April 16, 2008

  • ElectricPoetry: 10 Best from the Aughts

     pianokeys2

    10 (20) BEST POEMS OF THE AUGHTS (PART ONE: THE FIRST 10)

    BEHIND THE POETRY Introduction: I've written a lot of excellent poetry this decade (in my own humble opinion, of course) , and it isn't even over. Possibly because the poetry of this decade is still pretty "fresh" in mind and memory, it was rather difficult to come up with only ten "best poems". So I've chosen 10 poems, but only through 2005. There will have to be another 10 posted later. As usual, this is a lot to attempt to read at one sitting. Think of this as a slim volume of my representative works, and come back a few times if you wish. "Tragedy" is my "9/11" poem, which was featured on my "9/11 Tribute Page" . If you're one of my regular readers and have suffered a death in your family, you have probably read "SoulGrief" before. I frequenly post it in a comment as a condolence. I wrote it for an internet friend named Sheryl when her husband died of a brain aneurism at age 37. I wrote "Wisdom Deterioration" on my birthday in 2004, and the subject is Jack, our octenageraian CEO at work. "When Dog Left This Existence" is another poem about death, this time the passing of a beloved pet, and I have used this poem in comments on the sites of Xangans who have lost pets. MFN/ppf 

     

    "Uncertain Legs"
    Poetry by Michael F. Nyiri
    July 15, 2000 10:31 a.m. pdt
     

    The colt awakens, barely realizing the situation
    The bright cold light, the licks of his mother,
    A feeling of comfort amidst the hesitation.
    He knows what he has known, and that is nothing.
    He learns minute by minute, achieving fruition,
    Achieving understanding, and perseverence,
    He wobbles a bit, and steadies himself.
    It takes forever, given his memory, to stand up.
    He hasn't had to do anything this difficult yet.
    His branchlike legs quiver, then buckle.
    He hears the neighs of his mother urging him on.
    Again, it seems like an eternity, he begins.
    This is the culmination of existence.
    The minutes, which drag like hours or days,
    Tick on in unimaginable pain.
    Mother's eyes are steadfast.
    She nudges his slick side, giving him help,
    But it is not quite the help he feels he needs.
    In but a few moments of life, he knows this is the answer
    To every mystery inherent in this existence.
    He knows he will succeed, even though it takes
    All the will he can summon.
    The legs aright again, and the knees knock to the center.
    Mother's eyes are wide, and she neighs with glee.
    The colt pushes up on his spindly foundation,
    And stands.
    In a few minutes he gallops across the field.
    He is alive, and free of his restraint.
    He understands everything now.

    "Tragedy"
    (a short poem for humanity this morning)
    Poetry by Michael F. Nyiri
    September 12 , 2001 5:00 a.m. pdt
     

    There is an ill wind blowing through our realities right now,
    A sense of dread, a thought unsaid, substantial emotion bursting forth
    Imagined latitudes of worth, the ever present feelings of safety have fled.

    The world is not the same world this morning.
    We have lost a precious memory of reality
    We have lost what innocence we thought we had
    We have lost a world view that has been changing for two thousand years

    There is confusion, thoughts of retribution, who can I turn to? God and man
    We watched, we cried, we saw a great chunk of humanity perish
    And now, as we begin this morning in the shaky aftermath of uncertainty
    I feel we need to know there is much more to cherish

    My thoughts, and yours, are with the souls of this incredible tragedy
    We suffer with them, as we question our leaders, our redeemers, and our souls as well
    It is with another steely resolve with which we have to meet the day
    Because what we lost yesterday can never be regained

    Much will be remembered in history
    If history survives the implications
    A tragedy of biblical proportions portends a world to stop and pray
    And my heart goes out to all humanity today.

    Nothing in life prepared us
    Nothing we feel, read, or see
    So the morning of the rest of what's left of our sanity
    We'll just have to breathe deep, wait and see.

    For if this is the end time predicted so long ago,
    Then we will fight the battle for good and for God
    And if this ruthless murder of a way of life is the fault of the few
    Or of an incorrect ideology, then we will eventually punish this
    Grand infraction.

    Humanity is just not the same today.
    We grieve for our friends, families, and unseen irrationalities.
    If we naively believed we could live life without enemies,
    We know now that this is not so.

