ÉÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍ October 1994 ÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍ Volume 2, Number 10 ÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍ» º º º º º º º º º º º ÛßÛ ÛßÛ ÛßßßßßßÛ ÛßßßßßßÛ ÛßßßßßßÛ ÛßßßßßßÛ ÛßßßßßÛ ÛßßßÛ ÛßÛ º º Û Û Û Û Û Ûßßßßß ßÛ ÛßÛ Û Û ÛßßÛ Û Û ÛßßÛ Û Û Ûßßßß ßÛ Ûß Û Û º º Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û º º Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û º º Û ßßß Û Û Û ÛßßÛ Û Û Û Û Û ßßßß Û Û ßßßß Û Û ßßßßÛ Û Û Û Û º º ßßßßÛ Û Û Û ßÛ Û Û Û Û Û Û ÛßÛ Ûß Û ÛßßÛ Û ßßßßÛ Û Û Û Û Û º º Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û º º Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û º º Ûßßßß Û Û ßßßß Û Ûß ßßß Û Û Û Û ßÛ Û Û Û Û Ûßßßß Û Ûß ßÛ Û ßßßßÛ º º ßßßßßßß ßßßßßßßß ßßßßßßßß ßßß ßßßß ßßß ßßß ßßßßßßß ßßßßß ßßßßßßß º º º º º º ÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜ º º º º º º º º º º º º ÖÄÄ¿ ÄÂÄ ÖÄÄ¿ Ò Â ÒÄÄ¿ ÖÄ·  ÖÄÄ¿ ÒÄ ÖÄÄ¿ ÒÄÄ¿ º º ÇÄÄ´ ³ º ³ º ³ ÇÄÂÙ º º ³ ÇÄÄ´ º º ³ ÇÄ º º Ð Á ÓÄÙ ÓÄÄÙ ÓÄÄÙ Ð ÁÄ Ð ÓÄÙ Ð Á ÐÄÄÙ ÓÄÄÙ Ð º º º º ÖÄÒÄ¿ Ò Â ÒÄÄ¿ ÒÄÄ¿ ÖÄÄ¿ ÒÄÄ¿ ÖÄÒÄ¿ ÄÒÄ ÖÄÄ¿ ÖÄÄ¿ ÒÄÄ¿ ÖÄÒÄ¿ ÖÄÄ¿ º º º ÇÄÄ´ ÇÄ ÇÄÄÙ º ³ ÇÄ º º º ÇÄÄ´ ÇÄÂÙ º ÓÄÄ¿ º º Ð Ð Á ÐÄÄÙ Ð ÓÄÄÙ ÐÄÄÙ Ð ÄÐÄ ÓÄÄÙ Ð Á Ð ÁÄ Ð ÓÄÄÙ º º º º º º º º º º º º Editor: Klaus J. Gerken º º Associate Editors: Paul Lauda º º : Pedro Sena º º Production Editor: Igal Koshevoy º º European Editor: Milan Georges Djordjevitch º º º º º º º º º º º º º º º ÈÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍͼ ÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜ ßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßß ÖÄÒÄ· ÖÄ· ÒÄ· Ò ÖÄÄ ÖÄ· ÖÄÄ ÖÄ· ÖÄ· ÖÄ· ÖÄÒÄ· ÖÄÄ ÖÄ· ÖÄÒÄ· ÖÄ· º º º º º º º º º º º º º º º º º º º º º º ÇĶ ÇĶ º ÇÄ º º ÇÄ º º º º º º ÇÄ º º º ÓÄ· º º º º º º º º º º º º º º º º º º º º º Ð ½ Ó ÐĽ ÓÄÄ ÓÄÄ ÓĽ Ð ÓĽ ÓĽ Ð Ó Ð ÓÄÄ Ð Ó Ð ÓĽ ÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜ ßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßß INTRODUCTION................................Klaus J. Gerken THE BLACKED-OUT MIRROR......................Klaus J. Gerken expulsive defecance.........................Igal Koshevoy Today.......................................Jim Yagmin The Bird....................................Jim Yagmin One Way.....................................Jim Yagmin Where Has all the Passion gone?.............Jim Yagmin That Comes Under Moon.......................Jim Yagmin Burial Cycle................................Jim Yagmin Entropy.....................................Alvin Brinson Lost........................................Alvin Brinson What I know.................................William Gust Night Rider.................................Terry A. Long Love Knows No Color.........................Terry A. Long TIME........................................Terry A. Long Everyday Life...............................Terry A. Long A Lonely Road...............................Terry A. Long Out in the Park.............................Terry A. Long Love and Romance............................Terry A. Long The Poet Writes Their Poem..................Terry A. Long Changing Seasons of My Life.................Terry A. Long Flowers in the Rain.........................Terry A. Long Spring Poem XXVI............................Greg Schilling The Sundial.................................Marilyn Hutchings Sight.......................................Marilyn Hutchings The Room....................................Marilyn Hutchings Unfinished..................................Marilyn Hutchings Spider's Joke...............................Marilyn Hutchings LIFE'S LITTLE SYM-PHONY.....................Joe Hope HOME IS WHERE HELL IS.......................Joe Hope CLAY TOMB REVISITED AGAIN AND AGAIN.........Joe Hope Poem of Hope................................Graham Parker Target Practice.............................Gay Bost Pensive Antiquity...........................Jennifer Mulcahy A Poem......................................Jennifer Mulcahy Inside......................................Jennifer Mulcahy POST SCRIPTUM...............................Bob Ezergailis ßÛß ÛßÛ Û ßßÛßß ÛßßÛ ÛßßÛ ßÛßßÛ Û Û Ûßßß ßßÛßß ßÛß ÛßßÛ ÛßÛ Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û ÛßÛß Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û ßßß ß ßßß ß ß ßß ßßßß ßßßßß ßßßß ßßßß ß ßßß ßßßß ß ßßß ßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßß I was standing on the balcony the other day watching the golden-cratered harvest moon rising low above a treed horizon, between two obstructive highrise towers, more bunker-like in their construction, than friendly. 10 stories below, across the evening-empty street, a tall lanky and young teenage youth, wearing faded jeans and a black leather jacket, stumbled, slightly drunk up a few concrete steps near an unused bicycle rack, to the front glass-door and fumble with the keys, until he realized, a bit perplexed at the complexity of the situation, that they front outer-door to the complex had no lock, and he required no key to enter. He swung the door open rather abruptly and disappeared. I turned my attention, once again, to the golden orb Diana, moving ever closer, in a timeless, almost imperceptible, ageless movement, towards the edge of the neighbouring balcony; proof that the living entity of Earth circles around the living entity of helium and light that we call Sol, and the ancients called Ra. This little episode, with the key and the unlocked door made me wonder about our own searches, not just for the meaning of life and death, but also of the meaning of the beginning and the end, the alpha and the omega, if you will: the search for true enlightenment. In that respect, who knows how for we've come...John Lilly writes, in the his "Metaphysical Biography" The Scientist, that his "Beings", those who come and speak to him in his altered-states experiments, warn that the "solid life forms" (read computers) are taking the evolution of the earth. Although this is a sort of "doomsday" prognostications, his being have hope that in the end, we, the humans, will still triumph: but it all depends on how we program our computers: either to control us, or to serve. As gratifying as it is to know this fact, it still raises a lot of questions. For instance, if the "solid life forms" are indeed alive, and the humans eventually triumph over them, will the human forms be masters, and the "solid life forms" slaves? Or will both life "entities" learn to co-exist and evolve together, in a mutual agreement? What will be the morality of the situation? Will the churches accept the "solid state" life forms, or will they refuse to acknowledge them? Or will a brand new religion develop, one which takes into account all life within the universe, indeed, one which acknowledges the Universe itself as a living entity and all that is contained within it, as an integral part of this entity: all of it alive? I certainly do not know the answers, but I do know how we will achieve the answers. And you say: "Ah! he's going to say, through poetry!" But it's not. What it is though, is vision. The vision of the seer, the vision of the poet-seer. And what is this vision? Well, it's not, as some would have it, science fiction; nor is it a political formula; it's a hunch, a "gut reaction"; it's a crow dropping pebbles on the head of some official, resulting in a revelation; it's a bunch of coincidences; it's a survivor in an avalanche; it's a poet alone, in a darkened room, dank with dusty books, contemplating life. It's even a drunk fumbling with a key to open a door which is still unlocked. It's the realization of the obvious. Ultimately it's what touches us in the most unexpected way; it's when we open our eyes and for the first time see what had always been there but which we could not acknowledge because we refused to experience the vision, the reality, the moment, the single moment that is us. Ultimately it's the experiences we cannot understand, rather than those we can. An experience which makes us ask further questions, and an answer which continues to pose questions. That which makes us grow, not just a species on a singular rock of blue and green, but that which makes us grow as universal entities merging with the "All-and-the-Beyond". That which is the inexhaustible well of wisdom which some have called the Holy Grail. It has often been said: questions raise no answers, but only other questions. I believe this true. And ultimately, in a formulated logic, that might well be the only truth we can believe. And the closer we seem to get to what seems the ultimate answer, the closer we come to what seems to be the ultimate question. And what is the ultimate question? What's beyond. It is worth ruminating on what Cavafis said in his poem Ithaka: "When returning to Ithaka, and you find Ithaka Poor and barren: it is not Ithaka that matters most, But the journey and the knowledge you have gained Upon the journey. That's what matters most." As long as we remember that, the more enriched we'll be, not just as individuals, or as a species, but ultimately as universal entities evolving beyond our wildest dreams. Ò ÖÄ ÄÒÄ ÖÄÄÄ · ÄÄ ÇÄз º º Ö· Ö· Ö· º/ Ö· Ö· Ð Ð ÓĽ ÓÄĽ ÓÄ Ó ÓÓ ÓÄ ÓÓ THE BLACKED-OUT MIRROR ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Waiting's no fun...neither wanting something that perfects itself without you being there... anyway...right or wrong...even those eternal happy lovers must gather the toys of remembrance from under mouldy bedsheets once in awhile. The music stifles imbecility... even the mood can never be all preconceived... the shape of her breasts or tuft of hair that matters most (but