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Poetry - post poems that move you

Poetry - post poems that move you

Postby Carol on Tue Apr 16, 2013 6:27 pm

Keeping Quiet by Pablo Neruda

Now we will count to twelve and we will all keep still

for once on the face of the earth, let's not speak in any language;

let's stop for a second, and not move our arms too much.

It would be an exotic moment without rush, without engines;

we would all be together in a sudden strangeness.

Fisherman in the cold sea would not harm the whales

and the man gathering salt would not hurt his hands.

Those who prepare green wars, wars with gas, wars with fire,

victories with no survivors, would put on clean clothes

and walk about with their brothers in the shade, doing nothing.

What I want should not be confused with total inactivity.

Life is what it is about...

If we were not so single-minded about keeping our lives moving,

and for once could do nothing, perhaps a huge silence

might interrupt this sadness of never understanding ourselves

and of threatening ourselves with death.

Perhaps the earth can teach us as when everything seems to be

dead in winter and later proves to be alive.

Now I'll count to twelve and you keep quiet and I will go.
Practitioners who cultivate the personal realization of buddha knowledge dwell in the bliss of whatever is present and do not abandon their practice.
~Lankavatara Sutra
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Re: Poetry - post poems that move you

Postby Carol on Tue Apr 16, 2013 6:39 pm

Han-shan Is The Cure For Warts
by James P. Lenfestey

My job was eating me night and day,
my wife threatening to leave, taking
even the stroller and the quilt.
A family of warts blossomed on my thumb
so big I introduced them to tellers and clerks.
Then I bumped into Han-shan in the bookstore,
one hundred poems so small I read them all.
We moved to a new place. My wife
smiles out on sidewalks where children ride.
I work in a room so quiet I can hear my heartbeat.
My warts are gone, no marks, no scars.
Practitioners who cultivate the personal realization of buddha knowledge dwell in the bliss of whatever is present and do not abandon their practice.
~Lankavatara Sutra
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Re: Poetry - post poems that move you

Postby desert_woodworker on Tue Apr 16, 2013 7:09 pm

Thanks, Carol,

I think right away of two poems.

I love the beginning of Mary Oliver's poem, "Wild Geese".

How does it go? (I won't quote it all, and it is wonderful to the end; but this is all I keep of it in memory):

Wild Geese

You do not have to be good.
You do not have to walk on your knees
for a hundred miles through the desert, repenting.
You only have to let the soft animal of your body
love what it loves.
...
... [continued]
...

I'd say, taking this from the perspective of continued practice, and considering zazen and physical practice, this is just the ticket. But the full poem is more comprehensive, and can help a person get on the path, by hearing the urgings, like the calls from the Geese. Marvelous!

And, I think of Robert Graves' "Warning to Children". I'll have to look this one up, and shall paste it. This poem, too, is best in its entirety, and it is here. The "children"... "is US", I'd say.

Warning to Children

Children, if you dare to think
Of the greatness, rareness, muchness
Fewness of this precious only
Endless world in which you say
You live, you think of things like this:
Blocks of slate enclosing dappled
Red and green, enclosing tawny
Yellow nets, enclosing white
And black acres of dominoes,
Where a neat brown paper parcel
Tempts you to untie the string.
In the parcel a small island,
On the island a large tree,
On the tree a husky fruit.
Strip the husk and pare the rind off:
In the kernel you will see
Blocks of slate enclosed by dappled
Red and green, enclosed by tawny
Yellow nets, enclosed by white
And black acres of dominoes,
Where the same brown paper parcel —
Children, leave the string alone!
For who dares undo the parcel
Finds himself at once inside it,
On the island, in the fruit,
Blocks of slate about his head,
Finds himself enclosed by dappled
Green and red, enclosed by yellow
Tawny nets, enclosed by black
And white acres of dominoes,
With the same brown paper parcel
Still untied upon his knee.
And, if he then should dare to think
Of the fewness, muchness, rareness,
Greatness of this endless only
Precious world in which he says
he lives — he then unties the string.
"The abundance of Nature is not a matter of its 'providing' ". -- William James, c. 1901.

