I Believed in One other person especially meant for Me and that he was here on Mother Earth just waiting for us to run into each other!

I dreamt of a boy when I was a girl.  I believed with all my might when I was a little girl that there was only one other boy and he was meant just for me.  I knew, that just like me, he came so far through eternity just to hold my hand and be my mate as an adult.  This very simple and I guess what most consider, at least they consider this type of thought these days, to be stupid.  In reality this was really the idea that saw me through to where I sit today at the age I am, a long, long way from being four years old and so very alone. 

I lost so many friends to their own hands. My friends committed suicide and I could not stop them.  I could not do such a thing for myself for I felt that I would have cheated that one boy.  I guess he would now be a Man, kind of cool when you think about it.  As simple as I may sound, I truly felt with all my being that there was that only one boy for me to love. 

I never found him. I tried and I discovered that laughter drowned any hope I had when I made any inquiries into this dream of mine.  For all of those that say, "Men are like buses, they come along every 20 Minutes."  I don't believe you. Men are rare and are very unique unto themselves.  I know that I may be lacking what it is to understand why I have never been able to find my mate, but, I do believe that at one time during my life, he existed, he was here, walking at the same exact time I was walking too.  I love him for making that journey. He came all the way from where those of us that must believe in such innocence of magic itself reside.

I love you, whomever you may be, you will always be my Man to me.  Thank you so much for showing up to be the One and the Only for Me.  Forever and A Day!!

Begin Again!! Make That Choice

Chose your direction.

Lives are so many.

Use this time to improve and learn from all of your Deaths.

Do not fear the Reaper.

He is your guide.

Other Worlds are perilous,

and full of what is not known.

To be advised that "Lives" continue;

Will only awaken you to old thoughts, old ways and old beliefs:

Archaic learning!!

The secret of the Universe that delivers to you a bit of a surprise today is,

TRUTH.

It is yours as long as you still are walking upright on this Earth.

Be not unaware to the absolute perfection that has been delivered.

This environment that we exist in can profit our lives with enlightenment and relieve us of our fears.

In this innocence, I believe that this could be the place,

and the time that we could have be given to heal.

I Loved Riding!! My Last Love, isn't he Beautiful.....

this is Zest and Me.

Maybe one day I will be able to enjoy the Sport that made my life possible to even face.

"I love you so much!  Where ever you ended up, I hope they love as much as I did."

James Blunt - Just Close Your Eyes

You have seen the singer
And he said ' believe in me'
Now let me wash my bloodied hands
In this pool of extasy

Cos you know what's required of us
And you know that they're tired of us
And you know
That they haven't got the clarity to have an open mind

So close your eyes (close your eyes)
close your eyes (close your eyes)
close your eyes (close Your of eyes)
and believe in me

You have seen the singer
And he said believe in me
Now open up and let me in
To your childhood fantasy

Cos you know that the time is right
And you know that we're dynamites
And you know
That your dreams can be reality if you just made up your mind

So close your eyes (close your eyes)
close your eyes (close your eyes)
close your eyes (close Your of eyes)
and believe in me

And you know that the time is right
And you know that we're dynamites
And you know that your dreams can be reality if you just made up your mind

So close your eyes (close your eyes)
close Your of eyes (close your eyes)
close your eyes (close your eyes)
And believe in me

(Yeah)

Close your eyes (close your eyes)
Close your eyes (close your eyes)
Close your eyes (close your eyes)
And believe in me.

And believe in me.

I love my children very much. I will never give-up, I mean, once you see their picture, how could YOU!!

"Johno"

"Lauren"

"Kathleen"

"Rebecca"

Rebecca, Kathleen, Johno & Lauren

One day I am hoping to start a business so that I can travel the World and show my four children how amazing life is meant to be and that no matter what happens in the future that this was and has been a dream of mine for a very long time to do with them.  We are currently estranged and maybe I will never see or speak to them again, I really don't know.  We have been apart now for Six Years.  It is hard to go from being so close to never being together.  I love each of them very much.  I did get to see my son, Johno last December.  He came over and stayed the night.  We watched movies, talked and just really enjoyed each others company again. 

