JUST SEX and POETRY

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Homunculus Nebula

Brisbane, Australia

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#5700
Jan 22, 2013
 

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There is a man who lives in my mirror,
who has profited from the moments of looking at me, and
appears to hold, for his young age, the perverse other side of my dreams.
Years ago it was different. And time has made him someone else.
He gives the impression now of having rejected a lot
and one does not see the beauty that gave him youth.
It seems that where he lives it is cold and has begun to rain.
The man I perceive in the mirror is reserved and reflective
and only sometimes repeats my words as in a deaf echo.

I am saddened that his great passions have furrowed his skin
and have darkened it with solitude, and sad thoughts,
and eyes pockmarked by chicken feet and deep rings.
I am afraid of his looks of resignation and reproach
and his profound nay-saying of being accomplice to joy and the lie.
His tone is made of thoughts and he does not hear my guitar
and each day he looks more like my late father.

He has my father’s face invaded already by sadness.
He does not agree with the dissipation of my work and my days
and he wants me to be more faithful to my house and my dreams.
He compares his world full of reflections
with mine that has no balance, not in joy or sadness,
in truth or lies, in prose or poetry,
and he sees me like a young deer loose among the crags
in a landscape of stones and thorns.

When he passes his hand like a comb through his hair it appears
he would pull out the likeness he shares with me by the roots
and that he no longer wants to have my worldly image
popping up unexpectedly to disturb the richness of
the cloistered solitude he inhabits.
Homunculus Nebula

Brisbane, Australia

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#5701
Jan 22, 2013
 

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Imperceptible
but to the keenest of eyes,
a lapse in stitching lies
along border of folk art fracture:
two pheasants in a mating dance
above sunflowers and apricot seeds,
feathers spun in cinnamon gold,
terra cotta, and willow green.

The embroiderer could have
remembered how the gods
deemed perfection only
for themselves, deities who
could do no wrong, and how,
when mortals dared the absolute
they were turned into toads, or trees,
or forever silenced as mountain tarns
in the deepest of woods.

Or, lost in an exquisite world
envied by divine beings,
the artist might have been
so beguiled by the autumn
wind, so moved by the hand
that caressed her cheek, pallid
after words of endearment.

She knows that faultless things
must be hidden from prying eyes,
the heart be quiet, ensconced
in muted fire, while fingers
emblazon figures on ivory faille,
lisle shaping the sounds
of wingéd flight.
Homunculus Nebula

Brisbane, Australia

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#5704
Jan 22, 2013
 

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Because the sounds
were caged within
a voiceless void,
she speaks to me
of joy this morning
with eager gesticulations,
hands darting like sparrows.

Last night, draped
in starched sterile greens,
she clutched at straining bars
under the harsh lights
of an antiseptic cubicle
eerily quiet. It woke
to her small sharp screams.

Her waters broke
as a fuzzy head slid out
with its wet waxy vernix.
Her tears were sounds
scrabbling at the hollow
of my throat, bird wings
brushing against glass panes.

Today we look at each other
across this expanse of clean sheets,
laughter tumbling out of our
quick wrists: splayed fingers,
open palms. Her fingers
touch her heart, circle the air.
I hear the burst of wings.
Homunculus Nebula

Brisbane, Australia

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#5705
Jan 22, 2013
 

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"more exquisite than gold, devoid
of all becoming or passing away ....…”


Wat is invisible, yet so powerful
that no force can withstand it?

A circle of burghers gathered around master guericke and his construction: the vacuum pump
towering on three legs in the room, a perfect
piece, standing there with the obscene grace
of the mantis religiosa. polished brass,
its recipient a glass sphere:
and here too is the sparrow, now beginning to flutter like the flame on a spirit of wine – its air growing ever thinner.

Before the window the yellow plums ripen in the buzzing heat, the grass spreads on the ruins. and on the wall hangs this engraving: old magdeburg.
the unswerving progress of the pendulum clock,
diopter, pedometer, astrolabe; the globe on the table where New Zealand’s dorsal has shortly cut through the great pacific, and as if from afar
the dogged trot of a passing horse and cart....