"I'd like to say thank-you on behalf of the band and ourselves, and I hope we passed the audition". -- John Lennon, clowning on the Let It Be album (1970) recording session.
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Re: Poetry - post poems that move you

Postby Linda Anderson on Tue Apr 16, 2013 7:13 pm

Bi-Focal

Sometimes up out of this land
a legend begins to move.
Is it a coming near
of something under love?
Love is of the earth only,
the surface, a map of roads
leading wherever go miles
or little bushes nod.
Not so the legend under,
fixed, inexorable,
deep as the darkest mine
the thick rocks won't tell.
As fire burns the leaf
and out of the green appears
the vein in the center line
and the legend veins under there,
So, the world happens twice--
once what we see it as;
second it legends itself
deep, the way it is.

~William Stafford
Not last night,
not this morning;
Melon flowers bloomed.
~ Bassho
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Re: Poetry - post poems that move you

Postby Nonin on Tue Apr 16, 2013 9:56 pm

Releasing the Sherpas


The last two sherpas were the strongest,
faithful companions, their faces wind-peeled,
streaked with soot and glacier-light on the snowfield
below the summit where we stopped to rest.

The first was my body, snug in its cap of lynx-
fur, smelling of yak butter and fine mineral dirt,
agile, impetuous, broad-shouldered,
alive to the frozen bit of oxygen in the larynx.

The second was my intellect, dour and thirsty,
furrowing its fox-like brow, my calculating brain
searching for some cairn or chasm to explain
my decision to send them back without me.

Looking down from the next, ax-cleft serac
I saw them turn and dwindle and felt unafraid.
Blind as a diamond, sun-pure and rarefied,
whatever I was then, there was no turning back.


Campbell McGrath
Soto Zen Buddhist Priest. Transmitted Dharma Heir of Dainin Katagiri Roshi.
Abbot and Head Teacher, Nebraska Zen Center / Heartland Temple, Omaha, Nebraska, USA
http://www.prairiewindzen.org
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Re: Poetry - post poems that move you

Postby Nonin on Tue Apr 16, 2013 9:59 pm

The Gardener


Have I lived enough?
Have I loved enough?
Have I considered Right Action enough, have I
come to any conclusion?
Have I experienced happiness with sufficient gratitude?
Have I endured loneliness with grace?

I say this, or perhaps I’m just thinking it.
Actually, I probably think too much.

Then I step out into the garden,
where the gardener, who is said to be a simple man,
is tending his children, the roses.


Mary Oliver
Soto Zen Buddhist Priest. Transmitted Dharma Heir of Dainin Katagiri Roshi.
Abbot and Head Teacher, Nebraska Zen Center / Heartland Temple, Omaha, Nebraska, USA
http://www.prairiewindzen.org
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Re: Poetry - post poems that move you

Postby Chrisd on Tue Apr 16, 2013 11:39 pm

Maybe not in line with the other poems. Quite a story. Don't understand it. Still awesome.