This is all of "Us" together.

Happy Mother's Day

I love you! forever & a day!!

Hi, my name is Karen Anastasia and this is me at 11 years old.

This is Me as an adult, Six Years Ago.  I had no idea that our lives would be what they are today.

I Do....

....fly the skies of the darkened past,

the black of the Midnight blue.

Dragons, Arrogance!

Just a glance, "I Ask?"

The clock did not wind Time.

Instead it took the Toll and dropped a Dime.

Stating the total cost of Last.

Better to finish in a place.

A count: A number: A path!

Than not all.

 Or, to fall into...

the pits you dig for us to never get big.

 No Way!!

RUN!!   RUN!!

 In and out of anything just to avoid

 the crash into this kind of thing.

Humanities Sin.

Be Wise, but, be True,

to yourself always.

Unfinished

The Eye of the Midnight will STRIKE!

A watchful voice announced,

"Beware, Warn All!! A FALL..........."

The sound echoed in the bounds of Time.

Seeking out what?

Do you follow the..................?

Trust?  or  Forced?

Which tops the list for you?

Carefully I walk the Hallows.

The Battlefield of this World;

A Cry! I know I heard.

Listen......I think it's dead.

Dread and misery mark the way.

Life?  or is it doubt that plagues?

Calls; Screams; Delete..delete Me?

Why must we be kept from:  Complete?

Asking what is Here.

I'm sure we go 'round.

How?  A question for me not to ask,

but, Men are the ones to know anyhow.

Facing the day with hesitance

brings on a thought of LIVE!!

Consideration of dangerous foe:

For year, after year, I say, "WHOA."

Pleased to speak, are you Meek?

I try most everyday,

to not be seen, but to be heard.

I have something important to say.

I keep accounts on all that mounts

upon my Mind and Soul.

For I believe, we all need

an accountable, payable Toll.

HARK!!  Upon entry of the Unknown,

particularly from "What Zone?"

What if the language is barred?

And Communication is not Ours?

An unbearable thought; I think a lot.

Worry 'bout what might be.

It is not the "What ifs" that get Me,

it is your Lack of Sensitivity.

Death Rattles His Name......can you hear the claim?

The sound of only one voice shakes me.

I listen to hear him speak,

it relaxes my heart and it beats to his resolve.

No aim at the hurt inside of a person does he aim,

yet, he is able to ask the question,

it makes them feel at home.

The interest in such a mind of intellect,

brings out the urge to live you see.

I am dying of disregard.

Of every person that says,

"I don't care"

or worse, "Get over it."

Although it sounds indifferent

it is this very word that describes what is happening.

Mother Nature is taking control, not I.

I was 32 years old the first time,

I barely survived.


Two Silver Dollars For The Ferrymen! The Pull of the Golden Cord, it is the Curse of the RED PURSE

Artistic pastels scream, SUPPLY!

Look into my minds eye,

see that "You" are not "I."

Launch the raft to navigate, not to laugh.

Death lurks at your door,

asking, "Are you a pick-up? or a Horror?"

Draw the line.

The long in time wait still to feel the fill.

The Grave may not be served "On the Rocks."

But, chill it does, the Glacier talks.

"Holding all in cellular tar,"

I blackened myself to match that bar.

Left not flight.

I did not loose sight, I mean,

why fight, when you might just be right?

Spare the tears,

the wet eyes of years,

the lies that you wear,

they make me swear!!

GOD DAMN, just stand.

I am not a Man.

I have been on the lamb!!

Not the rack, rather a track.

Leaving signs of all that you lack.

Get out; Don't shout.

My head, it hurts all about.

Stop your blare, my brain is in there.

Sever yourself from the Sins of When?

You just stood and said, "I didn't know then."

I'll get up and then throw-up,

sicken myself to know it is a set-up,

for who? YOU.

Oh well, it must have been the letter.



An Idea Of Why

Bury your thoughts of discriminatory fear!

