Sdajii
Sdaji
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Haikus are stupid
Commonly they make no sense
Refrigerator
Commonly they make no sense
Refrigerator
Logique
Investor
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- 18 April 2007
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ASF has a poetry thread? Well anyway, Anastasia that's something from an 11 yro. Your niece has talent, encourage her.
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Been reading some Mark Twain.
Not poetry, but where else to post this magnificent piece of writing, the final chapter from The Mysterious Stranger? Perhaps the religion thread. This is chapter 11. Enjoy!
Chapter 11
For as much as a year Satan continued these visits, but at last he came less often, and then for a long time he did not come at all. This always made me lonely and melancholy. I felt that he was losing interest in our tiny world and might at any time abandon his visits entirely. When one day he finally came to me I was overjoyed, but only for a little while. He had come to say good-by, he told me, and for the last time. He had investigations and undertakings in other corners of the universe, he said, that would keep him busy for a longer period than I could wait for his return.
"And you are going away, and will not come back any more?"
"Yes," he said. "We have comraded long together, and it has been pleasant--pleasant for both; but I must go now, and we shall not see each other any more."
"In this life, Satan, but in another? We shall meet in another, surely?"
Then, all tranquilly and soberly, he made the strange answer, "There is no other."
A subtle influence blew upon my spirit from his, bringing with it a vague, dim, but blessed and hopeful feeling that the incredible words might be true--even must be true.
"Have you never suspected this, Theodor?"
"No. How could I? But if it can only be true--"
"It is true."
A gust of thankfulness rose in my breast, but a doubt checked it before it could issue in words, and I said, "But--but--we have seen that future life--seen it in its actuality, and so--"
"It was a vision--it had no existence."
I could hardly breathe for the great hope that was struggling in me. "A vision? --a vi--"
"Life itself is only a vision, a dream."
It was electrical. By God! I had had that very thought a thousand times in my musings!
"Nothing exists; all is a dream. God--man--the world--the sun, the moon, the wilderness of stars--a dream, all a dream; they have no existence. Nothing exists save empty space--and you!"
"I!"
"And you are not you--you have no body, no blood, no bones, you are but a thought. I myself have no existence; I am but a dream--your dream, creature of your imagination. In a moment you will have realized this, then you will banish me from your visions and I shall dissolve into the nothingness out of which you made me....
"I am perishing already--I am failing--I am passing away. In a little while you will be alone in shoreless space, to wander its limitless solitudes without friend or comrade forever--for you will remain a thought, the only existent thought, and by your nature inextinguishable, indestructible. But I, your poor servant, have revealed you to yourself and set you free. Dream other dreams, and better!
"Strange! that you should not have suspected years ago--centuries, ages, eons, ago! --for you have existed, companionless, through all the eternities. Strange, indeed, that you should not have suspected that your universe and its contents were only dreams, visions, fiction! Strange, because they are so frankly and hysterically insane--like all dreams: a God who could make good children as easily as bad, yet preferred to make bad ones; who could have made every one of them happy, yet never made a single happy one; who made them prize their bitter life, yet stingily cut it short; who gave his angels eternal happiness unearned, yet required his other children to earn it; who gave his angels painless lives, yet cursed his other children with biting miseries and maladies of mind and body; who mouths justice and invented hell--mouths mercy and invented hell--mouths Golden Rules, and forgiveness multiplied by seventy times seven, and invented hell; who mouths morals to other people and has none himself; who frowns upon crimes, yet commits them all; who created man without invitation, then tries to shuffle the responsibility for man's acts upon man, instead of honorably placing it where it belongs, upon himself; and finally, with altogether divine obtuseness, invites this poor, abused slave to worship him!...
"You perceive, now, that these things are all impossible except in a dream. You perceive that they are pure and puerile insanities, the silly creations of an imagination that is not conscious of its freaks--in a word, that they are a dream, and you the maker of it. The dream-marks are all present; you should have recognized them earlier.