Richard Rose wrote:Out of the valley of the river came a wanderer. Peace was in his eye and
his soul was wrapped in Nirvana. Peace to the wanderer.
O Eternal Essence, I was that Wanderer. I it was who left the gardens of
tranquility that I might labor for Truth.
I sought Thee, O Eternal Essence, in the grottoes and in the tabernacles. I
called out thy name to the stone ears of statues. And thou answered not.
I sought Thee in the voice of nature. I looked for Thee in the footprints of
animals, in the habits of birds. I listened for a revelation in the murmuring of
waters and in the soft moaning of the forests. I laid my ear against the roaring
cataracts and bared my head to the tempests. But Thou answered not.
I have sought Thee, O Eternal Essence, within my self. I have sought Thee
in my mind until I was cursed with confusion. And I saw Thee not.
Then, O Eternal Essence, I sought Thee whence I came. I sought Thee in
my womb. As the wild beast flees from the elements into his cavern where his
wild dam littered him, so I fled the darkness of my clay. And naught did I find
but the turbulence of my imagination. There in chaotic pattern did I find the
seeds of all confusion that pretended to be wisdom. Where man was born was
also born his gods. Where man was born was also born his demons. And where
in glorious pain, man first raised his foetal head, there too in ignominious joy
was he devoured.
My eyes are extinguished although I see the earth beneath me. And my
ears are destroyed and my mouth speaks no words for my feet carry me through
a realm that needs no language. And my mind is silent and humble in its
dismay, and all within that House there is not one thought. And within that
House is heard the painful tolling of a tiny silver bell, and within that dome is
felt the surge of mighty roaring tides that will not be stopped.
For the keeper of the House is gone, and all that remains testifies that he
never was. Exploding thunder shakes its walls, and heaven and hell are within
its region. For All is within that House, swelling it to burst its comprehension.
All joy is here, and all joy is pain, torturing the House that cannot contain it.
All of joy is tears, and the world will not contain the reaving sorrow of
this House. All this House is fire, straining to burst forth until these walls stand
no longer.O lamentations of lamentations, has thy agony no tongue? O sorrower in
the spaces of desolation, who shall hear thy anguish, and unless it be heard, how
shall the pain be stopped?
I, O Eternal Essence, beseech Thee,--where within Thee have I dissolved
myself?
Where are prisoned those who follow love? Where have I left my I-ness,
and now having left it, who is it that cries out to Thee? Where is the dirge of
sorrow that is all that remains of me? Who feels this pain that burns and
consumes, yet is felt not by I-who-am-no-more? Who is it that looks from the
windows of my mansion like a strange prowler? Who is it that hears and hears
not, that yearns for life and lives not, that seeks out death and dies not....?
O Ever-Allness, what is Thy pleasure in my sorrow? Thou hast damned
me to thoughtlessness, and yet I cannot leave off thinking, and still my thoughts
are not words. Thou hast robbed me of my soul and mind, and my body
laments for all ages, for my body dies not nor yet walks among men. Thou hast
delivered me from my Ego, and what is there that remains? O Ever-Allness,
forever insensate, pitiless to entreaty, speechless to my prayers,--weep Thou
with me for I am of Thee....and all that remains of me is Thee.
What is the magnitude of Thy nothingness! O what are the limits of Thy
plentitude!....What is the thunder of Thy silence!....How quiet are Thy
cataclysms! Thus shall I sing the praises of myself.
Peace to the wanderer!
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Re: Poetry - post poems that move you

Postby Carol on Thu Apr 18, 2013 7:53 pm

The Diameter of the Bomb

The diameter of the bomb was thirty centimeters
and the diameter of its effective range about seven meters,
with four dead and eleven wounded.
And around these, in a larger circle
of pain and time, two hospitals are scattered
and one graveyard. But the young woman
who was buried in the city she came from,
at a distance of more than a hundred kilometers,
enlarges the circle considerably,
and the solitary man mourning her death
at the distant shores of a country far across the sea
includes the entire world in the circle.
And I wont even mention the crying of orphans
that reaches up to the throne of God and
beyond, making
a circle with no end and no God.

- Yehuda Amichai
Practitioners who cultivate the personal realization of buddha knowledge dwell in the bliss of whatever is present and do not abandon their practice.
~Lankavatara Sutra
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Re: Poetry - post poems that move you

Postby desert_woodworker on Thu Apr 18, 2013 9:15 pm

Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird

I
Among twenty snowy mountains,
The only moving thing
Was the eye of the blackbird.

II
I was of three minds,
Like a tree
In which there are three blackbirds.

III
The blackbird whirled in the autumn winds.
It was a small part of the pantomime.

IV
A man and a woman
Are one.
A man and a woman and a blackbird
Are one.

V
I do not know which to prefer,
The beauty of inflections
Or the beauty of innuendoes,
The blackbird whistling
Or just after.

VI
Icicles filled the long window
With barbaric glass.
The shadow of the blackbird
Crossed it, to and fro.
The mood
Traced in the shadow
An indecipherable cause.

VII
O thin men of Haddam,
Why do you imagine golden birds?
Do you not see how the blackbird
Walks around the feet
Of the women about you?

