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.
My Tongue is not Silver, but GoldTo Animate the scrawlings,hastily breathed onto fine paper,inken and heathen,held up high -that is the work of a silver tongue,an inkhearted man with the worldin a pen and his page.The cyan beauty ofa three seconds past dawnglitter could not becaptured by any other,no poet nor lyricist,no one but he who sawit shining in the first instance(And ultimately held thatbeauty to himself).I am no Man ofwonders - the scribblesthat dot my past areinconsequential, solemn andpenciled in, too afraidto be permanent,too alive to be perpetual.I can't explain the beauty ofchildbirth with theendless metaphors that he could,not the sharp tonesnor the glimmering melliflouswarbling of songbirds.I couldn't exist besidesmyself, nora million realities of me.The metal in my mouthdoes not tarnish,not like silver.The metal in my mouth is thatwhich burns hot in the sky,that scratches its nameto you (If you see it,you shall catalyseand covalently combine).My tongue is golde
Queen of Sheba: Drawn by the LightI saw your light shine from afar,heard stories of riches,of wisdom incomparable -rumours, I thought,but I could not helpbut be drawn,drawn to your light.I have come to seeif the rumours are true.I have come to seeyour riches and fame.I have come to seeif you're as wise as they say.I have come,drawn by your light.And I see that the truthsurpasses wildest rumour,that the light is even brighterwhen seen up close,and I wish I could takeand keep a little spark,take it home so it can spreadand envelop the world.I want to knowmore about you,I want to knowthe source of your wisdom,I want to knowthe meaning of this blessing -I want to know your God.For He is the onewho put the light in you -He is the onewho draws all to you -He is the onewho cal light a spark in me -now I am drawn,drawn to Him.
Death's Punishment of ParadiseI perch upon the edge,eyes peering uponthe soon dead.White is the bedupon which she lies.Like a cloud of sickly sweet jasminewater dripsinto her waiting veins.Yet she cannot see melike a vulture on her hospital bed.She is painted with a smile.Her tongue clicks as she chatters;she is alive.Her heart jogs.She is alive.But not for long.Her voice is one of sugarringing loud and warmuntil her eyes still of the living,fall into level with mine.I am the evening,arriving in a drab black suit,decked in buttons from my travels.The tears in her eyes swim awaylike fish in a frenzyas the raven outcriesforetelling the end of all days.The human heart runs,not willing to be caughtby cold, cage hands of bone.Blood drains away into jagged teeth.And now she is left as cold as an empty cavewhistling in the wind.Yet high she flies to snow-topped mountainsand low to the oceansof tears shed from lovers past.Away to Edento rest at last.Yet damned am I towatch a featyet
Living the LifeLife with God is eternalWe continue foreverFor the Lord is everlastingLet us shine forth His loveAnd proclaim His glorious name
FanFanThe shadowof a crosshaloedin lighton the hospitalceiling.An accidentalreminderof sufferingand death.or life'ssalvation?
notes in the sand before the tide comesupon a galaxya meditation formsgoodbye this momentgood morning, now*at the endrain drops becomeflowers of lifethe pattern remembers*after lightning thunderdoes not thunder?the whiteness holds this.why waits here.
Oh Mother,Let me hear youIn the trees,In the chorusOf falling leaves;In the windAnd in the cold,May your voiceSpeak clear and bold.Mother, singYour song to me;This I willSo mote it be.
Open...Open…Freedom taken, moving to ashes, through the grey mists, till I’m broken…Jaded perspective, lonely and open…doubtless I pray, run away,I’m only human, I’m only forgotten, and I’m healing slowly, maybe too much,I can see into the havens, but still I seem to be okay…There’s more to go too, I’m only holding on till…The ashes go, the freedoms won, or maybe I’m sane…Through the grey mists, I trek for days, moving in the fog,Till we’re all healed, all found, all freed, heal now,Faded dreams, fragile and open, lying schemes keep us hidden…Hide away, from the pain, or face it full on…Run away or stand up and fight…never give up!Never give in, never lose hope, and keep on standing…Forgive my addled mind, grief fills it,Jaded rays, hope forgave, maybe a promise…?I can still see the havens now, I’m holding on till…I see you there, I can still be true, a
21:7No experiencesNo experiencesNo experiences could have prepared you for this.Your heart throws itself off of a moving boatInto the freezing, quaking seas below.Your brain, your bones, your nervous system follow soon afterOne by one slipping into those watersAnd all because you need a breath of fresh air.All because you saw Him standing on the shore.That manLimbs scarredEyes burning just as brightlyAs the day they stood by and watched Him bleed to death.There He stands in peaceful rebellion.An inferno in a world of ice.A pyre to give you life.Yet no experiences could have warned youThat the water you thought would bring you landward is now dragging you back out to seaCapsizing your lungsSurging rapids sliding through veins like snakes along garden grass.And no experiences could have told you that you would sinkAnd the darkness that you were sure couldn't and wouldn't follow youIs now crawling through your corneasLike moss clinging to mighty bouldersUnable to be se
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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