jobjagtenerste gaa ik met de fiets,en dan gaa ik met de trein,en dan gaa ik met de bus,en dan? om te voet."en warrom?" vraag je?alles zo mag ik werkenmaar een beetje dichterbijonze gezellige thuis.
haar stoutelingsshe asks me how much i love her;i answer, "i love you lots!"she asks me how much i like her,and i answer, "some."
prep-doitsuwith knife in hand,i face the onslaught;woe be unto you,veg'tables!
collabapollooza 3.0as i look back on my life i see the patterns i've created. most, but by no means all,of them have been detrimental to myself and others. the inconsistency of of my consistencies,the consistency of my inconsistencies; my short-sightedness, my abscent-mindedness,the apathy of my empathy...but now and then i catch a glimpse of the changes time, work and prayer are making.in the windowreflection of a catstartles the cat~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~Sharp silver bristles...An owl, on her down-swoop,Glares at the the close pines...the mouse, sped by her fear,finds refuge 'neath those boughs.~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~when there is no moon above, no light unto my life's path:I am beside myself as a stranger in the crowd -my center has gone and i am pulled into the void.~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~we, once again, are living in those proverbial 'interesting times'.not that there is e
if it's sincere, it isn't flattery...the eloquence, the artistry,transcends the mere word 'poetry';i doubt, leonard, this poor bard could out do ya.i smile and cry, i nod and sigh,i lift beseeching hands on highand whisper in the darkness, 'hallelujah...'
not all destinations are final...by fate's appointment we are born as slavesto our perception of the flow of timethrough history's patterns of troughs and waves.if we can awaken from that dread sleep,shed feathers ans fleece (un-be geese and sheep),we shatter the shackles of foolish knavesand we can o'er come that most sublime lie:by death's anointment we're laid in our graves.the mercurial way matter behaves,when understood, is the essence of couthand may be the key that unlocks our cells(the clarion call, the sign that foretells);it just may un-tell that harshest untruth:by fate's appointment we're laid in our graves.
fetish 2.0so tell me, my pet:why do fear and ecstasysmell so much the same?
doors 2.0open(the key turns,unlocking transformation;find rebirth)the door.
sharadigm piftyes it grows colder, but it's not yet cold.not just the season, but the climate shiftsthrough cycles, decades and ages untold.most of time's hands move at scales we can't see,but great and small speak through corollary;my cycles, decades and stages unfold.i see my impairments, i see my gifts;yes i grow older, but i'm not yet old.the world's a mess, though our fortune's not sold;we may still outlive the death of our sun.our final telling needn't be tragic;the highest science seems like it's magic.our race is not over, it's just begun;yes it grows colder, but i'm not yet old.
the playwrightGod is a playwright.He sits in the back rowof velvet seats and claps160 bpm after every act.He closes his eyes whenthe audience laughs together,cries together.His play is very good,and He knows this.After the show,they always ask,“How did you makethe characters sovulnerable? Sohonest? So real?”He shrugs in his tweedjacket with elbow pads,frowns slightly, says,“The characters got away from me.I did not make them this way.”
In a Moment of ClarityUnder the two way mirror below each layer of the faded paint of a coffin, lied the liar laying alone and undead. Laughing in amnesia's grasp at his own reflection upon seeing himself through crazed eyes.I know the story that is told for the doomed soul, and how short it is will remind you of condemnations meaning. A guinea pig by his own curiosity laid flat in useless soils, his was a cliche tale of woe and an ending without twists.A turn for the worst will come with the lights switched on and the glass broken, and his first steps will be into a world without law or regulation, yet a prison all the same where the guards are inmates and the Warden was once near flawless.A hooded figure had come sporting typical black for the cliche fool as told in countless fables, and delivered unto Hell an unrepentant sinner for whom God had wept just like the innumerable before him. The fool will weep from now on.Biographies for these characters are fables tattooed on the golden calf upon which t
IlluminatedLight from within and light from without,Mingling in a dancing prism,Reflecting gold, red, blue,Reuniting orange, purple, green,Again to become a single beam,Focused illumination.
Nightly RitesStrike the match And light the wicksOf your blessed Candle sticks.A star of fiveUpon the ground,In the middleSit ye down.Bow your headAnd chant your prayersAs on the wallsDance transient flares.Hold your palmsAbove each flameWhen you call outEach god's name.Over spirit,Mother Gaia,I supplicateFor my desire;And to the earth,And to the blaze,In Cernunnos'Name I praise.Give me strength,Grant me vigor,And courage when My fears grow bigger.Horned GodOver nature,I summon forthMy inner creature,So bless me nowTo know your ways,To know the earthAll of my days.Three candles through,And two to go,To Goddess BrigidI whisper low.Matron of poetsAnd of rhymed word,Let my lyricalSpell be heard.Goddess, give meThe power to bendAs flexible as The water and wind,So that I may learnHow to adjustWhen an attackMy enemies thrust.Let me be kindAnd light as air,Let my heartBe good and fair;And like the ocean,Grant me depth.Grant me
Retrograde LullabyeA slow fallback into the primordial oozehappiness and sadness are equally elusiveThe human condition does not allow onewithout the otherAfter a time, we cannot but helpturn tragedy into comfortand angst into homecomingfor nature does not decree thisonly we, as we heed the call of the oozeRestless are we who sense the slide of timeThought cannot save usEmotion betraysWe must embrace eternity in the briefest of momentsand ride scarecely coffined into the ooze
She Speaksjust a kiss to make it bettera kiss, a kiss, a kiss a kiss,oh I see the tension in your eyeslit by the flexing of your irissuch a lovely flower growing thereI see it rising from your souldistance rips a tender dream in twainand violence springs between the linesthat tension speaks in cunning volumesand speaks in shades no other knowsa brush across a supple cheeka hand, a finger and a palmthere I see the pulling of the jawa word bespoke on silent wingsyet silence swallows beneficenceI shall scry the Runes within your soulan ocean mounts the ship out in my dreamswhere starlight nights choke wandering towersand lighthouses whisper evermores across the wavesin a language no other soul but yours would care to knowinand outlike a tidal pondbreathit comes and goeswavesspread like fire inside of frostall the colours bundle up like hedge-craftstolen away like villager’s luckand gone upon the hooves of moonstruck sheepthey colours flow like thunder in a glass
seeing signsthese sails are filledwith windsome wordsthe ship, though: stilled.i watch the birdswheel overhead;airborne ogham,meaning unread,is muse's locum.
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