VIII
I know noble accents
And lucid, inescapable rhythms;
But I know, too,
That the blackbird is involved
In what I know.

IX
When the blackbird flew out of sight,
It marked the edge
Of one of many circles.

X
At the sight of blackbirds
Flying in a green light,
Even the bawds of euphony
Would cry out sharply.

XI
He rode over Connecticut
In a glass coach.
Once, a fear pierced him,
In that he mistook
The shadow of his equipage
For blackbirds.

XII
The river is moving.
The blackbird must be flying.

XIII
It was evening all afternoon.
It was snowing
And it was going to snow.
The blackbird sat
In the cedar-limbs.

--Wallace Stevens
"The abundance of Nature is not a matter of its 'providing' ". -- William James, c. 1901.

"I'd like to say thank-you on behalf of the band and ourselves, and I hope we passed the audition". -- John Lennon, clowning on the Let It Be album (1970) recording session.
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Re: Poetry - post poems that move you

Postby Carol on Sat Apr 20, 2013 5:11 pm

Oh Shameful Day

How is it that the beauty of all creation
Which meets the rising sun of any one day
A sun that is always risen, turning earth,
Can be shamed by the act of one soul
Can be shamed by a body of legislature
Can be shamed by acts in the name of a nation?

How is it that the reverence for life
Can be bred out of a species by ideologies
Of hatred, greed and ignorance spread
By those mysteries of voice and pen
Of consciousness of self and other misled
To see a separateness when all are one?

The saddest possibility is that the nation's
Shame is its collective failure to see the seeds
Of such evil are watered by the tears of loss
Of those whose burden is to bear the rending
Of the cloaking promise of compassion by rights
Which privilege some, despoiling revered creation.

~ Mark C. Johnson
SfRR April 18, 2013
From the collection Searching for Right Relationship - poems inspired by news headlines
Practitioners who cultivate the personal realization of buddha knowledge dwell in the bliss of whatever is present and do not abandon their practice.
~Lankavatara Sutra
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Re: Poetry - post poems that move you

Postby Possum on Sat Apr 20, 2013 11:25 pm

Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening


Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village, though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.

My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.

He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound's the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.

The woods are lovely, dark, and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.


~ Robert Frost
"We found large differences between the effect sizes reported for complete MBSR programs vs. “pure” meditation."
- "The Effects of Mindfulness Meditation: A Meta-Analysis" by Eberth and Sedlmeier
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Re: Poetry - post poems that move you

Postby Linda Anderson on Sun Apr 21, 2013 1:37 am

TWO TRAMPS IN MUD TIME

Out of the mud two strangers came
And caught me splitting wood in the yard,
And one of them put me off my aim
By hailing cheerily "Hit them hard!"
I knew pretty well why he had dropped behind
And let the other go on a way.
I knew pretty well what he had in mind:
He wanted to take my job for pay.
Good blocks of oak it was I split,
As large around as the chopping block;
And every piece I squarely hit
Fell splinterless as a cloven rock.
The blows that a life of self-control
Spares to strike for the common good,
That day, giving a loose my soul,
I spent on the unimportant wood.
The sun was warm but the wind was chill.
You know how it is with an April day
When the sun is out and the wind is still,
You're one month on in the middle of May.
But if you so much as dare to speak,
A cloud comes over the sunlit arch,
A wind comes off a frozen peak,
And you're two months back in the middle of March.
A bluebird comes tenderly up to alight
And turns to the wind to unruffle a plume,
His song so pitched as not to excite
A single flower as yet to bloom.
It is snowing a flake; and he half knew
Winter was only playing possum.
Except in color he isn't blue,
But he wouldn't advise a thing to blossom.
The water for which we may have to look
In summertime with a witching wand,
In every wheelrut's now a brook,
In every print of a hoof a pond.
Be glad of water, but don't forget
The lurking frost in the earth beneath
That will steal forth after the sun is set
And show on the water its crystal teeth.
The time when most I loved my task
The two must make me love it more
By coming with what they came to ask.
You'd think I never had felt before
The weight of an ax-head poised aloft,
The grip of earth on outspread feet,
The life of muscles rocking soft
And smooth and moist in vernal heat.
Out of the wood two hulking tramps
(From sleeping God knows where last night,
But not long since in the lumber camps).
They thought all chopping was theirs of right.
Men of the woods and lumberjacks,
The judged me by their appropriate tool.
Except as a fellow handled an ax
They had no way of knowing a fool.
Nothing on either side was said.
They knew they had but to stay their stay
And all their logic would fill my head:
As that I had no right to play
With what was another man's work for gain.
My right might be love but theirs was need.
And where the two exist in twain
Theirs was the better right--agreed.
But yield who will to their separation,
My object in living is to unite
My avocation and my vocation
As my two eyes make one in sight.
Only where love and need are one,
And the work is play for mortal stakes,
Is the deed ever really done
For Heaven and the future's sakes.
- Robert Frost
Not last night,
not this morning;
Melon flowers bloomed.
~ Bassho
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Re: Poetry - post poems that move you