Unleash a balance of Imagination.

Lend your Will towards Truth.

Life can then benefit You.

Be Pensive, not Expensive.

Attempt to rid yourself of Blind Rage.

See the Sage amongst the crowd.

Bow not to your loud appeal, of heal.

Discover strength in the Dens of Iniquities.

Create a fascination to Shield the saturation of the perverted

and the learned capability to discern the innocent before their destruction.

Pride yourself with the Stride of a Lyon!

In the Lair of Man;

 Do Not Stare!

Lurking is a Deadly sign.

The missing link is not meant to be screwed.

No rudeness will be found when Honesty is around.

A find of a unique kind is not by specific design.

It takes a novel approach to not scare from behind the running kind.

Be quick, be fast or you shall find that it will be your last.



The Circle Of Death; Or Life!! Do Not Strife.

Explosive years of traveled times,

regard my Mind in riddling rhymes.

Each moment captured in seconds of shock,

waiting for the sight of them, I lock!

No more can I see my duty or my cause.

Only the emptiness and loss.

Missing what is no longer here,

is felt as the absence of life long fear.

Speaking of what cannot be seen,

knowing that I will no longer be,

I pause to accept gracefully,

the lives that made all of this inside of Me.

The growth of some is the death of run.

I caught myself in a senseless sort of dumb: Numb!

I look with blind and blurred vision,

to only know that it is their decision.

Turning from what was thought to be love,

is making sense of childhood; glove.

I am, I will, I'm told I'll always be,

that which can't be much you see.

Damaged goods,

I know it's true, excitement of existence should!

Install inside an upward flow

of resistance to the slow.

As health, as happiness, as worry gains,

I watch to know, I'm not ashamed,

to speak with persons no longer here,

I find that it relieves that fear of near.

Remembrance with photographs, hugs with hands held tight.

Smiles, laughter and chuckling in the after,

I'll never forget, it is important too,

I did not sin, did you?

Embarrassment, red faces and turned down eyes,

I never saw one disguise.

Just turned and walked away with shame,

those people they used to call Dame.

You know, back in the day,

an Epitaph was written in fact,

with ink before, extract.

At least normally it was like that.

We as people are born to what?

Misery? Torture? and told you scorn?

A day, a way, no love to spare?

Only the look of "Get out of there!"

I'm glad that I have lived long enough,

to know that Life gets really rough.

You're told, "Forget your past! Move on!"

Then screamed at, "There is no hope, it's the cycle you're on."

I choke.

Wondering why Adults go both of these ways,

it's my fault each and every day.

I can't be right, nor can I be wrong,

don't be long or sing a song.

Inside I'm mostly scared or feared,

of all of you, you just seem to sear.

It would be nice to belong,

but it is no longer in my throng.  

Accepting Me as myself,

the I in Me says, "Just be stealth."

Nature takes back so naturally,

what can't fit and goes blind to see.

The Fear, the threats, the heavy bets,

that I'll die from all this debt.

It does put weight upon my core,

but I do know Evermore.

These scenes of what are so unkind,

hitting, beating and the torturing signs,

upon my body and my mind,

no more than the psychological horror of sore.

Clear out your need, do not heed,

no longer will you fear the bleed.

Love is known, but, not by Me.

It's not a crime to get off your knees.

To never fall in love with me,

they, the Men just said to heed.

I am fine, move on, for I will too.

Far away from all of you.

An Uncouth Moment Delivers Live News Coverage

Force out of the Mind what is not yours to know

and you will be inside your own personal Falsehood of Hell itself.

Privacy to be exists in Me,

it is not of Thee, to push, to Tell, nor to say delete.

As the lies grow from the well-seeded throw,

that is planted in tidy rows of the Fields of No.

I shout, "STOP, knock yourself out!"

For you are in the garden of the play.

You anger the innocent

enrage the guilty,

absolve God of accountability,

and invite the Devil to dinner each and every nite.

Why be such a fool just to be cool?

Life is only one way,

when you believe it is over,

 it has only just begun.

