks.
Is search for self through mirrored minds
just base reflection on sight lost?
Insisting on base ‘skills’ man finds
intuitions atrophy - cost
[...] Read more
poem by Jonathan Robin
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Nevada Mental Institute
Is this really a mental hospital?
It didn't look that way to me
a man in his wheel chair
kept saying this to himself
'O I wish I was never born!
O I wish I was never born! '
Some gaunt apparitions
here and there
minding their own businesses
howling at me
'Stay away! '
Seeing the blood stains
on the carpet floor
I shivered with fear and fright
that they might
devour me and my body
drinking my blood
dripping on the floor
which caused me to refuse
to take any medications
Was nice they didn't impose them on me
simply a shot or two
once in a while
Gosh!
Let me get some sleep
can you stop these women
screaming at nights
in room where I was assigned
to stay and sleep?
Madness drove me to all the way
to that place
though I tried to escape
the hands who put me there
after a long ride to San Francisco
to see the one I wanted to see
but failed to find the person's number
on phone book
for his wife's name was
on the registered
Couldn't keep these followers
from my back
in fear of being murdered
I decided to kill myself
but not with enough money to buy
the twenty-five dolor silver knife
from the shop I visited
during the break of the bus stop
I ran for help
to the law enforcement man
who took me to the hospital
[...] Read more
poem by Sangnam Nam
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Never Land
PREFACE
This yarn is a fabric woven of several earlier warped works, lightly laced together with additional braided tales of human frailty. The looms were purling frantically... Some pearls may be found wonting, hanging loose, dangling free within a fuzzy flight of fancy... These untethered strands may be fastened, or be forgotten, or be hidden by the readers in the corners of their minds... Some may end up in stitches, others all torn up or ripped apart, others may just say ‘made of hole cloth', ‘sew what' or ‘I don't seam to get the needle point'... This wanton web is yours to spin...
Some have said that such strange things ‘have Never happened in our Land', such quaint things ‘could Never happen in our Land'', such murky things ‘will Never happen in our Land''... and this may be true... such is the gossamer that veils the human mind... and thus ensues the title of this Fantasy...
NEVER LAND
An ancient man named Peter Pan, disguised but from the past,
With feathered cap and tunic wrap and sabre's sailed his last.
Though fully grown, on dust he's flown and perched upon a mast
Atop the Walls around the sprawls, unvisited and vast -
And all the while with bitter smile he's watching us aghast.
As day begins, a spindle spins, it weaves a wanton web;
Like puckered prunes, like midday moons, like yesterday's celebs,
We scrape and grope, we seldom hope - he's watching while we ebb:
The organ grinder preaches fine on Sunday afternoons -
He quotes from books but overlooks the Secrets Carved in Runes:
'You've tried and toyed, but can't avoid or shun the pale monsoons,
It's sink or swim as echoed dim in swinging door saloons'.
The laughingstocks are flinging rocks at ball-and-chained baboons.
While ghetto boys are looting toys preparing for their doom
And Mademoiselles are weaving shells on tapestries with looms,
Cathedral cats and rafter rats are peering in the room,
Where ragged strangers stoop for change, for coppers in the gloom,
Whose thoughts are more upon the doors of crypts in Christmas bloom,
And gold doubloons and silver spoons that tempt beyond the tomb.
Mid Uzi shots from vacant lots, that strike and ricochet
A painted girl with flaxen curl (named Wendy) 's on her way
To tantalise with half-clad thighs, to trick again today;
And indiscreet upon the street she gives her pride away
To any guy who's passing by with time and cash to pay.
(In concert halls beyond the Walls, unjaded girls ballet,
With flowered thoughts of Camelot and dreams of cabarets.)
The alley ways within the maze are paved with rats and mice.
Evangelists with moneyed fists collect the sacrifice
From losers scorned and rubes reborn, and promise paradise,
While in the back they cook some crack, inhale, and roll the dice.