"It is true, that which I have revealed to you; there is no God, no universe, no human race, no earthly life, no heaven, no hell. It is all a dream--a grotesque and foolish dream. Nothing exists but you. And you are but a thought--a vagrant thought, a useless thought, a homeless thought, wandering forlorn among the empty eternities!"
He vanished, and left me appalled; for I knew, and realized, that all he had said was true.
Not poetry, but where else to post this magnificent piece of writing, the final chapter from The Mysterious Stranger? Perhaps the religion thread. This is chapter 11. Enjoy!
Chapter 11
For as much as a year Satan continued these visits, but at last he came less often, and then for a long time he did not come at all. This always made me lonely and melancholy. I felt that he was losing interest in our tiny world and might at any time abandon his visits entirely. When one day he finally came to me I was overjoyed, but only for a little while. He had come to say good-by, he told me, and for the last time. He had investigations and undertakings in other corners of the universe, he said, that would keep him busy for a longer period than I could wait for his return.
"And you are going away, and will not come back any more?"
"Yes," he said. "We have comraded long together, and it has been pleasant--pleasant for both; but I must go now, and we shall not see each other any more."
"In this life, Satan, but in another? We shall meet in another, surely?"
Then, all tranquilly and soberly, he made the strange answer, "There is no other."
A subtle influence blew upon my spirit from his, bringing with it a vague, dim, but blessed and hopeful feeling that the incredible words might be true--even must be true.
"Have you never suspected this, Theodor?"
"No. How could I? But if it can only be true--"
"It is true."
A gust of thankfulness rose in my breast, but a doubt checked it before it could issue in words, and I said, "But--but--we have seen that future life--seen it in its actuality, and so--"
"It was a vision--it had no existence."
I could hardly breathe for the great hope that was struggling in me. "A vision? --a vi--"
"Life itself is only a vision, a dream."
It was electrical. By God! I had had that very thought a thousand times in my musings!
"Nothing exists; all is a dream. God--man--the world--the sun, the moon, the wilderness of stars--a dream, all a dream; they have no existence. Nothing exists save empty space--and you!"
"I!"
"And you are not you--you have no body, no blood, no bones, you are but a thought. I myself have no existence; I am but a dream--your dream, creature of your imagination. In a moment you will have realized this, then you will banish me from your visions and I shall dissolve into the nothingness out of which you made me....
"I am perishing already--I am failing--I am passing away. In a little while you will be alone in shoreless space, to wander its limitless solitudes without friend or comrade forever--for you will remain a thought, the only existent thought, and by your nature inextinguishable, indestructible. But I, your poor servant, have revealed you to yourself and set you free. Dream other dreams, and better!
"Strange! that you should not have suspected years ago--centuries, ages, eons, ago! --for you have existed, companionless, through all the eternities. Strange, indeed, that you should not have suspected that your universe and its contents were only dreams, visions, fiction! Strange, because they are so frankly and hysterically insane--like all dreams: a God who could make good children as easily as bad, yet preferred to make bad ones; who could have made every one of them happy, yet never made a single happy one; who made them prize their bitter life, yet stingily cut it short; who gave his angels eternal happiness unearned, yet required his other children to earn it; who gave his angels painless lives, yet cursed his other children with biting miseries and maladies of mind and body; who mouths justice and invented hell--mouths mercy and invented hell--mouths Golden Rules, and forgiveness multiplied by seventy times seven, and invented hell; who mouths morals to other people and has none himself; who frowns upon crimes, yet commits them all; who created man without invitation, then tries to shuffle the responsibility for man's acts upon man, instead of honorably placing it where it belongs, upon himself; and finally, with altogether divine obtuseness, invites this poor, abused slave to worship him!...
"You perceive, now, that these things are all impossible except in a dream. You perceive that they are pure and puerile insanities, the silly creations of an imagination that is not conscious of its freaks--in a word, that they are a dream, and you the maker of it. The dream-marks are all present; you should have recognized them earlier.