“That dead sparrow,” whispers one,
Homunculus Nebula

Brisbane, Australia

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#5706
Jan 22, 2013
 

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Weighing up my words to you –
silent couples drifting to and fro,
beds of fallen leaves, the naked trees,
the blooms of fences blue as verdigris,
the light like wax, aristocratic, pale –

I saw the greenhouse on the hill,
glass, white ribs and fin de siècle,
and recalled those skeletons of whales,
how as a child I’d crane my neck to see them
hovering, it seemed, in the museum,
hung from ceilings on transparent threads,
monstrous beasts washed up by the tides
from depths unplumbed and times remote,
suffocated under their own weight.

Now, the veterans grow out of the grass
attired in emeritus uniforms;
their heavy buttons seem so matt
in the late sunlight – the brass glinting back.
they grow from the grass as in the myths
when an army was sowed with dragon’s teeth.

Indeed the veterans bare their teeth
on photographs as brown as parched grass
in summer – more faded even than myths.
battle, said the greek, is where all forms
begin, to battle too all things lead back.


And now the veterans assault their matt-
erhorn of memories, its glow grown matt
against the light. their laughter echoes
however, long forgotten, they’ve left back
in the plain. easily overlooked in the grass
are grandchildren happy with the basest forms
of game – unlike the veterans themselves, smiths

of fate in a game surrounded with myths,
where king meets king and knights give mate.
(small wonder then the craftsman who forms
the pieces uses ivory and walrus teeth).
in the veterans’ garden grows the grass.
the snail with one foot out slides back.

The veterans’ thoughts often take them back
but rarely forward. what transpires are myths.
their grandchildren play on the very grass
on which their comrades fell, whose eyes were matt
in death. survival means to clench your teeth
and master fate in all its manifold forms.

Their nurses wear white uniforms
and still feel warm. they roll them back
inside when first stars flash their teeth,
and then a mighty army of myths
follows them up to their rooms. once matt,
their imprints soon dissolve in the grass.

The dark forms drift across the grass –
some might think of teeth. or myths.
but the king stays back:

Checkmate !!
Poet

United States

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#5707
Jan 22, 2013
 

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Indiscreet Southern Trash Diary

Ya see, I don't like
too much attention
Let me dump my purse
All over the table
These are my prescription drugs
A picture of my family
Members all more successful than me
Ya see, this is a band-aid
I'm like a midget kid
With scabbed knees
And snot running down my nose
My growth can not even be charted
I'm treading water in a sea
Of retardation
Homunculus Nebula

Brisbane, Australia

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#5708
Jan 22, 2013
 

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Here I am once again letting myself fall down the sloping bank
To go toward the marches and the primitive forests
When time decides and shadows do not menace the rigor of days.

I am here to receive your stubbornness and your lack of fear
To stay where I am surviving your life
When insidious memory leads you to a much far-off exile
Where you can only embrace the Summers of your childhood.

But I don’t know who are you if you have lived so long
Your world is of iron and its trees do not make me go forward
Your mother elected a river for your honorable death
But the river is completely oblique and I forget how to go there.

You think in silence. You write in silence.
You reach the curve taught by the ancient homicides of La Roche
And you kill guilt and kill words
And talk like strong men shedding tears.



You advance with the lightning and fall with the absence of sound
You look like a repentant heretic his eyes lost in the mire
Searching for a deity like one more adventurer without the urgency of God.........

Your life overflows you, and you embrace the dawn, and I embrace your voice, and I embrace you.

Homunculus Nebula

Brisbane, Australia

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#5709
Jan 22, 2013
 

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Check_ Your_ Pulse wrote:
Original
CYP
My bones are cold my love
I beg thee to warm them
Wrap me in your love and energy
Take away the chill
Let me feel the heat of your kisses
The electricity of your touch
Heated breath upon my neck
Make love to me here by the fire
Slow and passionately
Tell me you love me
Over and over again
Touch me in all my most intimate places
Known only by you
Take my breast into your hands
Kiss them softly
Nuzzle yourself gently there
Tangle my hair into your hands
Tug it gently
Tell me that you want me
Tell me again
Gently glide your hands upon my skin
which indulges in the warmth of your touch
Let them find my thighs
As I ask with no shame
For you to enter me
Launch me into ecstasy with the movement of your hips
Passionately I plea for you to warm me with your liquid release
For my bones are cold my love
And I beg thee to warm them
I want a kingdom of words
a river of words
to wash away human misery
and plant roots in my soul
so that it might be an Argonaut,
a Quixotic Knight in fantastic seas
a valiant dreamer of liberty.