Postby Linda Anderson on Mon Apr 22, 2013 2:59 am

Alive Alone

We are all alive alone.
Neither friend nor lover
Child nor mother
Can light our way for very long.
Out of loneliness
Arises the self we never knew.
Out of fear
Comes the wisdom of our ancestors.
Out of impatience
Grows the persistence of old age.
These shadows of our memory
Create new pathways to the soul
So that in being alive alone
We become alive together.

~Nancy Wood
Not last night,
not this morning;
Melon flowers bloomed.
~ Bassho
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Re: Poetry - post poems that move you

Postby cherrytigerbarb on Mon Apr 22, 2013 5:59 am

Letty's Globe.
Charles Tennyson Turner (1808-1879)

WHEN Letty had scarce pass’d her third glad year,
And her young artless words began to flow,
One day we gave the child a colour’d sphere
Of the wide earth, that she might mark and know,
By tint and outline, all its sea and land.
She patted all the world; old empires peep’d
Between her baby fingers; her soft hand
Was welcome at all frontiers. How she leap’d,
And laugh’d and prattled in her world-wide bliss;
But when we turn’d her sweet unlearnèd eye
On our own isle, she raised a joyous cry—
‘Oh! yes, I see it, Letty’s home is there!’
And while she hid all England with a kiss,
Bright over Europe fell her golden hair.
"The foolish reject what they see, not what they think. The wise reject what they think, not what they see." - Huang Po.
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Re: Poetry - post poems that move you

Postby Carol on Mon Apr 22, 2013 8:12 am

Pi
by Wislawa Szymborska

The admirable number pi:
three point one four one.
All the following digits are also initial,
five nine two because it never ends.
It can't be comprehended six five three five at a glance,
eight nine by calculation,
seven nine or imagination,
not even three two three eight by wit, that is, by comparison
four six to anything else
two six four three in the world.
The longest snake on earth calls it quits at about forty feet.
Likewise, snakes of myth and legend, though they may hold out a bit longer.
The pageant of digits comprising the number pi
doesn't stop at the page's edge.
It goes on across the table, through the air,
over a wall, a leaf, a bird's nest, clouds, straight into the sky,
through all the bottomless, bloated heavens.
Oh how brief - a mouse tail, a pigtail - is the tail of a comet!
How feeble the star's ray, bent by bumping up against space!
While here we have two three fifteen three hundred nineteen
my phone number your shirt size the year
nineteen hundred and seventy-three the sixth floor
the number of inhabitants sixty-five cents
hip measurement two fingers a charade, a code,
in which we find hail to thee, blithe spirit, bird thou never wert
alongside ladies and gentlemen, no cause for alarm,
as well as heaven and earth shall pass away,
but not the number pi, oh no, nothing doing,
it keeps right on with its rather remarkable five,
its uncommonly fine eight,
its far from final seven,
nudging, always nudging a sluggish eternity
to continue.
Practitioners who cultivate the personal realization of buddha knowledge dwell in the bliss of whatever is present and do not abandon their practice.
~Lankavatara Sutra
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Re: For Sharing Poetry by ZFI Members