"It is true, that which I have revealed to you; there is no God, no universe, no human race, no earthly life, no heaven, no hell. It is all a dream--a grotesque and foolish dream. Nothing exists but you. And you are but a thought--a vagrant thought, a useless thought, a homeless thought, wandering forlorn among the empty eternities!"
He vanished, and left me appalled; for I knew, and realized, that all he had said was true.
wayneL
VIVA LA LIBERTAD, CARAJO!
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Christchurch had yet another serious earthquake yesterday (two actually) which prompted this from yours truly:
A Peculiarly Cantabrian Christmas
(Written vicariously from the North Island (with some inspiration from CC Moore and AJ Patterson))
'Twas two days before Christmas,when all through the house
Not a thing was stirring, not even a mouse
The stockings were hung though chimney not there(1)
In the hopes that St Nicholas soon would be there
Then all of the sudden just out to sea(2)
There was a rumbling noise, what could it be?
We all knew at once, just what is was
Another bloody 'quake, let's head for the doors!
The ground under our feet started to heave
And everyone was thinking now, this town we must leave
The Earth spewed up from under the sand
And spread it's foulness all over the land(3)
It was all over as soon as it started
and the cracks in our houses increasingly parted
Then a little bit later about a quarter to four
Mother nature dished up just a little bit more
Our nerves are frazzled, our spirit down the sink
It's quite enough to drive a person to drink
Yet our pluck is still undaunted, our courage strong and sure
This will not break us, never yet was a Cantabrian a cur.
So we will carry on with Christmas, whatever Earth sends
We'll celebrate as usual, with family and friends
And as we think of the people from across Cook Straits(4)
We will feel special wishes from three million good mates(5)
(1)After the first two major quakes, many people's brick chimneys collapsed.
(2)The epicenter of the quakes was just offshore fro Christcurch
(3)Liquifaction (silt and water rising from underground) has been a major feature of each major quake
(4)Cook Strait is the body of water separating the North Island from the South Island
(5)The approximate population of the North Island
A Peculiarly Cantabrian Christmas
(Written vicariously from the North Island (with some inspiration from CC Moore and AJ Patterson))
'Twas two days before Christmas,when all through the house
Not a thing was stirring, not even a mouse
The stockings were hung though chimney not there(1)
In the hopes that St Nicholas soon would be there
Then all of the sudden just out to sea(2)
There was a rumbling noise, what could it be?
We all knew at once, just what is was
Another bloody 'quake, let's head for the doors!
The ground under our feet started to heave
And everyone was thinking now, this town we must leave
The Earth spewed up from under the sand
And spread it's foulness all over the land(3)
It was all over as soon as it started
and the cracks in our houses increasingly parted
Then a little bit later about a quarter to four
Mother nature dished up just a little bit more
Our nerves are frazzled, our spirit down the sink
It's quite enough to drive a person to drink
Yet our pluck is still undaunted, our courage strong and sure
This will not break us, never yet was a Cantabrian a cur.
So we will carry on with Christmas, whatever Earth sends
We'll celebrate as usual, with family and friends
And as we think of the people from across Cook Straits(4)
We will feel special wishes from three million good mates(5)
(1)After the first two major quakes, many people's brick chimneys collapsed.
(2)The epicenter of the quakes was just offshore fro Christcurch
(3)Liquifaction (silt and water rising from underground) has been a major feature of each major quake
(4)Cook Strait is the body of water separating the North Island from the South Island
(5)The approximate population of the North Island
Julia
In Memoriam
- Joined
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That's a nice thought, Wayne. Poor Christchurch. They were just starting to hope it was all falling into the past.
pixel
DIY Trader
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Sometimes, in some post or opinion blog, some of us may come across as a "Crabby old Man;" or Woman, for that matter; or even a "Crabby old Tomcat" like me.
For all those occasions, here is a fitting poem that an old mate sent me today. Please also read the story surrounding it: even though I can't vouch for its veracity, it does add to the poem's impact.