A kingdom of words
to rearrange the movement
of birds in branches
to feel the color of a star
the aroma of wind
the spirituality of your passion.

A kingdom of words to help me know
human being, seas and stars
to join my soul and my body
and please my flesh.

I want a kingdom of words for my soul
as much as I want a vast country for my heart
a free country like we’ve all imagined.
A kingdom of words to seduce me
and roll out from my tongue
like a string of pearls
at dusk in my country,

A kingdom of words or a river of words
overflowing, carrying everything it finds in its path
a will-o-’the-wisp in my mouth
a passion devouring my dreams.

To burn my lips
and grant me the keys of the imagination
the islands of colors and spices
Amboina, Banda, Ternate and Tidore
with their trunks and tragedies and adventures
in the sea of lamentations of Vespuccio and Magellan

To have it come to a halt before me
all I need is the light of your eyes
the trembling at the threshold of dreams,
splashing on the white page on this screen......

~DeVine.
Homunculus Nebula

Brisbane, Australia

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#5710
Jan 22, 2013
 

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THE SELF-DEFEATING POEM



They will never come, neither from here, nor from there
They will never come, neither from here, nor from
They will never come, neither from here, nor
They will never come, neither from here
They will never come, neither from
They will never come, neither
They will never come
They will never
They will
They
Homunculus Nebula

Brisbane, Australia

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#5711
Jan 22, 2013
 

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"THE UNSUCCESFUL FILM."



In the movie house of my bleeding soul, lying back on my dream – couch, I see myself in a film running daily in eternity.

It is snowing. This is Petersburg, glorious in its rags singing alone in the dark. Carriages with sleepy horses trot past leisurely, and along the sidewalksdrunks are hunting prostitutes.

I am in a tavern, on the table a bottle of vodka. From my corner I see Raskolnikov, a German cap on his head, wrapped in his tattered overcoat, shuffle along, followed by his greedy widows, to pawn his bloody hatchet with me.

Near a bus stop in a public square crowded with tourists Hamlet suddenly appears. He grabs my hand:“I pray thee, poet, write my story anew, I am a man, take me for all in all and let me be happy again.”

Opening his heart, confessing his foolish scruples that croak in his head like a crow in his castle in Denmark:“I am thy father’s spirit; doom’d for a certain term to walk the night,” he asks me to free him from his father’s ghost.

At the gateway of forgotten Ur-zaqura I hear the cry of Enkido, carried by the dead in a boat crossing seas of firebrand and burning water on their way to the underworld. I see Gilgamesh emerge out of a crack in the wall of my cold house like a friend, lost for centuries, now coming back:
“Let us go together! Be my guide!”

So we go deep into the forest looking for the deceiver serpent
that stole his magic plant.

Figures in tales and epics told to the children.
Figures of wars that had been won and others lost.
Figures made of tin to be sold in the brass market.
Figures of straw (all they need is a matchstick).
Figures for decoration in festivals.
Figures to be remembered,
Figures to be forgotten.

Vagabonds, villains, philosophers and kings,
generals, wise men and poets,
all come to me as shadows, escaped from their time-traps
to enter my heart.
They come one by one and knock at my door.
Confused, I open and welcome them.

Oh, damn, how I did myself in this valley of the dead?
Who led these souls to my gloomy house?
Oh, this is not my story, Oh I am not God
to carry the sins of mankind on my shoulders.

But as often happens, I get up, harrowed with fear and wonder,
I grope blindly at the light switch and see myself in the world again.

Outside in the street, I hear the trees
singing for me in the wind.

Thank God!, I say to myself, now I can sleep in peace,
and forget this unsuccessful film.

Since: Dec 12

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#5712
Jan 22, 2013
 

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Victoria Chang
The Dislocated Theater

There is a cliff. There is a woman on the edge of the cliff. Her arms open. The sun and the sky become larger. The wind carves into her. The piano acquires a body, strings come in on all speakers. When the cameras have gone, the cliff goes on taking the wind and the wind goes along its normal path. But where am I now, having seen the cliff, the woman on the edge, having heard the music and its crescendoing feet? Having seen the two white swans paddling in front of Mr. Darcy's house?