Postby ed blanco on Mon Apr 22, 2013 6:27 pm

you

you stand inside me naked infinite love

the dawn bell rips my dreaming heart

we're lost where the mind can't find us

utterly lost

only one koan matters

you


~Ikkyu

:O:
IT SPEAKS IN SILENCE
IN SPEECH YOU HEAR ITS SILENCE

Yongjia Xuanjue
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Re: Poetry - post poems that move you

Postby desert_woodworker on Fri Apr 26, 2013 2:14 am

[b]The Facebook Sonnet[/b]

Welcome to the endless high-school
Reunion. Welcome to past friends
And lovers, however kind or cruel.
Let’s undervalue and unmend

The present. Why can’t we pretend
Every stage of life is the same?
Let’s exhume, resume, and extend
Childhood. Let’s play all the games

That occupy the young. Let fame
And shame intertwine. Let one’s search
For God become public domain.
Let church.com become our church

Let’s sign up, sign in, and confess
Here at the altar of loneliness.

..Sherman Alexie
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Re: Poetry - post poems that move you

Postby Carol on Mon May 20, 2013 6:20 am

Practitioners who cultivate the personal realization of buddha knowledge dwell in the bliss of whatever is present and do not abandon their practice.
~Lankavatara Sutra
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Re: Poetry - post poems that move you

Postby desert_woodworker on Tue May 21, 2013 12:12 am

It's from this poem I first "learned" the word "filigranity", 40-plus years ago, while with a young lady I loved, (who) also loved this poem. --Joe

¡Wellcome, to the Caves of Arta! by Robert Graves

'They are hollowed out in the see-coast at the muncipal terminal of Capdepera at nine kilometer from the town of Arta in the Island of Mallorca, with a stuporizing infinity of graceful colums of 21 meter and by downward, which prives the spectator of all animacion and plunges in dumbness. The way going is very picturesque, serpentine between style mountains, til the arrival at the esplanade of the vallee called «The Spiders». There are good enlacements of the railroad with autobuses of excursion, many days of the week, today actually Wednesday and Satturday. Since many centuries renown foreing visitors have explored them and wrote their elegy about, included Nort-American geoglogues.' [From a tourist guide]

Such subtile filigranity and nobless of construccion
Here fraternise in harmony, that respiracion stops.
While all admit thier impotence (though autors most formidable)
To sing in words the excellence of Nature's underprops,
Yet stalactite and stalagmite together with dumb language
Make hymnes to God wich celebrate the stregnth of water drops.

¿You, also, are you capable to make precise in idiom
Consideracions magic of ilusions very wide?
Already in the Vestibule of these Grand Caves of Arta
The spirit of the human verb is darked and stupefied;
So humildy you trespass trough the forest of the colums
And listen to the grandess explicated by the guide.

From darkness into darkness, but at measure, now descending
You remark with what esxactitude he designates each bent;
«The Saloon of Thousand Banners», or «The Tumba of Napoleon»,
«The Grotto of the Rosary», «The Club», «The Camping Tent»,
And at «Cavern of the Organs» there are knocking strange formacions
Wich give a nois particular pervoking wonderment.

Too far do not adventure, sir! For, further as you wander,
The every of the stalactites will make you stop and stay.
Grand peril amenaces now, your nostrills aprehending
An odour least delicious of lamentable decay.
It is poor touristers, in the depth of obscure cristal,
Wich deceased of thier emocion on a past excursion day.
.
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"The abundance of Nature is not a matter of its 'providing' ". -- William James, c. 1901.

"I'd like to say thank-you on behalf of the band and ourselves, and I hope we passed the audition". -- John Lennon, clowning on the Let It Be album (1970) recording session.
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desert_woodworker
 
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Re: Poetry - post poems that move you

Postby desert_woodworker on Wed May 22, 2013 12:05 am

“Tell me, what is it you plan to do
with your one wild and precious life?”

― Mary Oliver, New and Selected Poems
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