matters really not at all) through perfect grace...that is feeling that can rarely be held so much a bay... (even wild horses couldn't drag the troops away). Insanity never recalls to mention it. The hollow dreamboat of desire always needs a master at the helm.... such is the only truth that gives us those emotions... and if anger or pain or hate or fear creep out of the casket those who hold it open are too struck by the beauty of this false eternity to ever contemplate their own security. The scream is always heard in fact, that is the only music that does not escape us. It is always that tone that we most remember from our innocence... Even the heaviness of Lear must recall absurdity. The old man like a recluse in a cave... perhaps the rain would drench the cape of our indifference lashed against the trembling of a much refused desire... so much is abuse that when we stand before that only miracle its reasoning escapes our sanity locks up the key behind the door of simple fright... and then the night...the aloneness of togetherness the passionate embrace which like a broken razor blade one's much too frightened to use right because the wound might be just deep enough that scars result from nothing there at all. But is it nothing? - Is it a refusal to acknowledge the refusal of a dream? Even madmen dream...but madmen also sleep at night. If you think you spend the night alone, you are very wrong. Each single moment of your past endeavours is always at odds with the present insurgence of a loneliness - something no one wants, yet pays to have. And why not? It's a table set for two, but still unstained. It's a candle burned much to the ground of your desire. It's a book with pages uncut, read by x-ray eyes. That is how one's loneliness uses one, not like freedom of a cause, but like the poison of an asp you've let be comforter. But really, it's a relationship you've understood, mindlessly, perhaps, but still so well, that nothing can deter your mourning for a jesters skull. Perhaps the meaning's always dear. Perhaps not more dear for the fences that it springs upon us unawares. The few words that no one understands are always those that need that understanding - and what of art? Why reason for a suffering? a curse that punches through without quite the willingness, quite the curiosity to explore farther And what of love? of, well, Ophelia and Helen? the mindless imbecility (never clear cut) that shadows each of us and all of them? Well, so much for suffering...And how about the image? What do we see, hear, smell, taste? What is the embitterment of the universal agon? God? I wouldn't have presumed...(poison's always better than bad blood). Poet! the image is incertitude! How to accept the fact that a relationship needs the faltering as a farmer needs the fences to mould and crack and fall apart. Relationship, poet, that is mending! not much good if nothing bends. They say a tiger in a cage leads a longer life than those who have their freedom to themselves...it's trying to escape that matters most not incarceration. And, poet, this relationship, it's like as if you are waiting ripe corn before you've even planted the seed. That's the surest way to trample on the root of man. That's the certain way virginity remains the virgin, that blood will challenge blood and afterlife will never be a simple reason to forget or to recall the milestone of refusal you think you've brought on to yourself. It's never that, but it always is throughout creation, do you think a chance was never missed? Even the unkindest cut of all is less an abrasion of reality, even falsified reality, in which we tightly sleep like needles in a pin cushion. Needless to say, the prisoner escapes, he always does. Society is never any better off for the loss of a few religious symbols... an idyll refrains from itself simply when the rites, those rites are never powerful enough to overcome even the simplest example of existentialism. It may not have been perfect in its conception but... Rays of freedom proliferate. The fog that gathers our eternity, as when with forceps the doctor forces the child refusing to be born (tied off at two ends - cut between) into the primal scream! If we were fed by this: passion of Ophelia - lilies on a stagnant pond, we might smell of want, but walls are still the same, shutting out what they proliferate, relegate to those fantastic nuisances that are never frozen by conception. It's a game that children often play amongst their elders. It's a universe of accepted definitions, ill defined yet very definite... Legally there is no voice. The voice one makes must be less than what acceptance writes with pointless awe... Even now, the critics sanctify the music on the radio. It's part of everything. If we hide away all our sacrifices, stealing glimpses of what might have been, we will run headstrong into a wall put there by ourselves. In our dreams we tear them down - perhaps, perhaps we still need them in reality, like the killing of an ant never matters much to us until we are ourselves an ant giving substance to obeisance. Like god laughs with thunder in his eyes and a dragon in her mouth. Of this insane laughter, can we ever find a cure? Perhaps...well, perhaps everything and nothing all at once, for all embraces silence and the void. But we can never be sure. Must certainty always be such an obscure disease? Neither doctor, nor nurse can help with that. The poet dreams inviolate amusements... and if the bed of truth doesn't creak tonight it's because the floor has melted to a perfect joke to tell a friend. They say that a praying mantis eats it's mate. When we return to that can the shadows of love ever be obscene again? And Hamlet would tell those naughty tales that will make a virgin blush red rose... But neither, in due course, needs explanation. Hamlet wasn't mad, but he was a fool. Yorik was the wisest of the lot. Yorik with his skull that Holan doesn't dare to mention. Well...perhaps he does...after all, it's the thought that counts: the simplicity of each emotion. Even Helen's skull was hardly identifiable after so many years in Hades (It wasn't even the most beautiful of the lot.. but they forget to tell us that...they take pity on the myth itself). Sadness forces us to re-direct our energy into an ecstatic pandemonium... no less for the mask we wear and take off at a masquerade - no less for the inflated raft to escape to a deserted place nearer to society than freedom is alone... And so Oedipus Rex violated this insane perfection... he couldn't have helped it - after all, the blind leading the blind get somewhere... It is only we, the sighted, who are blind... but that is nothing new... like sex with too sweet cream lost in the afternoon, one is always at one's own indiscretion. Subordinates always, (in fact, it's their right) snicker... but to take notice of the abyss when the dark conceals the fate of three white doves... that is another story, challenged by the history of volatile emotions. In fact, the too few who agree, do not so much agree, but vanquish with the whips of hate a forceful union based on principle - like the ceremony of a suicide, who reaches out, not for understanding, but to understand - No wonder the heart of the world weighs heavy on the soul of chance. The castrated do not pull away, but they attack - even the rivers laugh at them: for what cannot drown must drown in air - and it is more or less a photograph that leads the thought back to those ideals that never where. They wanted to be martyrs but didn't want to go that far... It's like old underwear, after a while the body accepts its own filth - no one cares anymore - and the garbage heap becomes another Oxyrhynchus - another archaeologist dream - of course the have good noses - they're like bloodhounds on the make, a piece of ash in the greatest part of a debate - a debacle of modest pride priced above the sky - and isn't much of any passion just the same? for instance, to play at waiting we must masturbate without the satisfaction of a scented holocaust - we're not so far removed that we cannot see the empty mirror that reflects our sex - we recall each single moment in a perfect harmony, like bobcats on a picket fence - which brings us back to what was won through Helen's rape... I doubt that we could ever find the curtain drawn aside, and poor old Homer "Blind as a bat", but bats have finer sonar than the right of way beneath the stars - Bats are hardly blind, they just see a whole lot better... When a child cries and the ravagement of death is near the open door to empty corridors and sutured calling cards isn't then that the game must always be all out for everything and even nothing that has so much to give beyond the triple rose is quite the hangman's game... Even Robspierre had little to say in the way of sympathy... Once the point is made the image of retreat looms near - very like the darts of melted time across Da Vinci's forehead: eagle eyes that penetrate a mole's darkness. Again Lear creeps in, sheepskin touching naked flesh - It is not much the rain that matters anyway, it's who you're with and what you do - Even solitude must need its comforted just to notice that the execution doesn't always come at dawn - Time's pre-eminence doesn't always follow human need. The foibles of the innocent are not at all concerned with this... their duty is to refusal - their duty is towards a blade of grass, an ear of corn, an unturned page, a dream come true. They are never prisoners, either of themselves or others - How could they be? - Such situations arise for those who accept the vision of their duty (which controls all nature) with the breath