    If we felt sad for that part of the world when they suffer each day
    As they have suffered for centuries, because we saw their pain
    on television, we felt sad from afar
    Now that sadness is at our front door

    The skyline of America has changed.
    But not the resolve which makes up a global power
    Through all insanity, there will be some voice of reason
    And everything will change after this.
    This morning the world is not the same.

    "SoulGrief"
    For Sheryl and For Jon
    Poetry by Michael F. Nyiri
    November 14, 2001 5:09 a.m. pst


    The beginning of our life arrives at the moment of our death,
    Yet that doesn't begin to console the raging hearts of the still living,
    Or explain the loss and pain to our children and family.
    We can accomplish much in our scant hours of existence in this plane,
    Yet there always seems to be unfinished business to be done,
    And the clock doesn't stop for the rest of the world.

    The world will grieve, and the individual souls will, too
    Yet nothing can stop the pain which those who are left will feel
    For days, for months, for years, until the passing arrives for them as well.
    This is the blessing and the curse of mankind.
    Yet sometimes nothing can prepare us for the suddenness of a life's eradication.

    I awake each morning and I greet the spirits,
    As the ancestors of humankind have done for generations:
    "It is a good day to die"
    The righteous and the just prepare for passing with each moment in the sun.

    Yet nothing can help to stop the tears from streaming down the faces
    of the survivors.

    Nothing this feeble soul can muster will serve to cause
    SoulGrief to flee,
    Because SoulGrief is our connection with the minds and hearts of
    Our Loved Ones.
    SoulGrief will permeate our beings, and rack our physicality with pain.
    SoulGrief is a cry to heaven and a shout into the bowels of Gaia's
    Rock hard permanence.

    There are hallowed hallelujahs harboring wonderful soulmemories
    You will share these deeply while you suffer your SoulGrief.
    There again is nothing anyone can say.
    He was a man, a father, a lover, a friend.
    He was imperfection with a purpose, and
    Although for him, perfection is attained,
    The hole he has left behind can only be filled by memory
    Love,
    And
    SoulGrief.

    I stop my daily life for a moment to grieve with you.
    Yet I know this cannot console you much.
    The door to all of life's mysteries lies beyond the final living breath.

    "It is a good day to die"
    Yet nothing can serve to answer why
    To those of us left behind this morning.

    "Memory's Youth"
    Poetry by Michael F. Nyiri
    Sunday, May 20th, 2002 10:47 p.m. pdt


    Reality takes the time to question, and the torrent breaks me down as it washes away
    Quality conversations recede in the distance of memory, questioning the words and the worthiness
    Hilarity ensued some summer night in a light rain
    As immediacy immediately memorialized the moment of magic.
    Here, as in the past, I stand alone listening to the reality ask hard questions of time's custodian.
    The sand falls ever faster through the hour glass
    The pebbles of time's everlasting trickle down the mountain path
    And the avalanche knocks us all unconscious
    Words can't convey the reality and the quality conversations of memory.
    Memory can't remember how easy life seemed so long ago during summer.

    The sun set like a melon fingerpaint into the palette of pulchritude
    Smearing the sincere fugues of God's happiness,
    As the warm dark faded from view and disappeared.

    Astute conveyors of quality
    Remembrances of something holy
    A summer breeze blowing the dark brown hairs of youth
    And I wondered as I sat under the tree, with the book open to experience's memory.
    I wondered why the writers seemed to ache when writing youth. Were they so old?
    Was time running breathlessly into the wall, getting up, dusting himself off and
    Running breathlessly into the wall again.

    Serendipity dictates that love is around the corner.
    Around the corner from reality.
    And spending quality conversation with a dim memory.
    The body keeps going, and feeling different and betraying the youth of memory,
    When I stop and wallow in the wasted murk of memory's youth.

    "Callioscopic Memories Play Tricks in Time"
    Poetry by Michael F. Nyiri
    July 13th, 2003 5:58 p.m. pdt


    The circus came to town,in other towns.
    The candy cane cacophany of other plans and other happinesses
    The lumbering elephant of danger stepping on the toes of propriety
    The laughing eyes of laughing clowns caring not for proper etiquette,
    And the ringmaster,

    Announcing apocalypse as if it were a media sensation.

    The circus tents rose large among the buildings of the town
    Another town, in memory, another age, another time.
    The rusty wheels of circumstance turn heavy on the soul,
    And those damn laughing clowns wouldn't go away.

    The carny folk had frowns behind their laughter,
    And the tents had to fold, as the money got scarce,
    The bottle wouldn't cease to fall again and again...

