To my friend, with love - poetry
All is still; all quiet;
I have what so many associates in this world
You have collective in my pain, as has no other
Your abiding devotion has been inexhaustible,
You established me as I was and am;
You have buttressed the arrows
Our friendship has been tested
I'm jealous of our friendship
You have earned the furthermost title
In friendship honor of Marjorie K. Thomas
Rev. Saundra L. Washington, D. D. , is an designed clergywoman, old hand community worker, and Break down of AMEN Ministries. http://www. clergyservices4u. org She is also the cause of two brunette table books: Room Beneath the Snow: Poems that Preach and Negative Disturbances: Homilies that Teach. Her new book, Out of Deep Waters: My Grief Management Workbook, will be free soon.
In The Midst Of All
In the midst of darkness, there is light. In the midst of evil, there is virtue.
Beautiful Dreamer, Stephen Foster, Americas First Folk Song Writer
"Beautiful Dreamer" was in print by Stephen Advance just beforehand his death in 1864 at age 37. The song became one of his most illustrious and most popular.
Sleep, Dreams, and a Poem
The Incubus' Flash-lightHe looked confidential my head And found a dreamHe didn't like-;As I looked back at him, I found an incubus Shinning a light(and stole this poem from him-last night).Thoughts: Dreams and Poetry: in dreams we let go of our inhibitions; in poetry we write them back out.
A Altered Place...
I wish we had met 20 years ago..
Im Sorry Mom! A Mothers Day Poem
Mother's Day Poetry,I'm Sorry Mom!I'm sorry for the troubles And the qualms I brought you. I'm sorry for my mistakes, I didn't mean to make you blue.
Three Poems: The Monkey Man of Lima, Plus Two More
What Hides at the back of the Minute?What hides at the back of the minute? It seems, no one exceedingly knows; How many times will we wakeup, To count the log gone?The rose was dead when I arrived; The sword, was rusty and dull; The chance curtain was open, And there was music in the hall.Oh lovely minute, where art thou? One, is not like the other-: Whirling in an material orbit, As the illimitable world discovers.
Ocean Heal Me
Ocean Heal MeOcean heal my wounds Let your waves curl and foam on my body Wash away blood, heal scarsOcean renew me with your power As incessantly you roll Giving asset that's been drainedOcean keep me warm Wrap me in your brine Caress me with your tidesOcean diffuse my tears As they flow in you I bathe my soulOcean let me grow in your depths Color me animated blue, coral, green Clear = revitalizedOcean your spray anoints me Cool and refreshed My spiritual renewalOcean be my friend Hold me flowing in your currents Ever moving, ever changingOcean, heal me.© 1983 Susan BaconSusan Bacon is a researcher, cause and teacher.
San Francisco [Almost a Sonnet]
(The city by the bay of Northern California, near which the Comforting Ocean resides; the year is 1967)Mid October seemed like some bound day,When because of the controlled waters, dry as lead, The ferry, like vague darkness that stand the dead,Slipped down the bent coast of Frisco bay, Rounded the Fair Gate,-and San Francisco lay, Before me, that gay city, pink and red, Hippies roofed Haigh Asbury's dispossessed head,-My home, to be, I found stirring and grey.The waves out of action on the wooden-sides; fishermenNearby with long necks, looked and cast again.
Grandpas House & From Iraq with Love [Two Poems]
Grandpa's House [The ole Real House]The house looked-for painting Sun-blistered and flaking Grandpa happening to have us Boys-Mike and I- start Doing some scraping-While he, pealed off the ole Paint, and ongoing painting?Just a humble impassive house With more than a few rooms, but Strong adequate to keep the Winds and coldness snows out, How he loved that ole house!..
The Time Has Come and Buzzing
Most of my poems are in black and white late at night, often, as this one was, after I have curved out the illumination to go to sleep. It seems that is the time when I am most creative.
Do not be fearful to shine. This world needs what you have to give.
Little Girl from Huancayo [a poem/in English and Spanish]
Little girl from HuancayoDo you really, actually know? Just how fast those feet will grow,On the streets of Huancayo.Little girl with jumping jacksOn the street, looking back; Back to see whose examination her,A diminutive boy with a bird.