of purity - So, Casanova came out of the shadows and spoke very freely that he even very much surprised himself: "Well, anyway, it filters the air - everything that is not a mask must be violated - is that it? damn you - if you think that I, I this I, this flesh, this feeling, can't also feel disgust and violence... well then, tear that mask apart - I'd rather there was violence, a show of emotion than falsehood - and even when you admire all your 'conquests' a sexual imbalance results which places you far below what any man should be - If you do not feel anything, what's the use of living then? If it's a cocoon you want, then jump into the bathtub filled with lard - Anyway, don't hurt others more emotional than you - a cocoon is for those who want to be alone - for those who hate themselves so much that they force a false reality upon themselves and thinks that that could be the only truth - Your falsehood is an abomination - shape up, man, or get out of it -" In this way Casanova went back to what he was. He made no excuses - I have never heard anyone talk like that, but it must be said. In truth, he was talking to himself, his own mirror image, his own shadow (call it conscience, if you will, it doesn't matter what), he was forcing himself to feel those emotions he could never comprehend before - Even love was never part of his vocabulary. He became a librarian just to read those pornographic novels he once thought he had as life. He had come to realize that everything he had faded away because of it. He always blamed it on others...he didn't see himself... the mirror always was deceptive. But it didn't last...and I don't think it ever was himself that spoke. Perhaps I spoke; perhaps even Silence... - - - - - - - - - - You see how it is? No one cares about the poison, until they themselves are forced to put the cup there for themselves to drink from... by that time they have lost those insights that they wanted so to fathom -. Needless to say, like a roasted pig, they didn't get to see their finest hour. Their ideals were far too obstinate. And even if they've escaped the butcher's block, what have they won? What gained? Do they know themselves any better? Well, perhaps... But still, it's the walls; especially at night, quite alone a night, that each must be confronted with - there's no star to guide them anymore, and a storm is brewing from the west... How does a man stake his claim on another human being? Does one ever stake a claim, or does one just manipulate? Was the rape of Helen justified, or was Paris mad? Love is such a curious emotion; it's like balancing on a tight rope with a noose around your neck - The slightest intervention, even by the wind... the wind that brings the words...that even shakes the universe. . . . . . To gain a foothold... to gain a moment of precise fidelity, and for two days now you have brought together thunder from above and water from below: there is conflict in your life. What frozen corpses are there yet to be buried? You have learned much, all too fast and all too cruel: perhaps it's time to assimilate whatever offerings you have brought upon yourself. Gain a foothold, poet... Even Hamlet had cause to retreat - cause to vanquish himself from the influence of her who forced his recognition. But life is filled with consequences that we set in motion and cannot control. Thought before action never is that easy: to come to grips with yourself is even worse - it's easy to crush a blade of grass because we do not analyze the situation - but that still does not excuse the act. Poet, to regain yourself, to have what you want, to be certain of your actions... "Aye, there's the rub!" Hamlet out from behind the curtains, like a bold and overzealous Claudius. What else could he say? He had a fine writer of speeches to put those words in his mouth... You are still alone. There is no sympathy from any quarter of the world that you have known from insignificance. - - - - - - - And the wine is not blood. And what we believe is not all that really is. And you should know by now that "fields of ruin" never vanish with the mystic night of would-have-been... Alas now, the poet speaks, "A wedding in black can never be a mask - like a poet's only salvation is the wine he has no need to drink - It is the emptiness of an emotion felt too much - It is the emotion of a loss that is not yet a loss at all - And it is not true that beginnings are the hardest - it's the following through - the coming to grips with the reality of the situation that poisons all our hopes and even our deepest dreams - Perforce to say, that there is nothing worse than doubt that will metamorphose to fear before your awe-struck eyes... That consumes the whole of everything...What's left? What is really left without a voice to guide one? without a hunchback for protection? without a secret love and the spiciness of an intrigue? what is left when fear robs you blind? when madness twists your mind and contorts your face with the image of a false religion? And what do you notice, here before you, here before this audience of empty chairs and swinging coat hangers that lovers never have a need to use...yes and this I, this bleeding poet opening his veins upon the sand of innocence... shaking hands with lost illusions, with the music of a pride castrated long ago... and of course this violence, this nether realm of those emotions locked away behind a painted door upon the wall...even we can enter here leaving behind the black mirror of an ancient disposition we hang on to because we cannot see the other side... Yes, and what about that love? what about the way we manipulate it through hate... yes, and even that is not uncertain in all of us. We hold just too many ill defined conceptions... and the greatest is the misconception of that desperate silence... love, so ill expressed, that we lose despite a feeling of sincerity... Yes, and even I, I cannot be trusted in the game of love! Do you understand? I will covet my neighbour's wife if given half the chance, because I am still the Minotaur...What pride if left? The pride of destroying another human being for the trust they showed? Is that what all of love should be about? So see them there, why do I bother? a wall would be a better listener... And is anyone ever so naive as not to see the battered walls of chance resound with a furious ingratitude...? Perhaps I shouldn't speak at all... Lear may yet have told the truth by hiding in a cave... But it's the Space Age now and all we care about is a hollow sexuality. About the truth... I see nothing in confession... Nothing wrong that is... Why hide yourself away with dour incertitude when the air has very few poison darts...? And those there are we dodge them every day... Yes, and it is also hard to make up one's mind... very hard indeed, concerning those events that change one's life in a very direct and difficult way. One never 'plans' these episodes - but one does, one might be blind to them at the time of their conception but that stage is all too real... It was a dark day, a day of rain she spoke about the acquisition of student loans of course I wasn't all that interested in the topic I came only because she was alone I came only to see her She told me later that she was very frightened of me that day She got dressed up and wanted me to take her out We were just about to go when it began to rain again She was incredibly beautiful with her newly cut dark hair which she couldn't get to shape the way she wanted to the nervous energy and how she told me that I looked exactly like her husband and that oh if I only did not look so much like him The restaurant was dark with red table cloths and music which was much too loud I only drank a beer The conversation swayed from all to all To how we waste our energies and friends their mental capabilities I said that as a poet I must nurture all neuroses She laughed and repeated the phrase Turned it over with her tongue I waited for a single sign I had not found it until that moment where she said If only you did not so much look like him, if only... Through the rain going back to the apartment Will you invite me up again? Yes I fell in love with her And yes, there are lies in love and yes, too, there is deception and the next time that I saw her not too many days from then he was there, and she was walking around in her nightgown showing off her charms and she sent him out to get some milk and told mr how afraid she was that night alone with me and how everything seemed suddenly alright and how I took that as a light to follow through the darkness of the path that I had cut through this the jungle of a poet's dreams and that how I was in love with her and that, yes, there are those lies in love and also deception and how we were all later on after there no longer were any secrets and he acted so childish to her and that I jumped on him with It's time now to grow up and how shocked he was and how he looked at me and then at her he left for a moment and she told me how much she was in agreement and had wanted to say those things to him herself and that he treated her so cruelly... not cruelly in a physical sense but cruelly in a mental aberration of insensitivity and how that day I wanted her and how I couldn't stand her there with him and how I left I had to leave I didn't want to leave but what was there to do I who loved her so I who followed every lie I who shook deception's hand And then how she phoned me and that I told her all the truth Is there anything she asked What do you think Yes there is I want to see you Me Yes you Only you When Make time and how deception smiled black eyed in the