When an old man died in the geriatric ward of a nursing home in North Platte, Nebraska, it was believed that he had nothing left of any value. Later, when the nurses were going through his meager possessions, they found this poem. Its quality and content so impressed the staff that copies were made and distributed to every nurse in the hospital. One nurse took her copy to Missouri.
The old man's sole bequest to posterity has since appeared in the Christmas edition of the News Magazine of the St. Louis Association for Mental Health. A slide presentation has also been made based on his simple, but eloquent, poem.
And this little old man, with nothing left to give to the world, is now the author of this 'anonymous' poem winging across the Internet.
Crabby Old Man
What do you see nurses? . . .. .. . What do you see?
What are you thinking . . . . . when you're looking at me?
A crabby old man . . . . . not very wise,
Uncertain of habit . . . . . with faraway eyes?
Who dribbles his food . . . .. . and makes no reply.
When you say in a loud voice . . . . . 'I do wish you'd try!'
Who seems not to notice . . . . . the things that you do.
And forever is losing . . . . . A sock or shoe?
Who, resisting or not . . . . . lets you do as you will,
With bathing and feeding . . . . . The long day to fill?
Is that what you're thinking? .. . . . . Is that what you see?
Then open your eyes, nurse . . . . . you're not looking at me.
I'll tell you who I am. . . . . . As I sit here so still,
As I do at your bidding, . . . . . as I eat at your will.
I'm a small child of Ten . . .. . . with a father and mother,
Brothers and sisters . . . . . who love one another.
A young boy of Sixteen . . . . with wings on his feet.
Dreaming that soon now . . . . . a lover he'll meet.
A groom soon at Twenty . . . . .. my heart gives a leap.
Remembering, the vows . . . . . that I promised to keep.
At Twenty-Five, now . . . . . I have young of my own.
Who need me to guide . . . . . And a secure happy home.
A man of Thirty . . . . . My young now grown fast,
Bound to each other .. . . .. . With ties that should last.
At Forty, my young sons . .. . . . have grown and are gone,
But my woman's beside me . . . .. . to see I don't mourn.
At Fifty, once more, babies play 'round my knee,
Again, we know children . . . . . My loved one and me.
Dark days are upon me . . . . . my wife is now dead.
I look at the future . . . . . shudder with dread.
For my young are all rearing . . . . . young of their own.
And I think of the years . . . .. . and the love that I've known.
I'm now an old man . . . . . and nature is cruel.
Tis jest to make old age . . . . . look like a fool.
The body, it crumbles . . . . . grace and vigor, depart.
There is now a stone . . . . where I once had a heart.
But inside this old carcass . . . . . a young guy still dwells,
And now and again . . . . . my battered heart swells.
I remember the joys . . . . . I remember the pain.
And I'm loving and living . . . . . life over again.
I think of the years, all too few . . . . . gone too fast.
And accept the stark fact . . . . that nothing can last.
So open your eyes, people . . . . . open and see.
Not a crabby old man . . . Look closer . . . see ME!!
Remember this poem when you next meet
an older person, whom you might brush aside
without looking at the young soul within.
We will all, one day, be there, too!
For all those occasions, here is a fitting poem that an old mate sent me today. Please also read the story surrounding it: even though I can't vouch for its veracity, it does add to the poem's impact.
When an old man died in the geriatric ward of a nursing home in North Platte, Nebraska, it was believed that he had nothing left of any value. Later, when the nurses were going through his meager possessions, they found this poem. Its quality and content so impressed the staff that copies were made and distributed to every nurse in the hospital. One nurse took her copy to Missouri.
The old man's sole bequest to posterity has since appeared in the Christmas edition of the News Magazine of the St. Louis Association for Mental Health. A slide presentation has also been made based on his simple, but eloquent, poem.
And this little old man, with nothing left to give to the world, is now the author of this 'anonymous' poem winging across the Internet.
Crabby Old Man
What do you see nurses? . . .. .. . What do you see?
What are you thinking . . . . . when you're looking at me?
A crabby old man . . . . . not very wise,
Uncertain of habit . . . . . with faraway eyes?
Who dribbles his food . . . .. . and makes no reply.