You just move on through,

 into that field of You.

Clover

Nature cools it's heels upon the growth of yourself,

you revolve back into a state of .... resolve.

Should one become the other

before the struggle or the dominion of,

 the force of evolve,

than,

 as a Man, as a Human, as a Being,

you would stomp out the perpetual purpose of that which you may be become or even love.

Deadly you are today,

determined in the thought that you are correct and not just bought.

You have no idea, no clue, no advancement of, or interest in,

the peaceful state of communication again.

Ready yourself,

for the inevitable bite of inquiry.

For surely,

 someone will  inquire into marks,

 that have scarred this existence.

Poetry As News!! by Lawrence Ferlinghetti

by Lawrence Ferlinghetti b

Lawrehttp://www.corpse.org/archives/issue_4/critical_urgencies/ferlinCan Poetry Really Change the World?

What is the use of poetry these days? Isn't it a romantic illusion to think that poetry can really change anything? Isn't the poet really powerless in today's dog-eat-cat world of power-players, power-plays, and super-powers? 

Today in the United States, the poet has no real place or status. In Latin America and in some European and Middle Eastern countries, poets are still honored in society, but in North America what other city except San Francisco appoints a poet laureate every year? Even so, what power has he or she in the "real" world? Even in the last century, when traditional values still held Western civilization together, a great poet like Matthew Arnold could lament that a poet is nothing but "a beautiful ineffectual angel beating in the void his luminous wings in vain." (He was thinking of Shelley.) 

Still there are those, including myself, who believe in poets as the antennae of the race, as the conscience of society, or at least as Jack Kerouac said, "the great rememberer redeeming life from darkness." The greatest poets' greatest lines have entered mass consciousness, and they are great precisely because they have continued to resonate in our lives today. 

One thinks of "poems of first instance" (as the poet Mary Oliver called them), those first experiences with poetry, usually encountered at an early age, that somehow affected one's whole life. "In just the way that all first experiences," Oliver says, "Making their way across the still-forming landscapes of the mind, are likely to exist through an entire lifetime as the most important, most emotive, most influential experience of their own kind--in just this way, poems of the first instance are profound." ( Blue Pastures, p.94) 

Walt Whitman was the poet that first turned her on. And then there was William Blake, Edgar Allan Poe, Shelley and Wordsworth, Coleridge and Milton. And there was Keats: 

A thing of beauty is a joy forever:
Its loveliness increases; it will never
Pass into nothingness..... 

And who's to say that so many lines of Shakespeare do not still resonate in us today, having entered our daily speech, even though we're no longer even aware of their origins? So with passages by Wordsworth or Matthew Arnold or W.B. Yeats or T.S. Eliot or others more recent. 

But to go back to our beginnings, did not Homer and the Greek dramatists articulate the consciousness and the sensibility of the ancient Greeks, even as Ulysses' voyages defined the limits of their world? And did not Dante in Italy, Cervantes in Spain, and Chaucer in England almost simultaneously bring to consciousness a new world emerging from the Dark Ages? And do not the first lines of Dante's Divine Comedy still speak to us in the deepest part of our lives?: 

In the middle of the journey of our life
I came to myself in a dark wood
Where the straight way was lost.... 

And so to 20th century authors like James Joyce whose hero, Stephen Dedalus, on the last page of "Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man" sets out "to forge in the smithy of my soul the uncreated conscience" of his race. Thus we arrive at the point at which the poet not only articulates the consciousness of his time but also becomes its conscience, and we come full circle to the poet's prophetic or vatic role, with contemporaries like Allen Ginsberg (who so many have attested changed their consciousness) and Bob Dylan (whose early songs were great surrealist poems) and the Beatles. Who's to say they did not change and enlarge the consciousness of millions of youth, which was then ingested by consumer society to become a part of Middle American culture? 

Thus we realize how the greatest poets not only change the way we see the world but also cause us to question our perception and interpretation of everyday reality. And we realize that the greatest poetry "subverts the dominant paradigm" ultimately challenges the status quo of the world, and transforms it into something new and strange.