wilderness And how I was there I who held life in such sanctity I giver of the word Seeker of the truth I was there to murder all for her To sacrifice everything for her embrace for the sent of her holding me so captivated there at the edge of the precipice So much dawned on me that night so much dawned and if we live again if we live again what chances do we take what choices do we hold and what throw freely to the wind what feelings sacrifice for those we sanctify and how I loved her well with lies how I promised to do everything for her how I was and am the blinded minotaur charging at his own image in the black mirror smeared with his own blood smeared by his own fear and jealousy and hate and what image does he see there behind his shoulder the image of deception and he tried to turn away turn his back away no matter what he turns toward his destiny... - - - - - Well, I see the audience is stunned - better to be stunned than have no reaction at all... that's what I always say. Nicht Wahr?..." ... The poet, hunched over leaves the stage in sorrow and to an almost silent applause from his conscience... he doesn't even hear that. It is still only her he sees. One cannot remain in love forever; nor out of it... But how much more does he have to deny himself to make that one effort that will not be fraught with fear? - So the poet came back. This time he wore the mask of Pagliacci. He wanted tears painted on so real that he couldn't wipe them off again. He wanted a lot of things that simply were denied him... he wanted to go after them, but somehow held himself back. His melancholy knocked him down and the difficulty of love propped him up again with hasty promises and new found hopes bound by genetic chains in stagnant cesspools - but the poet like an acrobat must always breathe the air of survival, even if he falters - he must taste the consequences of every fruit, even that which comes from poison vines - otherwise how can he call himself a poet? how indeed describe the world without ever having been a part of it? the poet always meets his fate head on - not always granted for the better, but he has a knack of knowing when he must retreat - not give up - for retreat is only part of harmony - as is waiting - Listen, here the poet speaks again: "I don't like what's happening, these emotions I have never wanted to feel. I don't want them now - I would rather hide away again, but know that it's too close - one's feet in mud and cannot run away - waiting is the perfect opportunity, now that further action would only complicate the matter - I will wait - what have I to lose? - no matter which way I turn I run headlong into fate..." . . . . . . . Nothing ever comes to an end it all melts back into the beginning just as a knife sharpened is dependent on the blunting of the blade to make a living we blunt a relationship to build it up again Whether we do it on purpose or it just happens that is hard to say Nature's laws are very wide and difficult and we are like her children attempting and integral calculus with grade one mathematics It just can't be done or perhaps it can but have just not found the way to go about it And the poet believed himself to be above it all he believed that he could beat the odds but the odds are what? he's like Icarus, waxen wings and all he's like the bull that sees the red cape but doesn't see the sword behind it he sees the object of his desire he doesn't see the wall surrounding her and he doesn't scale the wall or even attempt to come through the open front door he attempts to ram it down Poet! nurture your discretion! there are very few who survive this way and even if they do one has only frightened the object of desire away by a show of such blind violence... Wait, poet... Wait with feet in mud and the ocean lapping at your feet if you have to, but wait... no matter how difficult... It is the path that you have chosen and you'll get there but sometimes you can only go so far and have to wait for the obstacle to clear itself sometimes you have to wait for her to come to you and waiting that is difficult teaches you a lot more things than rushing blindly forth can ever do If icarus had taken his flight slowly his wings would not have melted and at least he would again have safely come back down to earth Have patience poet, with your heart aflame and your mind untamed... waiting after all might yet be the only truthful way to gain... -- Klaus J. Gerken, 1979 ÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍ ±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±± ÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍ expulsive defecance ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ i don't care and i don't want to care cause i care too much ( so few really even bother trying anything ) it's twisted a sort of a shared impotence just swallowing spitting up but never getting anything done why should i care? why should i bother? why should i look out for Number-One? who is this Number-One anyways? and since when did i owe him anything? i don't owe anyone anything i wasn't anything to you don't expect difference from me i wanna hit something but my fists are already a bloodied mess i need a drink but all the bottles lay empty and broken on the floor i need a smoke maybe this cancer stick will be the one that breaks my neck i gotta get laid again not that it means anything to anyone anyways i wanna die so what if a life ain't worth that much at all just tired of all my bitching and sick of all your lies can't stand your ignorance it's not on what i thrive despise is about all i got mixed in with fatigued distrust i'm corroding into your image into something i can't hide and can't forget i'm running up a hill in neutral but i'm going down both ways don't know how much longer my high will last can't judge the distance till the next blast i look like shit i feel like shit maybe i should get the clue scared of staying tired of running where the Hell's this getting me? not pity ain't mercy not even tears are enough for me i don't wanna i don't needa i don't ... i just don't. -Igal Koshevoy (lh^m) February 7, 1994; 3:31am ÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍ ±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±± ÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍ Today ~~~~~ "Today is the greatest Day I've ever known Can't live for tomorrow Tomorrow's much too long" -- Smashing Pumpkins "Today" These words do not come to me- I come to them- For today- Today I have learned what life is Perhaps I have known- Now I have been. Today I have seen an acquaintance- freshly married- Now a friend- I have heard of a friend's friend's friend's suicide- I've felt the tears- Today I have tried to soften my sister's fear of death- She has spoken - The collective energy; we shall return to, And this soothed our hearts- But what of our thoughts- Minds- Feelings- Souls- Of this I thought Of this I know- In life's mural , We paint our lives- They solidify when we are gone- Gone to the Energy. Life does not die But stiffens, as a corpse- Souls are wooden- Thoughts are steel- Minds are rocks- Lives are clay- We paint this mural We choose the paint- We choose the brush- We choose the canvas- We choose- Yet We are merely parts- Some large Some not- We choose- We choose. These words do not come to me- I come to them. These words are Soft- As I form This is all I can do- This is all I can ask- There is no power looming- There is no barrier set- Unhampered- I live today- Happy. These words do not come to me- Nor would I want them served- I paint my section- Chisel my part- As large- As small as I want Free- The future will be Today- The past has been Today- Do not await the future Do not revere the past Paint the mural Carve the wood Create- For life is purpose- Give your growth- It will not be forgotten- It will not be forgotten. Today- Before your life's solidified- Today. -- Jim Yagmin ÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍ The Bird ~~~~~~~~ I've never cried as much as the time when the bird died- The bird that had died I had found with a broken wing- I myself set the wing, and built the box for him to live in. He was happy, and so was I. After the bird's wing healed I worked him out, because a tame bird doesn't last. I made him chase after live worms that I was pulling along- I jumped at him to make him move quickly- I fought with him so he could fight back- And when he was ready for the outdoors- And when I wasn't ready to let him go- It was then I knew I must. So I took him outside, and- Softly, set him upon the grass. There he sat. I jumped at him, and he flowed into the air. That was the first time I'd seen him fly outside- That was also the last. Months later, before the leaves were completely gone, although most were, The bird came back to me. He was injured. He breathed heavily and quickly. I wished, as if I had one wish to be granted, that the bird would stop breathing so heavy and quick. And he did. I went into the garage for the wood. I built this box myself, also. His eyes were glassed over by the time I put him in. He was stiff and cold. I will never forget how he looked, then, right before I put the cover over him. I had a funeral, and it rained. It rained as if there was a tornado coming; a tornado without wind. I covered him with dirt, and packed it down hard. I didn't mark the grave. I know where I buried the bird: Against the center of the wall behind the garage. The box was touching the unyielding cement of the wall when I put him in. It was then that I cried- with the rain, and the black clothes, and the vivid picture of the dead bird in my mind. The memory