Find the Magic
FIND the MAGICFind the Magic As you delivery old repression Come out of hiding And see the starsFind the Magic As you expose the pain Let the tears flow And find beauty in your bodyFind the Magic As you scream from the beating Run from the threats And feel the affection of a hugFind the Magic As the barely girl is silenced Told she is too smart for her own good And she finds her place of honor as she speaks her mindFind the Magic As the ghosts creep into dream Haunt your daily life And you meet them at the crossroads and move onFind the Magic As you drift out of your body, avoiding the anger Observe the separation And you join the body temple once again to cheer in this exceptional wonderFind the Magic As you eavesdrop to the conflicts and Watch in horror And emerge from the water whole and exquisite in a rainbow of colorsFind the Magic, For you are whole once again© 2004 Susan BaconSusan Bacon is an researcher, coach and author. Acquaintance her all the way through her web site http://www.
Three Sweet Poems, and Two Not So Sweet [now in: SPANISH and English]
1) End PoemWherever you are today- Is where you were meant to be; It's where God, dotted the 'i' and the 't'?!2) God's AngelsGod asked his angels: "Why do you look so sad?" Responded one angel: "Sir, we can't find the shade."3) An Empty SpaceOut of wisdom one will wait, travel far for love; the thirst will not kill them.
Hindu Poet - Kamalakanta
Kamalakanta was born in Burdwan India in the late 18th Century. From an early age he uttered an appeal in religious studies and later in life Kamalakanta customary admittance into Tantric Yoga from a Tantric yogi named Kenaram Bhattacharya.
I Sought TO SAY IT WITH A BUNCH OF Plant life A CARD WOULD HAVE SUFFICED.I Hunted TO SAY IT WITH A PACK OF SWEETS A' HI' WOULD HAVE SUFFICED.
Lima, City with the Stretched out Wings [In English and Spanish]
Lima, City with the Stretched out WingsIt's an ink-black night: no stars: a moon in sightJust dots of: red, green and white-white lightsAs the plane descends, descends, slides down On the long-drawn-out-spun-out long drawn out city of light Uneven as a crumbled cake, lit up like a Christmas tree-The disturbed city, with its stretched out wingsStretching from the mountains to the sea- Winding all the way through the valley's, forests, and streams Stretches, stretches its naked wings-endlesslyAs,I'm descending, down, over and about the city (descending, descending, and sliding to the ground)The city with stretched out wings-and endless lights Down, behind, around, the ground, it's immune to me I'm just part of its evening, a debut in its inky seaInvisible people: cats, dogs, birds, and rats-infiniteUncountable: dots; streams of lit dots, dot-lights; People: walking, talking, sleeping, consumption by the dots People: waiting, killing, robbing, praying, by the dotsFor tomorrow, tomorrow and a further tomorrowThey say-:you are ruthless, and I know this to be trueAnd they tell me you have thieves and murders-And this, I dare say-but shall-is also true, very true But show me a city to the defiant of eight-million-? I shake my fist and say: '?show me! But no one does'So alive, so brave, with brawny and hungry hearts;I say, show me one that sings in poverty and smiles Prove me one that celebrates year-round of its heroes Show me painters that are as good-that sell on streets-As good as: Picasso, Dali, Rembrandt, and Yang YangAnd that welcomes the world with stretched out arms-Show me all this, or some of this, and I will say no moreWith this,I descend to its streets, its crowed winding streetsAs well as, to its neighborhoods with dust and grubby air, And hear the laughs of the children; the dogs on roofs Sights of the shoe-shiners: men and boys, in the parksAnd the copious food carts; -- musicians, paper sellersAnd with its naked featherless wings, jacket all-My Lima, Peru with its famous Cathedral:Golden blond with gigantic crowns, andWithin its plaza-square, a water fountain-celebrated.Under its sins, with its crumpled aged men, lovely women,They all stand tall and bow to its Inca history, its glory- Its world that once ruled all, like the Roman Empire,Like the American Dream, they were the noble, the kingsAnd now, from grind and toil, sweat and strive, all, all Grinding, grinding away, each and everyday, lover of the, King of Kings: Jesus Christ-this is the Lima I know today; a mighty ship that has by now sailed the seven seas, now resting!?Spanish VersionLima, La ciudad con las alas extendidas Translated by Rosa PeñalozaEsta es una noche oscura: no estrellas, ni luna a la vistaSolo puntos: rojo, verde y blanco-luces blancasMientras que el avión desciende, desciende, bajando