Which leads me to the unavoidable conclusion that the poet must perforce be an "enemy of the state." I hasten to add, lest the FBI knock on my door in the morning, that I mean an enemy of the state of our civilization today. Our omnivorous industrial civilization has proved to be bad for earth and man, ecologically and medically speaking. Disastrous, in fact. Couple this with the institution of stringent restrictions on individual freedom to keep our imperialist military-industrial machine functioning, and you have a natural enemy for the poet who is by definition a free spirit, an untamed erotic spirit dedicated to truth and beauty.

What is Poetry?

There are no doubt as many definitions of poetry as there are poems. Perhaps more, since there are more poetry professors and critics than there are poets. Perhaps there's a need in the new century for some new definitions. Or perhaps the golden oldies will hold up better than any. Risking the derision of postmodern eggheads I'll put some of my old ones and some of my new ones to the test of the 21st century: 

 Poetry is news from the frontiers of consciousness.
 Poetry is what we would cry out upon awaking in a dark wood in the middle of the journey of our life.
 A poem is a mirror walking down a street full of visual delight.
 Poetry is the shook foil of the imagination. It should shine out and half blind you.
Poetry is the sun streaming down in the meshes of morning.
Poetry is white nights and mouths of desire.
Poetry is made by dissolving halos in the ocean of sound.
Poetry is the street talk of angels and devils.
Poetry is a sofa full of blind singers who have put aside their canes.
Poetry is the anarchy of the senses making sense.
Poetry is the voice of the fourth person singular.
Poetry is all things born with wings that sing.
A poem should arise to ecstasy, somewhere between speech and song.
Poetry is a voice of dissent against the waste of words and the mad plethora of print.
Poetry is what exists between the lines.
Poetry is made with the syllables of dreams.
Poetry is far, far cries upon a beach at nightfall.
Poetry is a lighthouse moving its megaphone over the sea.
Poetry is a picture of Ma in her Woolworth bra looking out a window into a secret garden.
Poetry is an Arab carrying colored rugs and birdcages through the streets of a great metropolis.
A poem can be made of common household ingredients. It fits on a single page yet it can fill a world and fits in the pocket of a heart.
Poetry is pillow-thought after intercourse.
The poet is a street singer who rescues the alleycats of love.
Poetry is the distillation of articulate animals calling to each other over a great gulf.
Poetry is the dialogue of statues.
Poetry is the sound of summer in the rain and of people laughing behind closed shutters down a narrow street.
Poetry is the incomparable lyric intelligence brought to bear upon fifty-seven varieties of experience.
Poetry is a high house echoing with all the voices that ever said anything crazy or wonderful.
Poetry is a subversive raid upon the forgotten language of the collective unconscious.
Poetry is a real canary in a coal mine, and we know why the caged bird sings.
Poetry is the shadow cast by our streetlight imaginations.
Poetry is the voice within the voice of the turtle.
Poetry is the face behind the face of the race.
Poetry is made of night thoughts. If it can tear itself away from illusion, it will not be disowned before the dawn.
Poetry is made by evaporating the liquid laughter of youth.
Poetry is a book of light at night.
Poetry is the final gestalt of the imagination.
Poetry should be emotion recollected in emotion.
Words are living fossils. The poet should piece the live beast together and make it sing.
A poet is only as great as his ear. Too bad if it is tin.
The poet must be a subversive barbarian at the city gates, constantly questioning reality and reinventing it.
Let the poet be a singing animal turned pimp for an anarchist king.
The poet mixes drinks out of the insane liquors of the imagination and is perpetually surprised that no one staggers.
The poet should be a dark barker before the tents of existence.
Poetry is what can be heard at manholes echoing up Dante's fire escape.
Poetry is what moths hum as they circle the flame.
Poetry is the thrill of a lighted window at night.
The poet must have wide-angle vision, each look a worldglance, and the concrete is most poetic.
Poetry is not all heroin, horses, and Rimbaud. It is also the whisper of elephants and the powerless prayers of airline passengers fastening their seatbelts for the final descent.
Poetry is the real subject of great prose.
Each poem should be a momentary madness, and the unreal is realist.
Like a bowl of roses, a poem should not have to be explained.
A poem is its own Coney Island of the mind, its own circus of the soul, its own Far Rockaway of the heart.
Poetry should still be an insurgent knock on the door of the unknown.