of the bird has never haunted me, he has never come to life in my dreams, he has never moved. He is always stiff, cold and glassy-eyed. And so am I. -- Jim Yagmin ÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍ One Way ~~~~~~~ I saw a man walking a sidewalk- I saw him meet a street sign: ONE WAY - THIS WAY ONLY He shook his head and walked on- He walked the other way. -- Jim Yagmin ÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍ Where has all the Passion gone ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Where has all the passion gone- It's left a wisp of hollow song, It's left a shadow- growing long, It's made a child not belong- I sit and watch a painting die- The canvas rot, the oil dry; I sit and watch a suicide- Death is born, Life has died- Future holds not yesterday- Instead it shows more of today Bitterness sweeps far and wide- Truth is known- But denied. The more I see, the less I cry- My body growing stiff inside... I sit and watch a painting die- The canvas rot- the oil dry. -- Jim Yagmin ÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍ That Comes Under Moon ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ What is in the feeling That comes under moon- In summer eves or whistling leaves In dimly light or blue of night In loneliness or friendliness In quiet fright or sharpened sight The feeling that misplaces us In single solitude: Calm of soul; lightless hole, The evening leaves us blank- A walking talking meditation Enlightenment ensues- The secret of all holiness- Let out when guards asleep, Night and night drift apart Soul awakened to do its deed. Night of power, night of strength! Fill my emptied soul Blueness sad and blueness good Shines down to pierce our heightened mood- Let me be a channel of power Let me course with might- Cleanse my routes with energy Cleanse my rusted life- Give me purpose- Give me need- Electrocute my plodding mind- Burn this dreary dying child- Alight my darkness with the night. -- Jim Yagmin ÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍ Burial Cycle ~~~~~~~~~~~~ Inching toward his resting place- A shaded cove of nothingness- Rock- Dirt- Grass- Mud- Death upon him- Quick- Alone- He's died in comfort- Free at last from defending, Accepting life's cycle- Yet not being conquered- So all the things that live- Come here to rest- And all the things that eat- Come here to feast- But when a plate is served- It is never eaten raw, The dying moment respected With Privacy- From all. -- Jim Yagmin ÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍ ±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±± ÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍ Entropy ~~~~~~~ Time's arrow flows One direction only, Toward the throws of the final entropy. Chaos reigns supreme on that final day, God shall deem an end to men's way. But shall god be shackled by the fall, restricted by Entropy that consumes all? Will he reverse time, destroying destruction, or simply climb down from his position? -- Alvin Brinson March 2, 1993 ÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍ Lost ~~~~ Years the Earth had only us to view her innocence we called her lovely, worshipped the beauty, made her home. Didn't occur that we thought she was more than the rock deserved. One day the Sentients came, told the truth She's not the only one, they told us, there's more than the sun, Behold Us! There are a million Behold Them! You can have it all just surrender now, came the radio call. We come in peace across the space to show you all. Last of the innocent, we surrendered then. Now we're lost, home, vain, home, not ours again, scattered to the wind.... -- Alvin Brinson ÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍ ±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±± ÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍ What I Know ~~~~~~~~~~~ Where rests the psyche so situated As to claim infinity; Boasts its thoughts articulated Are modes of divinity? This salival beast: Its song is sung With outnumbered tongue Save that which licks my conceit. -- William Gust ÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍ ±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±± ÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍ Night Rider ~~~~~~~~~~~ Tell me Love, tell me true, Is this the end for me and you? Where did we go wrong? I hear that solitude song. Once upon a lover, Now it's only a cover. Here comes the rain, Here come my train. Gone but not forgot, I do think of you alot. The shelter of the streets, My heart still beats. The keeper of the dark, I hear your dogs begin to bark. I ride the wings of the night, The neon is burning bright. Here come the sun, It's time for me to run. Retreat to these dark walls, Will return when the night falls. Hear the cry of the child, Hear the call of the wild. Of this world I'm born, My soul still rides on. -- Terry A. Long ÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍ Love Knows No Color ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ What can you tell me from the color of my skin? Nigger, cracker, nip, hymie is not my name. Some think that they are better than most, My but the blood still does flow the same. Love is not born to color and never will be, Love instead of hate would make for a better place. Martin Luther's "I have a dream." rings hollow, Why does anything have to based on sex, creed, or race? Why can't people see a person instead of color? A veteran of value or basic human rights? The racism of today deeply saddens me, Why can't we get along, always ending in fights. The bigots keep fanning their flames of racism, Hung up on themselves, they have nothing better to do. Wished I understood the hate groups but I don't, When is a person not a person to you? Would be great if the world changed, but it won't, Hooked on the past, just one excuse after another. Sisters and Brothers of all races I embrace you all, For surely, Love, knows no color. -- Terry A. Long ÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍ TIME ~~~~ I stand alone against the changing tide of time, All the unfilled dreams just one page after another. Mindless games people play with the lives of others, Children searching for the hand of their mother. Seems like were caught in a scene from another play, That just keeps repeating itself over and over. Always a beginning but never an ending to all of this, Cling to the leaf of hope from a four leaf clover. Misery finds another victim in it's endless search, They seem to come easier to find these days. A drink or a drug numbs the pain for a little while, Doesn't look like anyone is willing to change their ways. The more one wants to live in this ugly world, The more one feels like leaving it someday soon. Sleep brings a little escape till one awakes, Reality sets back in, want to crawl inside a cocoon. Patience brought on the years of tears, An apple on a table, a candle in a window. Thoughts procure a different state of mind, Waves on the horizon come both high and low. Time does heal all wounds of one's heart, But the pain never seems to go away. The happiness a child outgrows in a later life, Is this the time, or is time another day? -- Terry A. Long ÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍ Everyday Life ~~~~~~~~~~~~~ And so the story goes, The final chapter left untold. Time goes on day by day, Destiny beckoning his life into fold. Watching the people and the cars go by, Watching the wind blow through the leaves. Sometimes sit and wonder why, Everything seems to run through a sieve. Seasons change as do hearts, Children laugh people cry. Kids grow up and people die, I breathe a deep and humble sigh. Life has many lessons to learn, And a short time to learn them in. We sense what's right and wrong, Emotions and feelings mostly win. I gaze up at the deep blue sky, Wonder when its my turn to die. Funny how things remain the same, The streets don't change but the name. As time goes fast and slowly by, I haven't the time to cry. Will have to give something new a try, So I don't sit and wonder why. -- Terry A. Long ÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍ A Lonely Road ~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Tis a lonely road that I hoe, To take my weight and travel. Have no where to go or no one to see, Beneath me I feel the shifting gravel. Is there so much pain to be gained, Or am I just lost forever. There's always a way in but not out, Time just passes forever and ever. When it rains it shines, Falling in my eyes to hide the pain. Never once wanting to remain, In a world with so much disdain. I learned how to laugh, And I learned how to cry. Maybe its the time, That I learn how to die. There is word of a better world, Its something that have to discover. I'm a jack-of-all trades master of none, Just a down and out sometimes lover. As the final chapter comes to a close, And the final curtain comes down. As time chooses the final fate, I make my last and final sound. -- Terry A. Long ÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍ Out in the Park ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Its dark, quiet out in the park. I fear, at times I sense the end is near. To fall, out of a world that is nothing at all. To spend, love and money to the end. Open door, so much to give there is no more. In a crowd, I'm a stranger in a world not too proud. Give up, try this kindness from my cup. Do the lonely sleep? Do lovers love? Is there hell below? A heaven in the sky above? Too blind, to see the hand behind. Too deaf, to hear the people with their dying breath. Can't smell, the sickness that causes so much