You, the windows. The statues. The grand staircase. The sound of horses. You, a man in a blue coat and riding boots. I, in a creme empire dress in a drawing room, stitching together ribbons, listening to the birds recoiling outside. In love with the pond, the swans, the English air, the man. I wake the next morning, pretending nothing happened. Pretending this life, this era, with its cheap housing projects, music that makes cars vibrate, men pouring concrete and snipping hedges into shapes of animals pretending.

In the better. In the furniture. In the infinity pool that becomes an ocean. In the fire pit. I want to stop. But I can't. Because there is no acceptable ending. Even the man on horseback shoots down birds. Even his house has kept soldiers on their way to unsew other other boys. Even the girl stitching ribbons will one day hang from the chandelier, imagining a room without ribbons, imaginary desk, bundles of pencils, small windows, papers with letters that almost touch each other, tea that spreads its stain on the cup, and takes the form of a wing.
Homunculus Nebula

Brisbane, Australia

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#5713
Jan 22, 2013
 

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I confess that I have
almost lived half my life:
I've tasted so many things
And forgot thousands more.
I've loved women, and
I've forgotten to count how many
Cried over me.
I found friends for good times
And friends for bad ones.
I've lived among forgotten victims
And learnt with my skin
The whips of executioners in prison cells.
I stood before unjust courts
Accused of blind love.
I wandered from desert to desert
And set up my tent in fairyland.
I let my horse drink from the waters of the Snowy River.
I slept among thieves on the shores of the Pilbara.
And sometimes lived in the castles of kings.
I've travelled to cities, swimming in darkness.
I've sat in the sun, and walked through snow,
Changing one land with another,
One pair of shoes with another.
I've burned so many bridges behind me
And sailed in seas that could never be crossed.
In a time of drought I sowed seeds
In the valley of rains.
In darkness I lit thousands of candles.
Under the waking moon
I've sighed like an foolish man in love
And wandered between continents.
How many times
Have I built paper palaces in my dreams?
How many times
Have I swapped reality for illusion?
I’ve told the truth and I’ve also lied some.
I’ve doubted a little and believed a little.
I’ve smoked all types of addictive narcotic opoids,
Drunk in bars the best vintage wines
And written the poems of my life.
I’ve laughed so much in this world.
I’ve cried so much in this world.
I’ve passed by like a light in the night.
I’ve been here and I’ve seen,
I’ve stayed and I’ve left.
I confess that I have
almost lived half my life.
Homunculus Nebula

Brisbane, Australia

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#5714
Jan 22, 2013
 

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Winking eyes
Somewhere

Among the trees
here and there,
Watching us curiously
While we come and go
Where something burns around us.

It's ash we call
Life
Sometimes also
Death.

Homunculus Nebula

Brisbane, Australia

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#5715
Jan 22, 2013
 

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Check_ Your_ Pulse wrote:
Victoria Chang
The Dislocated Theater
There is a cliff. There is a woman on the edge of the cliff. Her arms open. The sun and the sky become larger. The wind carves into her. The piano acquires a body, strings come in on all speakers. When the cameras have gone, the cliff goes on taking the wind and the wind goes along its normal path. But where am I now, having seen the cliff, the woman on the edge, having heard the music and its crescendoing feet? Having seen the two white swans paddling in front of Mr. Darcy's house?
You, the windows. The statues. The grand staircase. The sound of horses. You, a man in a blue coat and riding boots. I, in a creme empire dress in a drawing room, stitching together ribbons, listening to the birds recoiling outside. In love with the pond, the swans, the English air, the man. I wake the next morning, pretending nothing happened. Pretending this life, this era, with its cheap housing projects, music that makes cars vibrate, men pouring concrete and snipping hedges into shapes of animals pretending.
In the better. In the furniture. In the infinity pool that becomes an ocean. In the fire pit. I want to stop. But I can't. Because there is no acceptable ending. Even the man on horseback shoots down birds. Even his house has kept soldiers on their way to unsew other other boys. Even the girl stitching ribbons will one day hang from the chandelier, imagining a room without ribbons, imaginary desk, bundles of pencils, small windows, papers with letters that almost touch each other, tea that spreads its stain on the cup, and takes the form of a wing.
At midnight, while it was snowing, I sat in my room, listening on the radio to a folksong about a nightingale that had died in a cage and a princess who had lost her way into the forest.