When you say in a loud voice . . . . . 'I do wish you'd try!'
Who seems not to notice . . . . . the things that you do.
And forever is losing . . . . . A sock or shoe?
Who, resisting or not . . . . . lets you do as you will,
With bathing and feeding . . . . . The long day to fill?
Is that what you're thinking? .. . . . . Is that what you see?
Then open your eyes, nurse . . . . . you're not looking at me.
I'll tell you who I am. . . . . . As I sit here so still,
As I do at your bidding, . . . . . as I eat at your will.
I'm a small child of Ten . . .. . . with a father and mother,
Brothers and sisters . . . . . who love one another.
A young boy of Sixteen . . . . with wings on his feet.
Dreaming that soon now . . . . . a lover he'll meet.
A groom soon at Twenty . . . . .. my heart gives a leap.
Remembering, the vows . . . . . that I promised to keep.
At Twenty-Five, now . . . . . I have young of my own.
Who need me to guide . . . . . And a secure happy home.
A man of Thirty . . . . . My young now grown fast,
Bound to each other .. . . .. . With ties that should last.
At Forty, my young sons . .. . . . have grown and are gone,
But my woman's beside me . . . .. . to see I don't mourn.
At Fifty, once more, babies play 'round my knee,
Again, we know children . . . . . My loved one and me.
Dark days are upon me . . . . . my wife is now dead.
I look at the future . . . . . shudder with dread.
For my young are all rearing . . . . . young of their own.
And I think of the years . . . .. . and the love that I've known.
I'm now an old man . . . . . and nature is cruel.
Tis jest to make old age . . . . . look like a fool.
The body, it crumbles . . . . . grace and vigor, depart.
There is now a stone . . . . where I once had a heart.
But inside this old carcass . . . . . a young guy still dwells,
And now and again . . . . . my battered heart swells.
I remember the joys . . . . . I remember the pain.
And I'm loving and living . . . . . life over again.
I think of the years, all too few . . . . . gone too fast.
And accept the stark fact . . . . that nothing can last.
So open your eyes, people . . . . . open and see.
Not a crabby old man . . . Look closer . . . see ME!!
Remember this poem when you next meet
an older person, whom you might brush aside
without looking at the young soul within.
We will all, one day, be there, too!
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The F Word
Fervid Frazzled Fertilized Female
Frenzied Frenetic & Ferocious
Full of fight Fermenting Fractious
Fearing Fatally Flawed Foetus
Feebleminded Financial Fat-Cats &
Futilitarian Forelock-Tugging Foremen
Felicitously Force-feed Foul Furnace Fumes &
Fetid Foundry Fallout over Forest Fell & Fen
Fatalistic Freeholder Feels Foreboding
Foretells of Fallacious Fact-finding Fakirs
Fathomless Foolhardiness Fuelled & Fanned
Forecasts Flaring Flaming Full-frontal Fray
Fervid Frazzled Fertilized Female
Frenzied Frenetic & Ferocious
Full of fight Fermenting Fractious
Fearing Fatally Flawed Foetus
Feebleminded Financial Fat-Cats &
Futilitarian Forelock-Tugging Foremen
Felicitously Force-feed Foul Furnace Fumes &
Fetid Foundry Fallout over Forest Fell & Fen
Fatalistic Freeholder Feels Foreboding
Foretells of Fallacious Fact-finding Fakirs
Fathomless Foolhardiness Fuelled & Fanned
Forecasts Flaring Flaming Full-frontal Fray
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Probably needs explaining !?
In the winter of 1999, a pregnant woman pitched a tent outside the council office to protest over the foundry fumes falling on the primary school and her residence.
After 3 weeks, she ended her protest due to extreme weather.
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you know, sometimes, just sometimes
that thing
out the corner of the eye
walking past the kitchen window
there....again....in the periphery
a blue-on-blue purple bloom
a wash, like a handful of flour hitting the bench-top
that whisper
never paid attention to before
like odd socks in the drawer, you say
serenading the blackness with a quiet inside, you say
and that's true, we say
eventide arrives slowly
evenfall ends quickly
even now, in the silhouette of laughter, you'll smile.......