    And the clowns.

    That damn clown with the funny feet and the laugh.

    The circus left and the memories linger
    A busted balloon and an upturned middle finger
    What lessons to learn from the bright floppy clowns?
    Did the mayor learn lessons when the circus left town?

    The loud dissonant voices yelling about love and doubt
    The circus' round brilliance gave up and about
    I called to the ringmaster, or was it a shout.
    And the circus came to town,
    But it was other towns,

    So long ago in memory

    That I don't remember it at all.

    But that clown was still laughing at me.

    "Wisdom Deterioration"
    Poetry by Michael F. Nyiri
    Saturday, May 1st , 2004 7:18 p.m. pdt


    Moving ever so slowly, he masquerades as always,
    Now the skin hangs, and the massive girth droops,
    The wherewithal and the knowledge become puttering and doggerel
    Once so stalwart and essential, now old and in the way.

    Wisdom retains it's innocence, even as age mocks it's veracity
    Time bears witness to the physical and mental breakdown of meaning
    Words which eludicated in years ago,
    Now look fuzzy and blurred beneath the failing eyes,
    And the mind can't grasp why
    No wonder age is confused

    Technology advances beyond comprehension,
    What was painstakingly memorized as technology
    Scant decades ago can be filed in the recycle bin
    Along with yesterday's deteriorating wisdom

    Wisdom exists in perpetuity, and tells us of this disaster
    As soon as a lifetime's thought is learned and catalogued
    It is forgotten.
    The body becomes a mocking personal crypt
    A wise reminder of mortality's comedy,

    He has almost lived past his abiltiy to matter
    And this is life's grand shame.
    A lifetime spent teaching what he knew
    And now he can't remember
    And technology turns communication into a crashed computer

    Moving ever so slowly, he lumbers to his office
    Which he hardly ever leaves anymore,
    Manufacturing important procedures which
    have already been taken care of by technology.
    Nobody visits him at this time when he probably needs it the most.
    Because they have work to do.
    So each day he performs the masquerade of existence,
    Each day he forgets more than most of us remember.
    Each day he comes to work.
    Until the last day finally arrives.

    "When 'Dog' Left This Existence"
    for Robert Wissler 
    Poetry by Michael F. Nyiri
    Monday, May 24th , 2004 : 3:57 p.m. pdt


    Ol' 'Dog' was 'Puppy' many years ago,
    He'd run real fast to catch the bones I'd throw.
    He sometimes ate the paper 'fore twas read
    And he'd squirrel himself under the covers of my bed.

    'Puppy' was a treasure, and a pain at the same time,
    But he was always friendly, as he'd find a couch to climb.
    I could never be real angry when he angled up his eyes,
    He was practicing dog psychology, this I realize.

    As I grew from boy to man, and 'Puppy' became 'Dog'
    Man's best friend accompanied me through holler, over log,
    In and around the country, and running down the street
    Never did he seem to tire, or did ache his hairy feet.

    'Dog' was there when Dad passed on, when Mom went away as well.
    Standing by with a pant and a sigh, helping me through bitter hell.
    And I could only stop and smile when he his paw he offered me
    To shake away the troubles with a crooked dog smile, free.

    The dog-years passed, and he slowed a bit
    He ran twice as slow, and his barking fits
    Didn't have the bite that they once did before
    And at times I had to wait a while for him to go through the door.

    Ol' 'Dog' was my pal, and my buddy, my friend,
    And as I grew up, his aches grew harder to mend
    And the dog-years were plentiful, long and unseen
    And Ol' 'Dog' had to go, blind and brutal, but clean

    Now Ol' 'Dog' is in heaven, and he's 'Puppy' once more
    He runs like greased lightnin' and has gumption to spare
    He races the other Ol 'Dogs' round the clouds,
    And though I sure miss him, I'm sure he does me proud.

    Cause now he can see again, angling those eyes
    He brings me a bird in spirit, he succeeds when he tries
    To wake me and the heavens with his now hearty bark,
    I will walk with Ol' 'Dog' beside Jesus in the park.