A bum called Boe has stubbed his toe, he's stumbled in the gutter;
With broken neck, he looks a wreck, the sparrows all aflutter,
The passers-by, they close an eye, and turn their heads and mutter:
'Let's pray for rains to wash the lanes, to clear away the clutter.'
A river slows neath mountain snows, and leaves begin to shudder.
[...] Read more
poem by Terry O'Leary
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Retirement
Hackney'd in business, wearied at that oar,
Which thousands, once fast chain'd to, quit no more,
But which, when life at ebb runs weak and low,
All wish, or seem to wish, they could forego;
The statesman, lawyer, merchant, man of trade,
Pants for the refuge of some rural shade,
Where, all his long anxieties forgot
Amid the charms of a sequester'd spot,
Or recollected only to gild o'er
And add a smile to what was sweet before,
He may possess the joys he thinks he sees,
Lay his old age upon the lap of ease,
Improve the remnant of his wasted span,
And, having lived a trifler, die a man.
Thus conscience pleads her cause within the breast,
Though long rebell'd against, not yet suppress'd,
And calls a creature form'd for God alone,
For Heaven's high purposes, and not his own,
Calls him away from selfish ends and aims,
From what debilitates and what inflames,
From cities humming with a restless crowd,
Sordid as active, ignorant as loud,
Whose highest praise is that they live in vain,
The dupes of pleasure, or the slaves of gain,
Where works of man are cluster'd close around,
And works of God are hardly to be found,
To regions where, in spite of sin and woe,
Traces of Eden are still seen below,
Where mountain, river, forest, field, and grove,
Remind him of his Maker’s power and love.
'Tis well, if look’d for at so late a day,
In the last scene of such a senseless play,
True wisdom will attend his feeble call,
And grace his action ere the curtain fall.
Souls, that have long despised their heavenly birth,
Their wishes all impregnated with earth,
For threescore years employ’d with ceaseless care,
In catching smoke, and feeding upon air,
Conversant only with the ways of men,
Rarely redeem the short remaining ten.
Inveterate habits choke the unfruitful heart,
Their fibres penetrate its tenderest part,
And, draining its nutritious power to feed
Their noxious growth, starve every better seed.
Happy, if full of days—but happier far,
If, ere we yet discern life’s evening star,
Sick of the service of a world that feeds
Its patient drudges with dry chaff and weeds,
We can escape from custom’s idiot sway,
To serve the sovereign we were born to obey.
[...] Read more
poem by William Cowper
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Night Of The Cadillacs
Blinded by a million shades
I couldnt see their eyes
I couldnt see their eyes
The eyes of the crazies who drive
I couldnt see their eyes
I couldnt see their eyes
Chrome and plastic wheeled star-fighters
Smiled the psycho pink late nighters
Taking terror to the west end
As the heroes from the east end
Come down to shake the street
On the night of the cadillacs
On the night of the cadillacs
Shaken by a certain vibe
I couldnt read their minds
I couldnt read their minds
The minds of the devils who ride
I couldnt read their minds
I couldnt read their minds
Gleam amp spray canned wild stallions
Manic horsemen drag technicians
Radiators eat the west end
More trophies for the east end
Come round to mince the meat
On the night of the cadillacs
On the night of the cadillacs
Salute as they go by
The ones about to die
Salute as they go by
The ones about to die
Driven by a rock and roll sound
I couldnt reach their ears
I couldnt reach their ears
Driven by a rock and roll sound
I couldnt reach their ears
I couldnt reach their ears
Pinkies versus sidewalk killers
Berserk ballet of taunting thrillers
Mad marauders for the west end
Dread the duellists from the east end
Come watch the new elite
On the night of the cadillacs
On the night of the cadillacs
On the night of the cadillacs
On the night of the cadillacs
On the night of the cadillacs
song performed by Billy Idol
Added by Lucian Velea
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