hell. No touch, to feel the people that love me so much. No taste, to tell what's just a waste. Not caring, to the point of not sharing. Cast a light, take these memories from my sight. Do the wealthy live a life? What's the price for fame? Is this all just an illusion? Or is life but a game? -- Terry A. Long ÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍ Love and Romance ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ As the music plays its lonesome melody, Looking for lonesome hearts that are free. Sometimes they meet and wanting to be, With someone wanting only me. Welcoming each other with open arms, Never wanting to cause harm. A heart once broken causes alarm, Not to be taken in by one's charms. Cautious at first then they give in, Hoping the other's heart to win. Gaze into her eyes as he raises her chin, Then all at once comes a small grin. Their lips for the first time touch, Both wanting each other so very much. Their lives being lonely heartache and such, Glad just to have someone to clutch. Both not wanting another one night stand, Holding tightly each other's hand. Walking barefooted in the moonlit sand, Each trying desperately to understand. They wake up to another new day, Wanting tonight to end the same way. Hoping fate's hand will have its say, Not leaving things alone and grey. Can't help think its another empty dream, Thoughts of you make me beam. You in my arms along side a peaceful stream, Its more than I could ever redeem. -- Terry A. Long ÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍ The Poet Writes Their Poem ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Sometimes putting their feelings in rhyme, Trying to capture that one thought and point in time. Putting into words and describing their very soul, Putting everything in line at times takes it toll. But we wouldn't have it any other way, Writing to what your mind is trying to say. Striving to always keep the mind clear and free, Taking things to heart as they ought to be. Writing about love, pain, and the nature of things, The trees, the dreams, and the bird that sings. The whole scope of life and to them what it means, People, places, and different landscape scenes. Everyday life and all its sights and sounds, Brings everything together and quite profound. Never needing theory to explain its way, Just an open mind and trying not to stray. Putting their inner feelings for the world to see, Hoping people understand the poem as its meant to be. Always will write about things they feel, And turn it into something that is real. -- Terry A. Long ÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍ Changing Seasons of My Life ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ I feel the sun on my face, The wind in my hair. I see the many colors of this world, I smell all different odors in the air. I know the change in seasons, Reflecting the changes in my life. At times I wished it would never end, There will come for the drum and fife. Always so busy to do the things, That really aren't that important. And sometimes not too busy, For the ones that aren't that distant. So much that goes on nowadays, And different decisions that you must make. At times there just doesn't seem enough time in the day, For all the things we face in this endless lake. I see the rain on the grave, The rain on my hair. I feel a disillusioned world, I smell death in the air. -- Terry A. Long ÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍ Flowers In The Rain ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Does a flower ever cry in the rain? Ever since you touch the keys to my heart. I have been trying very hard to figure out, How we ever drifted so very far apart. We both found other things to do, Not anything either of us really did. Our feelings for one another, Was one thing that we never hid. Both called to do a different life, Never knew the final time out the door. Time romanced the feelings we had inside, The days have passed, there won't be anymore. As day turns to night I feel very alone, Your love I miss each passing day. The sweet memories that I hold still, Didn't count on missing you this way. I have been trying oh so very hard, To try and hide all of this pain. Tears flow freely from my eyes, Just like that flower in the rain. -- Terry A. Long ÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍ ±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±± ÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍ Spring Poem XXVI ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ It will be springtime again my friend Where we walk barefoot in the mornings and evening dew spatters against the tops of our feet when the blades of grass crush as shag carpet under our toes. Where we play carelessly in the drenching rain and dreams which we had as school children race back to our memories from the smell of springs which have passed before. There is life here I know just as i see tulips opening in the morning sunshine. It will be springtime again my friend Where we laugh foolishly in the long twilight and fellowships formed around tables of ale renew again until there are no longer strange voices piercing a still darkness. Where we float without inhibitions above humanity and close our minds to the stark wintertimes which before hath chilled our flesh white of days searching vainly for living roots. There is life here I know just as i hear lovers giggling under the canopy of stars. It will be springtime again my friend Where we again and again highly resolve to feel the raindrops upon our lips to hear the early morning bird song to exit the angers binding our mind to know the warmth of springs words that envelope our spirit by rhythms of passion and love. There is life here I know just as in every springtime. -- Greg Schilling ÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍ ±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±± ÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍ The Sundial ~~~~~~~~~~~ Sundial is shadow Clouds cover the sun Eclipsed by storm Darkness at midday. Markers obscured No hope of direction Raindrops splash the circle Time stands still Crevasses fill Gusts bring a leaf Torn from its home Flounders in a pool. Slow abatement Darkness still reigns Breezes blow The leaf just spins. -- Marilyn Hutchings ÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍ Sight ~~~~~ Show me music Let me feel the scent of a flower Open my ears to the cold of a Rushing mountain stream Let me taste the silence of dawn breaking And smell the innocence of a new born babe. Can you see into another's soul Feel their pain or taste their rage Smell their fear or hear their joy Open your heart to the music Open your mind to the possibilities. -- Marilyn Hutchings ÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍ The Room ~~~~~~~~ A room to call your own No one to insist on their own way A space to be yourself No one to complain if you sit and play. Alone, but not lonely No one to make you set a pace Quiet, peace, time to think No one in the morning to race. Wall to decorate as you please No one to raz about food that smokes Music you can play, loud or soft No one to fight for the remote. -- Marilyn Hutchings ÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍ Unfinished ~~~~~~~~~~ Shadows sing Reminders of innocence lost Notes of time Ancient as the first man. Unearthly wind whistles A melody of expectations Dry as the desert Rich as spring-time soil. An eagle screams Far above in my ear Feathers brush my cheek Wings beat the air. A wolf sings to the moon A chorus joins the chant Owls supply counterpoint Crickets add percussion. Music twines with spirit Stirring the soul Soaring with the flute Pulsing with the tom. -- Marilyn Hutchings ÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍ Spider's Joke ~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Trees flocked with angel hair webs Decked out year-round for the faire Morn brings dew sparkle-diamond bright Ev'n brings firefly twinkle lights. Spiders spin wonder webs Lacy corner cornices Gossamer threads intrigue Beautiful--deadly. Unseen strands catch humans Unawares--oblivious Left to swipe, claw, flail... Spider's practical joke. -- Marilyn Hutchings ÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍ ±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±± ÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍ LIFE'S LITTLE SYM-PHONY ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ "Sometimes life just won't stop kicking your ribs until you scream out a little forgiveness" -- FROG My parents just keep ragin' They don't know I'm losin' my mind Over their yellin' And cryin' in the nighttime 'Cause no one understands My friends are all leavin' And I'm thinkin' of movin' On downtown to the cemetery Where I belong But I can't seem to get down From the cross the world has put me on I feel just like a pawn In a chess game played by my life and God I'm lost in a nightmare And I may not ever make it through So if you don't see me tomorrow Then put away your sorrow 'Cause the world has got my number And I can't wait to leave The world's fist keeps crushin' And my heart it is a rushin' 'Cause the girls just don't come around no more And the crowd they're just lemmings That don't see their fate And I just don't see what they are doing here anymore And the bitch that we call hope Is nothing but a glimmer in a pool of insanity That is lost in this world with me And I stare at it from my cross and see The life which I have made for me "I made my bed I'll lie in it I made my bed I'll die in it" -- Joe Hope ÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍ HOME IS WHERE THE HELL IS ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ It's like a recurring nightmare In a blackened useless sky It's danger in a bucket And fish about to fry It's fear and it's around us It's unshaking hand so cold I wish that I could leave this place It's lines are getting old But home is where the heart is Bleeding on the floor It's scarred and chewed up body Is too much for me Let me out -- Joe Hope ÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍ CLAY TOMB REVISITED AGAIN AND AGAIN.... ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ This wall of clay surrounding me In this tomb I call life Is crumbling too slowly As I hack away Hack away at the dullness of it's contours I hate this fucking tomb This womb without a view This crazy tortured living space Is icy to the touch But I made it for myself To block all the pain out And I have to face this wall all alone No one wants to help So I'm out here by myself Just scratching One man One wall One mind One fall I may not be able to withstand this life for long -- Joe Hope ÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍ ±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±± ÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍ Poem Of Hope.... ~~~~~~~~~~~~ With the sweeping of your hand, love was unleashed. With the snapping of your finger, the bondage of sin was breached. You humbled yourself to the sinful way of man. You are my Heavenly Father, the Great I Am. O' Father, I see death in the streets as little children subject themselves to drugs. They follow a narrow path that has no light. Yet Father, you are the light. You are the hope. A hope they have not seen, someone whom is considered unclean. Father, who is above, these children who have no hope. They know no love. Yet Father, your name means love. If only they would turn towards you, the savior from above. Your hand is outstretched, arms open wide. Waiting for a child to offer you inside. -- Graham Parker ÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍ ±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±± ÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍ Target practice ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Moving metaphors, prancing targets Straight, the arrow, cast Deep, the penetration of a paper shell and beyond. Into the substance behind: straw. "Ah!" cried the target, breached. "Ah ha!" crowed the arrow, target reached. "Now what?" asked the target. "What?" surprised, the arrow asked. Paper shell came loose from the straw, wrapped around the arrow's shaft, and clung. "What did you want?" target queried. "To hit the bull's eye. To score a point. To fulfill my destiny, my design, to validate my maker's wish." "Wrong," said the target. Paper shell regained it's configuration, flattened itself against the straw backing. The arrow fell to the ground, spent. "Wrong," said the target. The bull's eye looked on as the archer retrieved the arrow. It winked. Back at the line, Orion spoke to Artemis. "Something strange about that target." "What target?" -- Gay Bost ÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍ ±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±± ÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍ Pensive Antiquity ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ My thoughts revert to paths once chosen And to the others left behind Decisions from which my past was woven Their effects on what my future may find Retrospect brings forth sentiment With antiquity I'm entranced Stale pain causes me to lament Residence within my past Self blame, a search for answers A quest without an end Extinguish now these smoldering embers And me from my misery send. -- Jennifer Mulcahy, 3-6-92 ÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍ A Poem ~~~~~~ Taut curtains parted by winds from the past Memories distorted, like dreams through antique glass Slow-motion scenarios reenacted through the fog Myopic uncertainties and muffled dialogue Time spins at an angle, eternity-ellipse Inconsistent patterns spell confusion in the mist Faded relics change and fill the mind with tales... Age becomes the thief of clarity, accuracy pales... -- Jennifer Mulcahy ÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍ Inside ~~~~~~ Floating, drifting, bobbing ashore A vigorous mountain stream Swirling, dipping, rising once more Carried off to the realm of dreams Bright black mist shines from below As amber foliage hums with life Who amongst the weary bestow Silence-- a world of strife Cliffs suspended, water down Absence hears its soothing sound A sudden break, and ne'er bound A journey of mind, in thoughts...drowned Depth can never be denied Escape, regression--atrophied A turning point with no return The flame of wisdom often burns Outer world abandoned thus Existence now within the hush. -- Jennifer Mulcahy, 8-1-94 ÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍ ±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±± ÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍ ÑÍ͸ ÕÍ͸ ÕÍ͸ ÕÍÑ͸ ÕÍ͸ ÕÍ͸ ÑÍ͸ ÍÑÍ ÑÍ͸ ÕÍÑ͸ Ñ Ñ ÕÍÑ͸ ÆÍ; ³ ³ ÔÍ͸ ³ ÔÍ͸ ³ ÆÍѾ ³ ÆÍ; ³ ³ ³ ³ ³ ³ Ï ÔÍ; ÔÍ; Ï ÔÍ; ÔÍ; Ï ÏÍ ÍÏÍ Ï Ï ÔÍ; Ï Ï Ï ÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜ Logos, command and poetry ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ The conflicts between language as command and language as poetry: relevant to the question of why the use of language in different ways, both by poets and non-poets, to express ideas and communicate experience and meaning, that relates to worldviews and beliefs that differ from that of the Xtian tradition is sometimes the victim of coercion. The coercive use of twisted meanings against what the Xtian considers right meanings, sometimes apparent as puns, among some considered legitimated by their own argument that such non-Xtian meanings are twisted meanings, so it is permissible to twist those every which way that they are able. In fact, in extreme instances, including Xtian use of neuro-linguistic programming (brain washing), such twistings are applied to every meaning expressed by thought, meant to torturously convince that the victim has not found THE WORD, the absolute Idea in the Mind, the Idea of God, the commanding Father figure, and so must be shown the error of his or her thinking and expressing. Of course, the differing is absolute, because it is not the individual's own words that are asked for, but instead it is God's scriptural Words, the Jesus story, that is demanded. Everything else is twisted, other than that testimonial. The victim is commanded to find The Word, sometimes in the "book of life", in their own mind-brain. Every other expression is considered darkness, while that Word, is considered to be the light. The threat of keeping the victim in darkness until the victim finds that light, involving ostracism, shunning, exclusionism of various kinds, and/or a flood of rumours and misleading information is commonplace. Some become terrified by that kind of coercive religio-ideological terrorism, partly because it seems to be super-natural in its overwhelming power against the individual. Creativity, anything expressed from oneself, rather a refrain of the Word, echoed instead of anything different, is considered as being from the Devil ( d'evil, or de - vile, which once was understood as the cacophony of noise from the villagers gathered together, with all their disagreements with one another, and from that the idea of bedeviling someone). Creativity, including poetics, is (by extremists) considered to be twisted thinking, and is countered by psycho-linguistic twisting sometimes in the guise of "logos-therapy" (which it usually is not). ----------- I shall relate that, somewhat loosely to the question of poetics. Logic and logos, because both those patterns of thinking, in their traditional program mode and strictest definitions remain worse than inadequate. My purpose is to go beyond the constraints of traditional archaisms, and eye of the needle narrowness of meanings. That is where poetry often falls into unintentional conflict, and becomes accused of being a twisted system as opposed to the straight and narrow of the Logos, the Word absolute, the logical reasoning of the "great nobodaddy" Father above whose commands are short declarative phrases that are echoed as orders to the troops. Sometimes the people, or the mass. The unknown stratagems that result in those commands to be followed (language as commanding), are those of the "great nobodaddy" commander in chief, who knows the plan of attack. In Christendom command was from the pontiff, or from the local "lord". The Word comes from the Lord and is manifest as the words that command come from the political leaders, the lords (who order). That too often results in blind following of words as commands, by the many. Sometimes wherever language is heard. The people sometimes acting as though they are a herd. Poetry is full of ambiguities, stretching ordinary meanings, lacking that simplicity of usage, and becoming something dangerous because it questions traditional usage, and traditional lines and defies structure. It does so in terms of the poetry itself and in terms of subject matter. It is, in a very real sense, subversive to Word as command. Know any anti-war poets ? Know any pagan poets ? Know any rock and roll poets? That is one instance of going against Word as command. It is disorder, not as chaos, but because it goes against the established order. It differs against an established ideology - system of ideas and the determinations within that system of who is allowed to express what and