Amazon.co.uk: World Peace: The Childrens Dream: Books: Cheryl Melody

Ξ February 6th, 2008 | → 0 Comments | ∇ Words |


"Availability: Currently unavailable. We don't know when or if this item will be back in stock."

 

Poets.org – Poetry, Poems, Bios &More – Song

Ξ December 22nd, 2007 | → 0 Comments | ∇ Words |




    Song

    Listen: there was a goat’s head hanging by ropes in a tree.
    All night it hung there and sang. And those who heard it
    Felt a hurt in their hearts and thought they were hearing
    The song of a night bird. They sat up in their beds, and then
    They lay back down again. In the night wind, the goat’s head
    Swayed back and forth, and from far off it shone faintly
    The way the moonlight shone on the train track miles away
    Beside which the goat’s headless body lay. Some boys
    Had hacked its head off. It was harder work than they had imagined.
    The goat cried like a man and struggled hard. But they
    Finished the job. They hung the bleeding head by the school
    And then ran off into the darkness that seems to hide everything.
    The head hung in the tree. The body lay by the tracks.
    The head called to the body. The body to the head.
    They missed each other. The missing grew large between them,
    Until it pulled the heart right out of the body, until
    The drawn heart flew toward the head, flew as a bird flies
    Back to its cage and the familiar perch from which it trills.
    Then the heart sang in the head, softly at first and then louder,
    Sang long and low until the morning light came up over
    The school and over the tree, and then the singing stopped….
    The goat had belonged to a small girl. She named
    The goat Broken Thorn Sweet Blackberry, named it after
    The night’s bush of stars, because the goat’s silky hair
    Was dark as well water, because it had eyes like wild fruit.
    The girl lived near a high railroad track. At night
    She heard the trains passing, the sweet sound of the train’s horn
    Pouring softly over her bed, and each morning she woke
    To give the bleating goat his pail of warm milk. She sang
    Him songs about girls with ropes and cooks in boats.
    She brushed him with a stiff brush. She dreamed daily
    That he grew bigger, and he did. She thought her dreaming
    Made it so. But one night the girl didn’t hear the train’s horn,
    And the next morning she woke to an empty yard. The goat
    Was gone. Everything looked strange. It was as if a storm
    Had passed through while she slept, wind and stones, rain
    Stripping the branches of fruit. She knew that someone
    Had stolen the goat and that he had come to harm. She called
    To him. All morning and into the afternoon, she called
    And called. She walked and walked. In her chest a bad feeling
    Like the feeling of the stones gouging the soft undersides
    Of her bare feet. Then somebody found the goat’s body
    By the high tracks, the flies already filling their soft bottles
    At the goat’s torn neck. Then somebody found the head
    Hanging in a tree by the school. They hurried to take
    These things away so that the girl would not see them.
    They hurried to raise money to buy the girl another goat.
    They hurried to find the boys who had done this, to hear
    Them say it was a joke, a joke, it was nothing but a joke….
    But listen: here is the point. The boys thought to have
    Their fun and be done with it. It was harder work than they
    Had imagined, this silly sacrifice, but they finished the job,
    Whistling as they washed their large hands in the dark.
    What they didn’t know was that the goat’s head was already
    Singing behind them in the tree. What they didn’t know
    Was that the goat’s head would go on singing, just for them,
    Long after the ropes were down, and that they would learn to listen,
    Pail after pail, stroke after patient stroke. They would
    Wake in the night thinking they heard the wind in the trees
    Or a night bird, but their hearts beating harder. There
    Would be a whistle, a hum, a high murmur, and, at last, a song,
    The low song a lost boy sings remembering his mother’s call.
    Not a cruel song, no, no, not cruel at all. This song
    Is sweet. It is sweet. The heart dies of this sweetness.

    –Brigit Pegeen Kelly

 

Summer is dying by Hayyim Nahman Bialik

Ξ December 21st, 2007 | → 0 Comments | ∇ Words |




Summer is dying

Summer is dying in the purple and gold and russet
of the falling leaves of the wood,
and the sunset clouds are dying
in their own blood.

In the emptying public gardens
the last strollers break their walk
to lift their eyes and follow
the flight of the last stork.

The heart is orphaned. Soon
the cold rains will be drumming.
'Have you patched your coat for winter!
Stocked potatoes against its coming?'

--Hayyim Nahman Bialik

 

SOMEBODY ELSE BUILT A BETTER MUSE TRAP

Ξ December 15th, 2007 | → 0 Comments | ∇ Words |


There was a man I know who used to write a lot. He wrote some rather tragic tasting humor for those who know better than to laugh out loud. He also wrote some of the strangest sounding poetry this side of the International Line of Sobriety. In between all these things he wrote almost completely true stories based on his own wide and varied experiences in Big Silly Business.


But that's when he had his muse. Then he lost his muse. He went silent for a very long time. He hated his own silence. But there was nothing he could do about it. So he simply worked night and day on remaining silent until he perfected it almost to the point of nonexistence.



He became a nonexistentialist. Perhaps one of the very first.



Sometimes, if you're in his neighborhood, you can hold your breath so that even the uncontrollable action of your lungs won't disturb the still air of nothingness and you can almost hear the sadness crawling by your feet. But most people can't.

 

bukowski.net/vault/poem1984-07-19-this_is_free_take_it_and_feel_better.jpg

Ξ November 30th, 2007 | → 0 Comments | ∇ Words |





    This is free, take it, and feel better - Charles Bukowski

    Tnx k

 

Rudy&8217;s Blog & Blog Archive & Postsingular Free Online Now!