    "Under God "
    Poetry by Michael F. Nyiri
    Monday, June 14th , 2004 : 5:56 p.m. pdt


    I slip into the sheets after a short but silent prayer
    Under God
    I awaken to the sounds of chirping birds in the trees
    Under God
    I emerge into the blaring secular world unscathed
    Under God
    I am thankful for each moment of my existence
    Under God
    I look at a flower in bloom and feel elation
    Under God
    I gaze in awe and wonder at the cloudscapes
    Under God
    I hear the pleading screams of humanity
    Under God
    And the thankful blessings that come my way
    Under God
    I sup with splendor of heartfelt sustenance
    Under God
    I am so lucky to live in America
    Under God
    I thank my Christ and my Jehovah
    For my personal epiphanies
    Under God
    I pledge Allegiance to the United States of America
    Under God!

    "Poet, Philosopher, Fool"
    Poetry by Michael F. Nyiri
    Feb. 9th 2005, 4:47 p.m. pst


    Life's book grows weightier with time, my poems are the pages
    They mirror my thoughts with unsullied honesty
    Documenting memory and circumstance
    Freeing the mind for eventual self actualization

    The journey through this life exhibits signposts
    But they are sometimes unmarked or impossible to read,
    Or are trampled, face first, in the murky quagmire.
    Imbued with self actualization and realization,
    My words will elucidate humankind

    I distill existence and time,
    Purpose and insanity
    History has buffered our basest urges,
    Yet those urges still cause the extermination
    Of reason in an age where information
    Is available to all

    I can swim through the rising waters of inconsequence,
    Taking wrong turns and learning from these mistakes
    When I arrive at the eventual destination, this will be
    inconsequential
    it will have been the journey
    that matters, enhanced with experience,
    And it will be remembered, as history should.

    At times I let my heart convince me
    that pure emotion and perception
    are the instincts of innocent implausibility

    At times I don't think very well
    And at those times I realize, as well,
    that I am merely human in this stead, and
    privy to the same misapprehensions as
    all of humanity
    A fool I act,
    At times

    But in the end, by realizing this foolishness
    By the luminous light of what I know, understand and maintain,
    I will gain wisdom
    and enlightenment

    "Decades"
    Poetry by Michael F. Nyiri
    Tuesday, April 12, 2005, 6:17 a.m. pdt


    The first decade
    Awe inspiring
    Waking to the cacophonous
    music
    of newborn phenomenons
    The "firsts" of experience
    Walking and talking,
    Learning and yearning,
    Eating a meal of instantaneous submersion
    Attention to detailing the dance of wonder
    Childlike babysteps of burgeoning attention
    The second decade
    Arriving at misbegoten conclusions
    Fighting for a meager grasp
    of parental freedom
    Going one's way
    but having to bypass
    the obstacles of derisive delusions
    Playtime and pulchritude
    Passive meanderings
    Hormonal misunderstaning
    And angsty anger appears
    much too often
    Graduation from childhood
    The third decade
    Arriving as an adult in society,
    Learning too late
    that the first two decades
    should have been embraced
    more resolutely while
    they were happening.
    Career minded cares
    Love and affection,
    Staking a claim for life
    Bright skies and dark nights
    Experimentation with fulsome fallacy
    Marriage for some,
    and then:
    first decades to experience anew
    Fourth decade
    brings realizations almost too late
    Foreign concepts of aging
    and fickle fate
    Arriving too soon
    Then disappearing from view
    For some the cycle
    Understandable
    And for some the
    lessons don't come
    Fifth decade
    Settling into consistency and boredom
    Or implicitly creating one's destiny
    Awareness and instability
    Errors and terrors of aging arrive
    The mirror becomes
    one's worst enemy
    And as cycles repeat
    Time not only won't stop
    It quickens with a petulant laugh
    The sixth decade
    Memory replaces experience
    Excitement sometimes evaporates
    But small pleasures
    Abound in the garden
    Physical attraction
    to self and others
    doesn't seem so important
    Undone acts and unseen places
    Unborne incomprehension
    And nervous laughter at
    mortality's message
    The seventh decade
    Arriving for more and more
    Never arriving for some
    Contemplation
    Eradication of the
    memories so important
    in the sixth
    Elusive mind meanderings
    Wisdom courses
    through realization
    Memory plays tricks
    sometimes
    The eighth decade and beyond
    A journey about to end
    Wrinkles on the hands
    become the hills and valleys of our lives
    stretching into infinity
    with the mellow love of God's
    final solution

Comments (46)

  • RYC---Ever saw this movie: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Wild_in_the_Streets  If not, you should:coolman:

    Will come back later to read the poems since i'm now fucking with Windows Live One Care...surrendered to Microsoft, momentarily:mad:  i think you have to sell your soul in order for Windows Vista to work properly:wha:

  • Hey Mike! If you see my little prints throughout the day I am just stopping by to reaqd a little more!