Why Is So Much Modern Poetry Really Prose?

It's not news that a good deal of contemporary poetry is actually a kind of prose masquerading in the typography of poetry. Just check out any anthology of modern American verse since the Second World War, and it will be obvious. It would seem that "the voice that is great within us" (as one collection is called) sounds in us most often today in a prose voice, although in poetic form. This is not to say it is prosaic or has no depth or passion. It is often very well-written, lovely, lively prose--prose that can stand without the crutches of punctuation, whose syntax is so clear it can be written all over the page, in open forms and open fields. 

How did this curious state of affairs come about, and how come no one ever mentions it? Perhaps because there has been a kind of considerate silence between poets and friends, between poets and editors. No one wants to commit the original sin of saying flat-out that someone's poetry is prose in poetic typography. A poet's friends will never tell him, and the poet's editors will seldom say it--the dumbest conspiracy of silence in the history of letters. 

However, it may be simply that, as sociologists have said, America lost its innocence with the Second World War. And with it went a lot of our lyricism, including rhyme and lilting meters. Or perhaps it began much earlier. A hundred years or so ago when all the machines began to hum almost, as it were, in unison, our speech certainly began to be affected by their absolute staccato. City poetry especially began to echo it. Walt Whitman was a holdover, singing the song of himself. And Carl Sandburg a holdover, singing his sagas. And Vachel Lindsay, singing his chants. And Wallace Stevens with his harmonious "fictive music" on the blue guitar. And Langston Hughes, echoing the hot beat of Harlem. And Allen Ginsberg, chanting his mantras, singing William Blake. 

Ezra Pound once decanted his opinion that only in times of decadence does poetry separate itself from music. But his own Cantos can't possibly be sung. And you would have a hard time singing T.S. Eliot's "Love Song of J.Alfred Prufrock." Poetry was caught up in the linotype's hot slug and now in the so cold type of the computer. No song among the typists, no song in our concrete architecture, our concrete minimalist music. Like minimal art, modern poetry minimalizes emotion in favor of understated irony and implied intensity. And Joe Public stands back mystified. 

But isn't this the perfect poetry for technocratic man who seemingly has no use for the subjective in his life--the subjective which is constantly under attack in our televised consumer culture? And what of the rest of us who don't love technocracy and would rather nurture the subjective in our consciousness?
Still, there is light on the horizon. The times they are changing, and one would hope for a revival of truly lyric verse, aspiring to poetic highs somewhere between speech and song. And that doesn't mean they're going to rhyme moon with June. There are wild new voices with a keen edge--lyric teen poetry slammers and jazz poets and rhyming rappers at open mikes, especially Third World and indigenous poets, who are breaking out of the cool. They have been returning to the original oral tradition of poetry--the tradition which the poetry revolution of the 50s revived, especially in San Francisco, with the emphasis on poetry as an insurgent oral message. The printing press made the word so silent, but new poets are returning to the roots when poetry was passed down from generation to generation by word of mouth. And the mouth did sing.
The fly in the wine is that a lot of rap and spoken-word poetry today makes it when it is performed aloud, but doesn't make it on the printed page. There are of course some big exceptions. Bob Dylan is a bard whose early songs are really long surrealist poems that make it on the page, without guitar. Allen Ginsberg's late poetry, on the other hand, suffered from the fact that he was a genius performer who could read the phone book and make it sound like a great epic (See his last "Blues") but it fell flat when printed.
Perhaps that doesn't really matter, if the primary aim is to turn the audience on, to get it high, to liberate it, to enlighten it, or inspire it, or revolutionize it. And nevermind printing it or inscribing it in stone.
It is the bird singing that makes us happy.

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