(c) joules 11/08/12
for noirua
that thing
out the corner of the eye
walking past the kitchen window
there....again....in the periphery
a blue-on-blue purple bloom
a wash, like a handful of flour hitting the bench-top
that whisper
never paid attention to before
like odd socks in the drawer, you say
serenading the blackness with a quiet inside, you say
and that's true, we say
eventide arrives slowly
evenfall ends quickly
even now, in the silhouette of laughter, you'll smile.......
(c) joules 11/08/12
for noirua
Julia
In Memoriam
- Joined
- 10 May 2005
- Posts
- 16,986
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ASF people keep surprising me. Touching and lovely, joules.
- Joined
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Ruble of the North
jingled in his pocket
a kopec of a hundred moments
sabres a Northern Song
sherper Shenjah sits
roasting a skinned rodent
a hiss of fat, a felt of snow on flame
a solemn squint
that peak, you see it?
over there
that peak
you sit on that peak
look
see that peak?
the cold here is warmer still....
sharp! the wind ran a copper whiff
Shenja whipped his head toward
......nothing.....
nothing and that peak
over there
and they sang
a rebellious Ruble facing north
(c) joules 15/09/12
jingled in his pocket
a kopec of a hundred moments
sabres a Northern Song
sherper Shenjah sits
roasting a skinned rodent
a hiss of fat, a felt of snow on flame
a solemn squint
that peak, you see it?
over there
that peak
you sit on that peak
look
see that peak?
the cold here is warmer still....
sharp! the wind ran a copper whiff
Shenja whipped his head toward
......nothing.....
nothing and that peak
over there
and they sang
a rebellious Ruble facing north
(c) joules 15/09/12
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When the shearing sheds are silent and the stock camps fallen quiet
When the gidgee coals no longer glow across the outback night
And the bush is forced to hang a sign, 'gone broke and won't be back'
And spirits fear to find a way beyond the beaten track
When harvesters stand derelict upon the wind swept plains
And brave hearts pin their hopes no more on chance of loving rains
When a hundred outback settlements are ghost towns overnight
When we've lost the drive and heart we had to once more see us right
When 'Pioneer' means a stereo and 'Digger' some backhoe
And the 'Outback' is behind the house, there's nowhere else to go
And 'Anzac' is a biscuit brand and probably foreign owned
And education really means brainwashed and neatly cloned
When you have to bake a loaf of bread to make a decent crust
And our heritage once enshrined in gold is crumbling to dust
And old folk pay their camping fees on land for which they fought
And fishing is a great escape; this is until you're caught
When you see our kids with yankee caps and resentment in their eyes
And the soaring crime and hopeless hearts is no longer a surprise
When the name of RM Williams is a yuppie clothing brand
Not a product of our heritage that grew off the land
When offering a hand makes people think you'll amputate
And two dogs meeting in the street is what you call a 'Mate'
When 'Political Correctness' has replaced all common sense
When you're forced to see it their way, there's no sitting on the fence
Yes one day you might find yourself an outcast in this land
Perhaps your heart will tell you then, '. I should have made a stand'
Just go and ask the farmers that should remove all doubt
Then join the swelling ranks who say, 'don't sell Australia out'
Author unknown
When the gidgee coals no longer glow across the outback night
And the bush is forced to hang a sign, 'gone broke and won't be back'
And spirits fear to find a way beyond the beaten track
When harvesters stand derelict upon the wind swept plains
And brave hearts pin their hopes no more on chance of loving rains
When a hundred outback settlements are ghost towns overnight
When we've lost the drive and heart we had to once more see us right
When 'Pioneer' means a stereo and 'Digger' some backhoe
And the 'Outback' is behind the house, there's nowhere else to go
And 'Anzac' is a biscuit brand and probably foreign owned
And education really means brainwashed and neatly cloned
When you have to bake a loaf of bread to make a decent crust
And our heritage once enshrined in gold is crumbling to dust
And old folk pay their camping fees on land for which they fought
And fishing is a great escape; this is until you're caught
When you see our kids with yankee caps and resentment in their eyes
And the soaring crime and hopeless hearts is no longer a surprise
When the name of RM Williams is a yuppie clothing brand
Not a product of our heritage that grew off the land
When offering a hand makes people think you'll amputate
And two dogs meeting in the street is what you call a 'Mate'
When 'Political Correctness' has replaced all common sense
When you're forced to see it their way, there's no sitting on the fence
Yes one day you might find yourself an outcast in this land
Perhaps your heart will tell you then, '. I should have made a stand'
Just go and ask the farmers that should remove all doubt
Then join the swelling ranks who say, 'don't sell Australia out'
Author unknown
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- 30 June 2007
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Hmm, very nice. Any others?