how they are to express that. Poetry claims to communicate, to reflect, something of importance about the world, and so goes unintentionally head against head with scripture where the latter claims to clearly reveal all that is true about natures and the world. It also goes head against head with the Neo-Platonistic Idealism pervasive in Xtian religiosity in its anti-flesh and anti- worldliness, where heaven and God are Ideas, absolutes, in the Mind-Soul and the logos of that logic bound ideology that strives to be predominant and determining in a totalistic way. Poetry is sensualism. It is sensations and perceptions as opposed to ideas in the head. Poetry strives for a different balance between mind, heart (emotion), and the flesh (of persons as well as that of the world) where all three planes as well as the astral, higher and lower planes, have their place, without demeaning and exclusion. Poetry has a different connectedness with all of that, and at best is more inclusively eclectic than the narrowness of the scripture to which it is sometimes unfavourably compared,...... -- Bob Ezergailis ÉÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍ» º A New Age: The Centipede Network Of Artists, Poets, & Writers º ÇÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄĶ º - An Informational Journey Into A Creative Echonet [9310] º ÇÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄĶ º (C) CopyRight "I Write, Therefore, I Develop" By Paul Lauda º ÈÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍͼ Come one, come all! Welcome to Centipede. Established just for writers, poets, artists, and anyone who is creative. A place for anyone to participate in, to share their poems, and learn from all. A place to share *your* dreams, and philosophies. Even a chance to be published in a magazine. Centipede offers ten echo areas, such as a general chat area, an echo of poetry and literature, and also on dreams and speculated history & publishing. In all of the ten conferences, anyone is allowed to post their thoughts, and make new friends. For that is what CentNet is here for: for you. Ever wonder how to accent a poem at the right meter? Well, come join our PoetryForum, and everyone would be willing to help you out. Have any problems in deciphering your dreams? Select The Dreams echo, and you're questions shall be solved. The Network was created on May 16, 1993. I created this because there were no other networks dedicated to such an audience. And with the help of Klaus Gerken, Centipede soon started to grow, and become active on Bulletin Board Systems. I consider Centipede to be a Public Network; however, its a specialized network, dealing with any type of creative thinking. Therefore, that makes us something quite exotic, since most nets are very general and have various topics, not of interest to a writer--which is where Centipede steps in! No more fuss. A writer can now download the whole network, without phasing out any more conferences, since the whole net pertains to the writer's interests. This means that Centipede has all the active topics that any creative user seeks. And if we don't, then one shall be created. If you want to find out more about Centipede, give us a call at +609-896-3256, and join one of our conferences. You'll not be disappointed! Or, check out the latest info packet being distributed in the format: CENTyymm.[ARCHIVE]. ÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍ ±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±± ÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍ ÛÛÛÛÛ ÛÛÛÛ ÛÛ Û ÛÛÛÛÛ ÛÛÛÛÛ ÛÛÛÛÛ ÛÛÛÛ ÛÛÛÛ ÛÛÛÛ (tm) Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û ÛCent ÛÛ Û Û Û Û Û ÛÛÛÛÛ ÛÛ Û Û ÛÛ Û Net Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û Û ÛÛÛÛÛ ÛÛÛÛ Û ÛÛ Û ÛÛÛÛÛ Û ÛÛÛÛ ÛÛÛÛ ÛÛÛÛ ÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄ A Professional Mailing NetWork ÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄ - A  or   - Welcome to Centipede, a Professional Mailing Network! Centipede, was created by the effort of Paul Lauda and a very special group of friends, with the intent to encourage the sharing and distribution of poetic material. It was our feeling, THEN, and it is, NOW, that there are certain things in life which should be treated with honest feeling, and not be censored, because it might have one word, or one feeling which someone did not like. When we first started, we centered ourselves around POETRY. But, no sooner were we ready to go on the phone lines, we all also wanted a few other things to enjoy and share. Immediately a few other MESSAGE BASES were added to the Network, to appease the needs and interests of the several members who helped place this on the map. All in all, we find that we are a group of dedicated lovers of art, and specially the beauty of the art of writing. And what does Centipede stand for? The body of the Centipede is made up of the Sysops who carry CentNet. These Sysops have a BULLETIN BOARD SYSTEM ( BBS ) which dedicates itself to carious uses depending on each individual user. There are many types of BBS's and some of them are specially dedicated to electronic mailing of messages. For this purpose several NETWORKS have been created. Centipede is one of these. These Sysops, which means they are Systems Operators, when joining a larger system, become known as NODES. And without the hard work of many of these Sysops, CentNet and any other network would not be able to flourish properly. The legs are the Users, without the users the Sysops could not move anywhere. Without the body, the Users could not interact with one another. Our NetWork offers a special program for Sysops and Users in case there may be questions or problems. A 24 hour Voice Support Line is here for your questions: (609) 895-0858. If per chance there is no one there to answer your call, please leave your name and voice phone number, and the best possible time to contact you (Eastern Standard Time), and someone will get back to you as soon as possible. We are here to help you, please feel free to call, even if it is just to say "Hello". CENTIPEDE, would like to have your patronage, and would like to make sure you can see for yourself what it is we are about. You may give us a call at the number mentioned above, and we will gladly find a way for you to interact with us. ßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßß ÖÄÄ¿ ÖÄÄ¿ ÒÄÄ¿ Ò Â ÒÄÄ¿ ÄÒÄ ÖÄÄÄ Ò Â ÖÄÒÄ¿ º º ³ ÇÄÄÙ ÓÄÄ´ ÇÄÂÙ º º Ú¿ ÇÄÄ´ º ÓÄÄÙ ÓÄÄÙ Ð ÓÄÄÙ Ð ÁÄ ÄÐÄ ÓÄÄÙ Ð Á Ð ÄÒÄ ÖÄ·  ÒÄÄ¿ ÖÄÄ¿ ÒÄÄ¿ ÖÄÒÄ¿ ÖÄÄ¿ ÖÄÒÄ¿ ÄÒÄ ÖÄÄ¿ ÖÄ·  º º º ³ ÇÄ º ³ ÇÄÂÙ º º ³ ÇÄÄ´ º º º ³ º º ³ ÄÐÄ Ð ÓÄÙ Ð ÓÄÄÙ Ð ÁÄ Ð Ð Á Ð Á Ð ÄÐÄ ÓÄÄÙ Ð ÓÄÙ ÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜ All poems copyrighted by their respective authors. Any reproduction of these poems, without the express written permission of the authors, is prohibited. YGDRASIL A Journal of the Poetic Arts: Copyright (c) 1993 by KJ Gerken The official version of this magazine is posted on Revision Systems BBS: No other version shall be deemed "authorized" unless downloaded from there. Information requests, subscriptions, suggestions, comments, submissions or anything else appropriate should be addressed, with a self addressed stamped envelope, to: ÚÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄ¿ ³ YGDRASIL PRESS ÛÛÛ ³ ³ 1001-257 LISGAR ST. ³ ³ OTTAWA, ONTARIO ³ ³ CANADA, K2P 0C7 ³ ÀÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÙ All checks should be made out to: YGDRASIL PRESS ÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍ ±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±±± ÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍ °±²Û Ü Ü ÜÜÜÜ ÜÜÜÜÜ ÜÜÜÜ ÜÜÜÜ ÜÜÜÜ ÜÜÜ Ü °±²Û ÛÜÜÛ Û ÜÜ Û Û ÛÜÜÛ ÛÜÜÛ ÛÜÜÜ Û Û °±²Û ÜÜÜÛ ÛÜÜÛ ÜÛÜÜÛ Û ÛÜ Û Û ÜÜÜÛ ÜÛÜ ÛÜÜÜ °±²Û ÜÜÜÜ Ü Ü ÜÜÜ Ü ÜÜÜ ÜÜÜÜ ÜÜÜÜ ÜÜÜÜÜ ÜÜÜ ÜÜÜÜ ÜÜÜ Ü °±²Û ÛÜÜÛ Û Û ÛÜÛÜ Û Û Û ÛÜÜÛ Û Û Û Û Û Û Û °±²Û Û ÛÜÜÛ ÛÜÜÛ ÛÜÜÜ ÜÛÜ ÛÜÜÜ Û Û Û ÜÛÜ ÛÜÜÛ Û ÛÜÛ °±²Û Ü ÜÜÜ ÜÜÜÜ ÜÜÜÜÜ °±²Û Û Û ÛÜÜÜ Û °±²Û ÛÜÜÜ ÜÛÜ ÜÜÜÛ Û °±²Û ßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßßß THE WIZARD EXPLODED SONGBOOK (1969), songs by KJ Gerken FULL BLACK Q (1975), a poem by KJ Gerken ONE NEW FLASH OF LIGHT (1976), a play by KJ Gerken THE BLACKED-OUT MIRROR (1979), a poem by Klaus J. Gerken THE BREAKING OF DESIRE (1986), poems by KJ Gerken FURTHER SONGS (1986), songs by KJ Gerken POEMS OF DESTRUCTION (1988), poems by KJ Gerken DIAMOND DOGS (1992), poems by KJ Gerken KILLING FIELDS (1992), a poem by KJ Gerken THE AFFLICTED, a poem by KJ Gerken FRAGMENTS OF A BRIEF ENCOUNTER, poems by KJ Gerken THE POETRY OF PEDRO SENA, poems by Pedro Sena POEMS (1970), poems by Franz Zorn And coming soon: THE FILM REVIEWS, by Pedro Sena THE SHORT STORIES, by Pedro Sena INCANTATIONS, by Pedro Sena ÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜÜ All books are on disk and cost $5.00 each, and may be ordered from: ÚÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄ¿ ³ YGDRASIL PRESS ÛÛÛ ³ ³ 1001-257 LISGAR ST. ³ ³ OTTAWA, ONTARIO ³ ³ CANADA, K2P 0C7 ³ ÀÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÙ Checks should be made out to the respective authors and orders will be forwarded by Ygdrasil Press. YGDRASIL MAGAZINE may also be ordered from the same address: $2.50 an issue (To cover disk and mailing costs), specify computer type (IBM or Mac), operating system and version, disk size and density and allow 2 weeks for delivery. Note that YGDRASIL MAGAZINE is free when downloaded from Revision Systems BBS (1-609-896-3256) or any other participation BBS. Revisions, though, holds the official version of Ygdrasil. ÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍÍