ΜīήďSрŷ: Is this s poem? Reads more like a text, but a beautifully written one.

There are times when you have to let go of the love you have grown so used to.
There are times when joyous moments turn flatly undesirable, dreams for the future cease, only to be forgotten.

In these times a heart that once beat in harmony with the universe, now is hallow, and echoes hurt.
The heart falls on hard ground, shattering, scattered pieces, later turning to dirt.

There are times love turns to hate, caring is no longer necessary, and comfort goes away.

Now lord, I ask this of you. Can you bring my heart back from the dirt? Take away every ounce of echoed hurt? Replace the comfort; the caring, the joyous moments I so loved?

My lord, now finally I can feel peace. Now I can leave this world, my heart hurts no more.
The lord has answered my prayers, giving me everything I have asked for.

MindSpy

Nomad: Unspeakably good my friend.

A friend is Poisoned

On my own, by some others accord,
Where the tumbleweeds fade away and die,
Before the glassy sun burns a summer of crystals,
The glistering waters of the high seas
Of which was so far a place as of where vultures roam.
I looked around but you weren't anywhere...
You used to say that you would never die,
But I took the wrong meaning into my heart.
Now the sea is wild with despair,
Deep blue like a prairie of flowers blue,
Where all children of God rest in eternal peace.
I saw you at the end,
You and I, siblings of nature,
Siblings of heaven and earth,
Your usually calm and heavenly eyes full of tears,
Bitterly falling one after one into a river,
Then the river of life turned red in blood.
My eyes watched in horror.
Slowly and deadly your heart became poisoned,
You disappeared without saying good-bye,
Not a word came out of your mouth.
You became like desolation in its grave.
When once the skies were a realm of stars
And the sun shone brightly in summer skies,
You were there to share the calmness;
But now I stand here in midst of the tall grass
And only the I remain.

The Nomad MAY 2003

Stardust: Excellent.

And right on the money.

Serving
Time

Arrows pierce the heart
Reactions are mixed

Dawn has arrived
Until tomorrow the
Sun will rise
Together with the joy

Indeed life moves forward
Surrounding us

2

Nomad: Wow!
It's good to see your writings again my Friend!

YFA

Nomad: Awesome as always.

And so true.

OLD Wounds

Things left unsaid
Heads and heart detach
Eyes forever seeing

None see the light
Only what they want
Minutes slip by
Absent from glory
Destined for mistakes

Are we with purpose
Now that we have bore our souls.
Do the moon shadows know our fears.

United for all of time
Searching evermore
Unforgining in task
Restless by nature
Porpose driven
Endless valor
Ruthless to those without compassion

Alive in shadows
Retreating to the dark
Enduring all assaults

Be warned that the rainman
Always takes his victim
Cause and effect
Kicking you when you least expect it

S’io credesse che mia risposta fosse
A persona che mai tornasse al mondo,
Questa fiamma staria senza piu scosse.
Ma perciocche giammai di questo fondo
Non torno vivo alcun, s’i’odo il vero,
Senza tema d’infamia ti rispondo.


LET us go then, you and I,
When the evening is spread out against the sky
Like a patient etherised upon a table;
Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,
The muttering retreats
Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels
And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:
Streets that follow like a tedious argument
Of insidious intent
To lead you to an overwhelming question …
Oh, do not ask, “What is it?”
Let us go and make our visit.

In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.

The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes,
The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes
Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening,
Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains,
Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys,
Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap,
And seeing that it was a soft October night,
Curled once about the house, and fell asleep.

And indeed there will be time
For the yellow smoke that slides along the street,
Rubbing its back upon the window-panes;
There will be time, there will be time
To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;
There will be time to murder and create,
And time for all the works and days of hands
That lift and drop a question on your plate;
Time for you and time for me,
And time yet for a hundred indecisions,
And for a hundred visions and revisions,
Before the taking of a toast and tea.

In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.

And indeed there will be time
To wonder, “Do I dare?” and, “Do I dare?”
Time to turn back and descend the stair,
With a bald spot in the middle of my hair—
[They will say: “How his hair is growing thin!”]
My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin,
My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin—
[They will say: “But how his arms and legs are thin!”]
Do I dare
Disturb the universe?
In a minute there is time
For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.