Confused I heard a knock, gentle and low, like a rain drop on the window. Someone at white night was gliding high in front of the fifth floor of my appartment building, whispering with a faint voice that I once heard, but forgot by the turns of life.

She pressed her face against the windowpane und called me with my name,“Adrian, let me come in, it’s freezing cold!” When I opened the window I saw two tiny black joyous eyes smilingly stare at me.

Seeing me looking confounded at her, she entered and took me in her arms. She put her hand upon my shoulder and tenderly said:“Hi DeVine, I am your sister, I came from a very distant planet to visit you.”

Then she fluttered her coloured wings like a butterfly, lay herself in my bed and said:“Pardon me, I need to get some sleep, I have spent the whole eternity on the way to you.”

It's still snowing, and it's time to check-my-pulse, I think ?
Homunculus Nebula

Brisbane, Australia

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#5716
Jan 22, 2013
 

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Poet wrote:
Indiscreet Southern Trash Diary
Ya see, I don't like
too much attention
Let me dump my purse
All over the table
These are my prescription drugs
A picture of my family
Members all more successful than me
Ya see, this is a band-aid
I'm like a midget kid
With scabbed knees
And snot running down my nose
My growth can not even be charted
I'm treading water in a sea
Of retardation
I know the road that leads back
from the nowhereness of the wilderness

I can see the pebbles, road markers
I dropped along the way

to lead me back to the foundation rock
in the corner of the square

I follow the pebbles, half-buried
in the unrelenting histories of our existence

to the foundation rock
in the corner of the square

I rake off the weeds and dirt
to uncover the sounds, the syllables, the morphemes

the words, the phrases and the stories
strung out and scattered to the listening stars

in the sweet music of my tongue
touched by the goddess of song
with the tip of her burning spear

Thus through the mystery of language
dreams and prophecies
Are sometimes fulfilled
Homunculus Nebula

Brisbane, Australia

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#5717
Jan 22, 2013
 

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The gods favored me
In my moments of loneliness
They placed gently in my hands
A Stradivarius
And breathed into the Stradivarius and me
The knowledge to sing

I play first a pizzicato
With my nimble fingers
I pluck I pinch I twitch I tickle the strings

Then up and down the scale
A gentle brush with the bow
And I tap and pat the sounding chamber

And, sensitive to a fault, the Stradivarius murmurs
Sweet trains like human voices falling from heaven
An anthem never before heard
Now the soothing strokes from my hands
Calm it to a gentle tempo

In the final strains,
The Stradivarius speaks to me
Entrances me with a diminished chord
That hovers tantalizingly over the precipice
Slides into a dominant chord
To deliver me into a tonic statement

And the music of the violin floats away
Floats away
Away…

To live forever
In the ensuing silence......

http://youtu.be/SJUQD6Rr2M8

Homunculus Nebula

Brisbane, Australia

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#5718
Jan 22, 2013
 

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Embrace me
Kiss me
Whisper nourishing words in my ear

Harsh words are not for love
They are toxic
They are what remains
when all the goodness of language
has been sucked into the soul

Breathe them out
Into the trash cans
And carry them to the sidewalk
Let them wait and wither in the cold

And soon enough
That trash chariot
Drawn by six huge black stallions
The reins held loosely in the gnarled fingers
Of a crooked-nosed black-top-hatted charioteer
will come.....

And you know it’s Wednesday
Cleansing day
And the words that poison the soul
Will be hauled into the stomach
Of the monstrous trashing trucks
And trashed forever
Homunculus Nebula

Brisbane, Australia

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#5719
Jan 22, 2013
 

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Find your own voice and use it
use your own voice and find it

The sounds of drizzle
on dry leaves are not
like sounds of insults
between pedestrians

Those women laughing
in the window
do not sound like
air conditioners on the brink

The river turtle
does not breathe like
a slithering boa constrictor

The roar of a bull
is not like
the cackle of a hyena

The growl of a sea-leopard
is not like the teething cry
of a baby

The slash of a barracuda
is not like
the gulp of a leaping whale

The speech of a tiger shark
is not like
the bark of an eagle-fish

The scent of a gardenia
is not like the scent of a tangerine

Find your own voice and use it
use your own voice and find it !
Homunculus Nebula

Brisbane, Australia

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#5720
Jan 22, 2013
 

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Out of the layers of stars,
one star whose fragrance fills the wind
comes dancing,
Out of the layers of air,
the sun, our brother, flies.
We are wrapped in his wings.
His golden glance hurls us spiraling
through space,
through time,
through dark.
In dawn light we walk gratefully
in a living world.
The living wind breathes us,
moves in and out,
spins in and out, up and
through spaces in the blue,
spaces where the fading stars twinkle back.
Shadows lengthen and grow bold.
The day unwinds his hair
and sets out on the open road.
Each day, a new vision,
clouds and ravines,
blue wind and buds.