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Spring is here.
The grass is riz.
Wonder where
the birdies is?
Anon.
The grass is riz.
Wonder where
the birdies is?
Anon.
- Joined
- 18 September 2008
- Posts
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A beautiful poem recently written by Clive James as he faces his imminent death.
http://www.newyorker.com/magazine/2014/09/15/japanese-maple
Japanese Maple
Your death, near now, is of an easy sort.
So slow a fading out brings no real pain.
Breath growing short
Is just uncomfortable. You feel the drain
Of energy, but thought and sight remain:
Enhanced, in fact. When did you ever see
So much sweet beauty as when fine rain falls
On that small tree
And saturates your brick back garden walls,
So many Amber Rooms and mirror halls?
Ever more lavish as the dusk descends
This glistening illuminates the air.
It never ends.
Whenever the rain comes it will be there,
Beyond my time, but now I take my share.
My daughter’s choice, the maple tree is new.
Come autumn and its leaves will turn to flame.
What I must do
Is live to see that. That will end the game
For me, though life continues all the same:
Filling the double doors to bathe my eyes,
A final flood of colors will live on
As my mind dies,
Burned by my vision of a world that shone
So brightly at the last, and then was gone.
http://www.newyorker.com/magazine/2014/09/15/japanese-maple
Japanese Maple
Your death, near now, is of an easy sort.
So slow a fading out brings no real pain.
Breath growing short
Is just uncomfortable. You feel the drain
Of energy, but thought and sight remain:
Enhanced, in fact. When did you ever see
So much sweet beauty as when fine rain falls
On that small tree
And saturates your brick back garden walls,
So many Amber Rooms and mirror halls?
Ever more lavish as the dusk descends
This glistening illuminates the air.
It never ends.
Whenever the rain comes it will be there,
Beyond my time, but now I take my share.
My daughter’s choice, the maple tree is new.
Come autumn and its leaves will turn to flame.
What I must do
Is live to see that. That will end the game
For me, though life continues all the same:
Filling the double doors to bathe my eyes,
A final flood of colors will live on
As my mind dies,
Burned by my vision of a world that shone
So brightly at the last, and then was gone.
- Joined
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eden-green
(c) Julian C-T 16/08/15
what is it like to look at these paintings ?
"oh, nourishing"
sunflower laughs, crying for a cupla seasons...
when does the eden-green splendour?
"as the Aoud players are listened-to again"
there's a turn coming in the narrow trickle,
ripples, apples the horses chew
there's a turn coming where the sand stewed
there's yearns leaving in gushing gruel
shy eye-brows smile to that youth
there's a return touching
"with you?"
....returning with you
"oh, nourishing"
sunflower laughs, crying for a cupla seasons...
when does the eden-green splendour?
"as the Aoud players are listened-to again"
there's a turn coming in the narrow trickle,
ripples, apples the horses chew
there's a turn coming where the sand stewed
there's yearns leaving in gushing gruel
shy eye-brows smile to that youth
there's a return touching
"with you?"
....returning with you
(c) Julian C-T 16/08/15
- Joined
- 2 June 2011
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Very nice, Joules.