For I have known them all already, known them all:—
Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,
I have measured out my life with coffee spoons;
I know the voices dying with a dying fall
Beneath the music from a farther room.
So how should I presume?

And I have known the eyes already, known them all—
The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase,
And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin,
When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall,
Then how should I begin
To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways?
And how should I presume?

And I have known the arms already, known them all—
Arms that are braceleted and white and bare
[But in the lamplight, downed with light brown hair!]
It is perfume from a dress
That makes me so digress?
Arms that lie along a table, or wrap about a shawl.
And should I then presume?
And how should I begin?
. . . . .
Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streets
And watched the smoke that rises from the pipes
Of lonely men in shirt-sleeves, leaning out of windows?…

I should have been a pair of ragged claws
Scuttling across the floors of silent seas.
. . . . .
And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully!
Smoothed by long fingers,
Asleep … tired … or it malingers,
Stretched on the floor, here beside you and me.
Should I, after tea and cakes and ices,
Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis?
But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed,
Though I have seen my head [grown slightly bald] brought in upon a platter,
I am no prophet—and here’s no great matter;
I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,
And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker,
And in short, I was afraid.

And would it have been worth it, after all,
After the cups, the marmalade, the tea,
Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me,
Would it have been worth while,
To have bitten off the matter with a smile,
To have squeezed the universe into a ball
To roll it toward some overwhelming question,
To say: “I am Lazarus, come from the dead,
Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all”—
If one, settling a pillow by her head,
Should say: “That is not what I meant at all.
That is not it, at all.”

And would it have been worth it, after all,
Would it have been worth while,
After the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets,
After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail along the floor—
And this, and so much more?—
It is impossible to say just what I mean!
But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen:
Would it have been worth while
If one, settling a pillow or throwing off a shawl,
And turning toward the window, should say:
“That is not it at all,
That is not what I meant, at all.”
. . . . .
No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;
Am an attendant lord, one that will do
To swell a progress, start a scene or two,
Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool,
Deferential, glad to be of use,
Politic, cautious, and meticulous;
Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse;
At times, indeed, almost ridiculous—
Almost, at times, the Fool.

I grow old … I grow old …
I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.

Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?
I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.
I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.

I do not think that they will sing to me.

I have seen them riding seaward on the waves
Combing the white hair of the waves blown back
When the wind blows the water white and black.

We have lingered in the chambers of the sea
By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown
Till human voices wake us, and we drown.


--T.S. Eliot: The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock

Tuesday: hehehhehe http://magicroundabout.com/Characters.asp

Click on the Dylan short movie link... for a childrens show,, its not bad having a stoned Rabbit growing magic mushroom LMAO

Tuesday: Talking of Dylan,,, I miss The magic Roundabout hehehe

Hi (((((Tuesday)))))) loved your poem and im so sorry you have to miss your buddy Dylan now. I have a kitten myself and he is adorable.. can't think of him not being around anymore... Thank you for sharing your loss.. God bless!

Tuesday: jeez,just make me cry,why don't ya,lol

Tuesday:

is it!?

Winnie:

That exactly tells me why I love the countryside!

LOL. looks like the moral is "Don't depend on the cook to help you in your plots"

I have chosen for you some of my favorites in your own language:

Carroll, Lewis

Brother and Sister

"Sister, sister, go to bed!
Go and rest your weary head."
Thus the prudent brother said.

"Do you want a battered hide,
Or scratches to your face applied?"
Thus his sister calm replied.

"Sister, do not raise my wrath.
I'd make you into mutton broth,
As easily as kill a moth!"

The sister raised his beaming eye,
And looked on him indignantly
And sternly answered, "only try!"

Off to the cook he quickly ran.

"Dear cook, please lend a frying-pan,
To me as quickly as you can."

"And wherefore should I lend it to you?"
"The reason, cook, is plain to view.
I wish to make an Irish stew."

"What meat is in that stew to go?"
"My sister'll be the contents!"
"Oh!"

"You'll lend the pan to me cook?"
"No!"

*******************************


LOl! I didn't get anything from that peom!

Any morals? May be: Never stew your sister!


Are you and your brother in such 'pan and meat' relationship Winnie? LOL.