Now grasses, blue, green,
jolt us with their reach,
pushing through the leafmold
to tremble with the urgent energy
of their soft
bristling songs.
These grasses beguile the geese
northward, northward.
Now let us rest in their long touch,
let their delight shimmer over us,
until we too unfurl ourselves
through this living world.
Under a blaze of maples,
under birches shaking their catlins,
under white pine’s massive buoyancy,
over strawberries ripening,
over these hills echoing
with buds and gusts of rain,
let us walk gratefully in this living
world again.

Since: Dec 12

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#5721
Jan 22, 2013
 

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Homunculus Nebula wrote:
<quoted text>
I want a kingdom of words
a river of words
to wash away human misery
and plant roots in my soul
so that it might be an Argonaut,
a Quixotic Knight in fantastic seas
a valiant dreamer of liberty.
A kingdom of words
to rearrange the movement
of birds in branches
to feel the color of a star
the aroma of wind
the spirituality of your passion.
A kingdom of words to help me know
human being, seas and stars
to join my soul and my body
and please my flesh.
I want a kingdom of words for my soul
as much as I want a vast country for my heart
a free country like we’ve all imagined.
A kingdom of words to seduce me
and roll out from my tongue
like a string of pearls
at dusk in my country,
A kingdom of words or a river of words
overflowing, carrying everything it finds in its path
a will-o-’the-wisp in my mouth
a passion devouring my dreams.
To burn my lips
and grant me the keys of the imagination
the islands of colors and spices
Amboina, Banda, Ternate and Tidore
with their trunks and tragedies and adventures
in the sea of lamentations of Vespuccio and Magellan
To have it come to a halt before me
all I need is the light of your eyes
the trembling at the threshold of dreams,
splashing on the white page on this screen......
~DeVine.
There is a Kingdom of words and rivers of words in which to wash away human misery

But there is only one that can plant roots in the soul

And

That Word is Love

Soft

Warm

Passionate

Sensitive

Delicate

There is a Kingdom of words and rivers of words
In which one can rearrange the movement of birds in branches
Feel the color of a star
The aroma of wind
The spirituality of your passion

But there is only one that can plant roots in can plant roots in your soul

And

That Word is Love

A Tower of Inspiration

Kind

Forgiving

Comforting

Supportive

There is a kingdom of words to help you know
Human beings, seas and stars
To join There is a kingdom of words to help you know
Human beings, seas and stars
To join your soul and your body
And please your flesh

But there is only one that can plant roots in can plant roots in your soul

And

That Word is Love

Sweet

Delicious

Amazing

Transcending

Fulfilling

There is a kingdom of words for your soul
Words to seduce you
Roll from your tongue
Like a string of pearls
At dusk in your country

But there is only one that can plant roots in can plant roots in your soul

And

That Word is Love

Motivating

Fruitful

Devine

Refreshing

Beautiful

There is a Kingdom of words and rivers of words
Overflowing carrying everything it finds in its path
A will-o’the-wisp in your mouth
A passion devouring your dreams

But there is only one that can plant roots in can plant roots in your soul

And

That Word is Love


Delightful

Compassionate

Tender

Beautiful

Courageous

There is a Kingdom of words and rivers of words
To burn your lips
And grant you the keys of the imagination
The islands of colors and spices
Amboina, Banda,Ternate and Tidore
With their trunks tragedies and adventures
In the sea of lamentations of Vespuccio and Magellan

But there is only one that can plant roots in can plant roots in your soul

And

That Word is Love

Accepting

Happiness

Laughter

Joy

Reliable

And I halt here before you with my river of words

With the light in my eyes

Trembling at the threshold of dreams

Splashing on the white pages on this screen

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