Ξ November 2nd, 2007 | → 0 Comments | ∇ Words |





Science fiction author, Rudy Rucker releases his book Postsingular for free online.

 

BETWEEN THE JAWS OF TIME

Ξ October 15th, 2007 | → 0 Comments | ∇ Words |



In the distant substations, at night,
Lamps are burning with white-cold light -
Electricity of the domestic breed is bearing.


In the distant substations, at night,
Shadows of no one are utmostly slight.
Electricity groans and smells like bleeding.


In the distant substations, at night,
Eyes of travelers get long-expected sight,
Singeing the eyelids with a clear-cut snapshot.


Darkling meadows are dreaming of morning-dew...
And you feel that someone is waiting for you -
In the distant substations, at night

...hundreds of miles from home.

--Sergey Mikhaylov



(Tapadh leat, etc. ))

 

The Science Creative Quarterly & FIBONACCI POEMS

Ξ October 13th, 2007 | → 0 Comments | ∇ Science, Words |



Shyness

Fish
dive
deeply,
mouths agape,
fins proud and ragged,
filtering the oceans apart
until shimmer-hooked and then flopping in boat bottoms,
when gills heave, gasp, drowning in air; eyes glaze like dropped
marbles, clouded and cracked, but holding.



Ego

She
will
nod as
you pass her
and you both will know
you are young and raw, half-bitten,
spitten in disgust like fruit picked before its season.



Heaven

Dead
leaves
jump back
on the trees,
a reverse whirlwind
and an impossible sunset
seeking their origins, the life from whence they came."

 

Consortiumnews.com

Ξ September 21st, 2007 | → 0 Comments | ∇ Science, Words |




Tellin' it like it is.



How the dogs of war ate our meta-narratives.




Excerpts:
    This has been the right's craftiest accomplishment: inducing "reasonable" liberals and "sensible" centrists to enable their crimes, from stolen elections to their present preparation for a massive bombing campaign of Iran, by intimidating them with the fear that any protest on their part will cast them among the ranks of America-hating, lefty moonbats, who wish to see the terrorist win, dumpsters piled high with discarded fetuses and metro-sexuality made the official state religion.

    ...


    All progressives have experienced the following nonsensical encounter of the conservative kind. Present a reasoned argument to a conservative -- and, all at once, completely ignoring the tenet, tone and thrust of the point, they begin hallucinating a creature, only known to exist in the right-wing bestiary, known as a "moonbat" -- a mythological beast that, ironically, seems to appear when a conservative is confronted with reality.


Read in full.

 

Doppler Sex@Everything2.com

Ξ September 6th, 2007 | → 0 Comments | ∇ Words |




    Jacqueline Bisset. On a plane. When it was landing and you were supposed to be belted in. Imagine.

    --Are you telling me you had sex with a woman on the airplane?

    Oh God, no. I'm telling a story. It's a twenty-five year old guy we're talking about.

    --A story of what happened, or something made up?

    Both.

    --That's stupid.

    Flow with me for a minute. Pretend. Everything is moving too fast and it's all redshifted, spalling away from me in Doppler distortion at the speed of light so it doesn't seem as real anymore. Why not let it happen like you're reading a book? Because it is. Because you are. It's that way to me.

    --It must have been uncomfortable being in that airplane lavatory. They're barely big enough for one.

    We didn't have sex.

    --Ah ha.

    Hang on -- I have a hard time reading someone else's words without thinking of a bunch of my own. I don't know what I'm making up and what's in the akashic record. While I'm sitting in a small commercial jet somewhere over Saint Louis Obispo watching the San Andreas fault slide under me, I get through a few pages and then silence the voice in my head by looking out the window. There are roads and buildings. Occasionally a glint of bright sunlight ricochets to me from a car on route five. I'm wallowing in cognitive dissonance. Only yesterday I was watching glaciers pass, yellow earplugs keeping out the propeller drone.

    There was a mighty uninhabited wasteland extending beneath me in all directions. Antarctica. No love. No warmth. No man's land. I was on a flight from polar nowhere to a nowhere town where there are four women who each at some point in my five years of anti-polar deployment tried to become my ice wife.

    By the way -- if I was on fire they'd let me burn. Turn down a woman's advances, get lost forever. There are a lot of horses in the sea and they're all dead and drowned. Ever see a stallion swim? They can, but it's not pretty and neither are we after a while.

    I tried sitting with one of my former suitors at the galley and she squirmed and found a reason to get up for coffee and never came back as hard as she could.

    I've known her well enough to have had our eyes within an inch of each other and she doesn't want to spend more than fifteen seconds saying "hi," and twist the knife. They deal in a purified form of loneliness down there. Best to have work. Best to be busy, to have friends. Or an ice spouse.

    "Ice wife" works this way: you're supposed to believe you might die in Antarctica and so with your remaining breath it's better to love who's within reach, body and soul, than hold out for the theory of survival and commitment to promises you've made back home.

    Yeah. Ok. Traveling salesmen have been cheating on their wives forever. Turn the smarmometer off before the needle bends off the scale.

    One tried to get me drunk. At a big station party she kept shoving cans of Canterbury Draught into my hand which I obligingly quaffed. They were only a kiwi buck a can, she had a lot of drinking money in her pocket and when the money was gone, she let me see she had the condiments necessary to complete the evening. I got scared. She started hooking her pinkie around mine.