A la larga-extendida-plana persistente ciudad de luces Plana como un panqueque, encendida como un árbol de navidad-La despierta ciudad, con sus alas extendidasExtendidas desde las montañas hacia el océano Zigzagueante a través de los valles, bosques y riachuelos Estirando, estirando sus alas desnudas-interminablesMientras,Voy descendiendo, abajo, por encima y alrededor de la ciudad (Descendiendo, descendiendo, y deslizándose a la tierra)La ciudad con las alas extendidas-y luces interminables Abajo, Abajo, detrás, alrededor, la tierra, es inmune a mí Sólo soy parte de esta noche, un bautizado en su oscuro océanoInvisible: gente, gatos, perros, pájaros, y ratas, infinidadIncontables: puntos, riachuelos de luz, puntos de luz; Gente: caminando, conversando, durmiendo, comiendo bajo los puntos de luz Gente: esperando, matando, robando, rezando bajo los puntos de luzPor mañana, mañana y otro mañanaEllos dicen--:Tu eres implacable, y yo se que esto es verdadY ellos me dicen tú tienes ladrones, y muertes-Y esto, me atrevo a decir, que esto también es cierto, muy ciertoPero muéstrame una ciudad de ocho millones contraria --? Sacudo mis puños y digo: "?muéstrame," pero nadie lo haceTan viva, tan valerosa, con corazones fuertes y hambrientos:Digo, muéstrame una que canta en pobreza, y sonríe Pruébame una como esa, que celebra alrededor del año a sus héroes Muéstrame pintores tan buenos-que venden en las calles-Tan buenos como: Picasso, Dali, Rembrant y Yang YangY que recibe al mundo con extendidos brazosMuéstrame todo esto, o algo de esto, y no diré masCon esto,Desciendo a sus calles, atiborrada, zigzagueantes callesAsí como su raro vecindario con polvo en el aire Y oigo la risa de los niños, los perros en los techos Vista de los lustrabotas, hombres y muchachos, en los parquesY los numerosos carros de comida, músicos y vendedores de periódicosY con su desnuda y desplumadas alas, cubriendo todo-Mi Lima, Perú, con su renombrada catedral:Amarilla dorada con su coronadas torres, yDentro de su plaza cuadrada, una celebrada piletaBajo su piel, con sus arrugados ancianos, tiernas mujeres,Todos ellos parados altos, y reverenciando a su historia inca, sugloria- Su mundo que una vez gobernó todo, como el Imperio RomanoComo el sueño de América, ellos fueron los nobles, los reyesY ahora de pesadez, y esfuerzo, sudor, lucha, todos, todos extenuados, fatigados, este y cada día, amantes del Rey de los Reyes: Jesucristo-esta es la Lima que conozco, hoy; un poderoso barco que ya navegó los siete mares, ahora descansando?Author/Poet Dennis Siluk, web site: http://dennissiluk.
In the Mountans of Haiti [A Poem: in English and Spanish]
In the Mountains of Haiti(In the City)-July is a hot month-sweating Poverty out on every street (In Port de Prince); mixingMemory with ask causes stirring. Not much rain in Haiti (in 1986); Summer kept us busy, building A medicinal clinic, in the mountains?.
The Man Who Could Not Say Sorry For His Sins
Sorry would be a start.Though you cant take back your mistakes, and you cant find an answer time, you'd think there would be remorse, for such a self plateful crime, to send others out to die, to pay the blood price you have decreed, when its chastely bluster and posing, all about airs and greed, to acquire a perceived niche in history, glowing down the years, is the area of your ambition, is the puny limit of your fears, when those you have sent to die, believing implicitly in you, leave relatives after who see, that naught you said was true, there is no belief now for those, whose amount you dont count, they are yesterdays forgotten, though daily they still mount, no accepted wisdom of resignation, no admission of guilt to those left behind, just on with the ego, fast ahead from those times, as if naught ever happened, as if your lies are quite ok, as if now is what to focus on, and then was an added day, lost back in the mists of time, obscured by clouds half seen, not an disrespect to the living, not impeachable and obscene, you may want to move on now, and discount your past infamy, but you be supposed to be tried for treason, and captive for blasphemy.
The Plane from Iquitos [1959-Part One]
Iquitos & the Amazon Part OneIt was December 2, l959, I was meeting on a small prop-plane departure Iquitos, Peru for a trip down the Amazon concerning the opening, the mouth of the mighty Amazon,--to Manaus. As we flew low one could see the waters of the Amazon, the city at all times impressed me, but more from this birds-eye view, you could see the mighty river in its squid like form, with all it tentacles [contributories: waters involving to the river].
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