  • Good stuff, Mike.  I liked 'Uncertain Legs' the best, made me think of starting things anew.

  • This made me cry:

    He was imperfection with a purpose, and
    Although for him, perfection is attained,
    The hole he has left behind can only be filled by memory
    Love,
    And
    SoulGrief.

    I stop my daily life for a moment to grieve with you.
    Yet I know this cannot console you much.
    The door to all of life's mysteries lies beyond the final living breath.

    Thank you

  • My favourite poem was Poet, Philosopher, Fool. I can still remember it when you first publishd it. 

  • I like this one
    "Poet, Philosopher, Fool"

    Because that's how you sign your comments

  • Michael,

    You continue to amaze me. How can such beauty and art come through one human being in just the span of a portion of a decade? I would guess that most of us don't produce as much beauty with our words in a lifetime!

    As you might guess, I especially appreciate and connect with "Under God." :goodjob:

    BE blessed, my friend!
    Steve :sunny:

  • Usually I take photos at whatever car shows I go to, it's just that I don't have the time to develop so many factual and witty captions to go with them. But I'll try and get some of those into future updates

  • you know...the interesting thing about your poetry is that the style changes so much...doesn't get stale....'when dog left this existence', well, you got me with that one...sat here thinking of all my pals now gone...and i particularly liked 'under God' too...

  • I've read your comment in my cousin's site and got mighty curious about you. I'm glad I dropped by your site. Those poems are beautiful and I always love reading poems. Thank you for sharing your favorite collection with us. "Tragedy" and "Wisdom Deterioration" are 2 of my favorite picks.

  • Curious...aren't you young to have a hip replacement? Did you have an accident? Or just bad hips? You seem to be able to tolerate a lot then, considering what you've told me of your living situation. Seems an open minded person like you would be married....but I did read up on your past about that so I understand....

  • @mourning2dancing - Dear Steve, I've received some really nice comments about my work over the years, but I do believe this one tops them all. I should embroider this comment on a sampler and put it on my wall. (If I could do such a thing) Thank you so much. I've written (many times) before that I knew at an early age I could verbalize what other people are thinking and feeling, and I've attempted to use this "gift" by chronicling my own life in terms of universal themes, in hopes to touch others with my words, and help them to realize we are all connected, no matter how physically separated we are.

    @tialoca13 - Dear Tia, I like to mix em up a bit on the blog. Sometimes I'll post similar poems or from a theme. All my poems are presented chronologically on my ElectricPoetry website. If I want to know where my state of mind was at any given time in my personal history, I can usually jog my memory after reading a few of my poems in order.

    @angel_vow - Dear Gregory, Thank you so much for dropping by! I usually try to make sure there's an ElectricPoetry post on the front page of my blog at all times. Some of my stuff is p r e t t y  l o n g and I post 10 of em at a whack, so I mix the poetry between the PhotoPosts, reminiscences, MikeVideos, and assorted blogring topic posts.   

    @NayHam - Dear Nadine, Always willing to supply a link or two (or three). HERE is the story of "My Left Hip" replacement. I was only 41, and was told I might need to have another one at around 65 or so because most people who got them were pretty old and died before the docs could figure out how long the prosthesis actually lasted!

  • you know i'm not a poetry buff, but i do read yours. i liked poet, philosopher, fool... and it made your signature more real. i'm sure i've read it before, but it's always nice to read it again. :love:

  • ps.... i meant to tell you that i love love love that electric poetry image.... i love the letters on the keys like when my mom put stickers on the keys for me to learn my notes! :wave:

  • @baldmike2004 - That was a good post about the hip....I sometimes wonder if something is wrong with my hips....because they pop a lot....at weird times....going to walk somewhere, turning, sitting up....my hips pop....but they never hurt. Unless I ran really hard, the hip flexers can hurt, and sex can make them hurt....but I thought that was normal....reading your story was really informative, and I still wonder why I'm a hip popper.

  • I think my favorites were the "under God" one and the one about the dog.

    although it was interesting to read the one about Poet Philosopher Fool, too

    I think the coolest thing about your blog is its ongoing ability to portray a lot of information about who you are and what you think, while still being entertaining to the masses. 

    Alas, I don't have too many of these credits because due to their inherent uselessness, I tend to be a tad generous with the "1,000 eProp" minis because, hey, why not.  I will leave you some of these cool smileys though.

    :coolman: :goodjob: :fun: :wave: :sunny:

    and just to be arbitrary

    :nono:

  • Ooops... silly me, I almost forgot, thank you for sharing that link as well.

    the poem was almost harsher than my entry except that it didn't leave the usage of the slurs up for interpretation as did mine, but instead got down to brass tacks and explained the mock usage of them.

  • Hi Mike!   I have to read this post in stages. I have read "Uncertain Legs," and loved it. The birth of a horse is a wonderful thing to witness.
    I will be back to read the rest as time goes by!          Randy

  • Hi Mike,

    You DO write excellent poetry, of that there is no doubt. You've used positives and negatives in your life to articulate your thoughs so beautifully into poetry.

    Thanks so much for all you've said on me illustrating that book. In a way it was like a dream come true to find out the publication had gone ahead!

  • Hey, Mike
    Thanks for the long comment, God knows how much I love those!
    And no thanks needed, I love popping by, because I believe I have the right to voice my thoughts on someone's writing, and to be honest, I love yours. No, I am not flattering you, and, lol, I can't, because as a teacher I've learned that a lot of praise may cause the other person to become quite conceited and therefore, would affect their work, but enough about psychology.
    Read your review about the Notebook, and I think it was pretty good. I still have to watch the movie though, which is the main reason as to why I bought the book. *sigh* I sure hope that it is really as good as you make it seem like, because often the movie based on books never represent the emotions or events as strongly as the prior.
    As for Yaser, he's a sweetheart. We've been together for more than a year, but have been really close friends for two. It's wonderful having him in my life and I always thank God for him, mainly because I really have someone who cares for me. A little peek into my life might be needed here.
    My dad disappeared the night I was born, it's almost 22 years now, yet no one still knows whether he walked out on us or was killed. Mum remarried and has her own 6 children, the eldest turning 18 this year. She lives in Qatar and, well, we haven't been in touch for about 4 months now. During my childhood, my paternal grandpa and grandma raised me, but they both died in 1997 and 2002. My paternal uncle became my guardian until I turned 18, then he passed me on to his sister, who eventually swallowed all my inheritance and took me out of college. It was my uncle who told me to come to Pakistan to live, study (I have a shop here, so I have enough to pay for my education) and work. So, today, I am a teacher in the morning and a student in the evening. In the beginning it was hard to get accustomed to Pakistan, and I don't say that it still isn't, but I have managed. My uncle had promised to bring me back to the U.A.E. once my education is completed, and I do hope he keeps his promise. Over here, I live with my maternal aunt, my mum's eldest sister, and her children. The youngest who is of my age was my best friend until I started earning more than her at another school, so she turned against me. At that place I have no one to call my own, and since Yaser works at night, I tend to have the worst nights ever, well, at least during the weekdays, therefore, I do my best to work hard during the day in order to doze off the minute my head hits the pillow. This is the main reason I loved BonBon, I had someone who cared whether I came back home or not. It was wonderful having him rub himself against my legs and wait patiently in the kitchen while I wash the dishes before he would meow for food.
    Well, my sanctuary is my friend's house. Mifrah (Mif) is the best and so is her mother. They are the ones who have GB at their place and have kept him there for me maybe once he grows up a bit, I will take him home with me, because taking him to my aunt's house would be unfair for both of us. And I would love to see a picture of your cats, wow, 18 years! My 1st cat lasted about 8 himself.
    So that's it for now, hehhehe, sorry for the long comment, just thought that you should know some stuff

    P.S: Name's Maha :sunny:

  • The beginning of our life arrives at the moment of our death,
    Yet that doesn't begin to console the raging hearts of the still living---sounds like an excellent intro for a eulogy and now we all know where "Poet, Philosopher, Fool" comes from

    Your poems are a bit too prosaic for me...i prefer stuff more along the: Because I know that time is always time
    And place is always and only place
    And what is actual is actual only for one time
    And only for one place
    I rejoice that things are as they are and
    I renounce the blessèd face
    And renounce the voice
    Because I cannot hope to turn again
    Consequently I rejoice, having to construct something
    Upon which to rejoice
    lines

  • Having read this I believed it was really enlightening. I
    appreciate you taking the time and effort to put this short
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