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I only dream of a future,
Where you alone could belong in.
Where you alone could be my lover,
Where loving you is not a sin.
Iam A Poet
Iam a poet
i have been writing for a while
for both the black and white,
of late none of my literature
The kindest hearts pray for change
God didn't answer when it was Grey
The child inside me cried for so long
The world was actually not against me
Truth Of Life
What is self love what is that feeling?
She said as she kept looking in the mirror
She kept wondering if she will know?
What was she searching for in the mirror
I don't see why Pa likes him so,
And seems so glad to have him come;
He jabs my ribs and wants to know
If here and there it's hurting some.
Edgar Albert Guest
Today I pass the time reading
a favorite haiku,
saying the few words over and over.
Time stopped in a single moment,
Once you gave me hand in my hand,
Now I will go wherever you would go,
I will be on your right side,
In All Ways A Woman
In my young years I took pride in the fact that luck was called a lady. In fact, there were so few public acknowledgments of the female presence that I felt personally honored whenever nature and large ships were referred to as feminine. But as I matured, I began to resent being considered a sister to a changeling as fickle as luck, as aloof as an ocean, and as frivolous as nature. The phrase 'A woman always has the right to change her mind' played so aptly into the negative image of the female that I made myself a victim to an unwavering decision. Even if I made an inane and stupid choice, I stuck by it rather than 'be like a woman and change my mind.'
Being a woman is hard work. Not without joy and even ecstasy, but still relentless, unending work. Becoming an old female may require only being born with certain genitalia, inheriting long-living genes and the fortune not to be run over by an out-of-control truck, but to become and remain a woman command the existence and employment of genius.
The Old Pond
Following are several translations
of the 'Old Pond' poem, which may be
the most famous of all haiku:
The moon in the bureau mirror
looks out a million miles
(and perhaps with pride, at herself,
but she never, never smiles)
White founts falling in the courts of the sun,
And the Soldan of Byzantium is smiling as they run;
There is laughter like the fountains in that face of all men feared,
It stirs the forest darkness, the darkness of his beard,
G. K. Chesterton
The black snow runs down from the rooftops;
A red finger dips into your brow;
Blue snow flakes sink into the empty room,
They are a loversâ?? dying mirrors.
A carpet, into which the suffering landscape pales
Perhaps the Sea of Galilee, a boat in the gale
I swear, since seeing Your face,
the whole world is fraud and fantasy
The garden is bewildered as to what is leaf
or blossom. The distracted birds
Mewlana Jalaluddin Rumi
Landing On The Moon
When in the mask of night there shone that cut,
we were riddled. A probe reached down
and stroked some nerve in us,
as if the glint from a wizard's eye, of silver,
I see how you look into the mirror
The self-doubt that has you still gazing into it
Noticing the scars that lay revealed
And the teary eyes that blur your sight
of ice. Deceptively reserved and flat,
it lies “in grandeur and in mass”
beneath a sea of shifting snow-dunes;
dots of cyclamen-red and maroon on its clearly defined
One Sabbath day my friend and I
After the meeting, quietly
Passed from the crowded village lanes,
White with dry dust for lack of rains,
John Greenleaf Whittier
Chiang Chin Chiu
See the waters of the Yellow River leap down from Heaven, Roll away to the deep sea and never turn again! See at the mirror
in the High Hall Aged men bewailing white locks - In the morning, threads of silk, In the evening flakes of snow. Snatch the joys
of life as they come and use them to the full; Do not leave the silver cup idly glinting at the moon. The things that Heaven made
Man was meant to use; A thousand guilders scattered to the wind may come back again. Roast mutton and sliced beef will only
Darling, you think it's love, it's just a midnight journey.
Best are the dales and rivers removed by force,
as from the next compartment throttles "Oh, stop it, Bernie,"
yet the rhythm of those paroxysms is exactly yours.
Will they occur,
These people with torso of steel
Winged elbows and eyeholes
Elliot Ray Neiderland, home from college
one winter, hauling a load of Herefords
from Hogtown to Guymon with a pint of
Ezra Brooks and a copy of Rilkeâ??s Duineser
B H Fairchild
It is full winter now: the trees are bare,
Save where the cattle huddle from the cold
Beneath the pine, for it doth never wear
The autumn's gaudy livery whose gold