Atom and Individual
- who are you
Really,
If one can go deep in mind, heart, Spirit?
Atom and ParamAtman
- a building without doors, windows
For you, the real you ( the I am)
Your Beloved is outside
Trying to get to you
- I Am within
Trying to meet my Beloved, our efforts
Will break down the walls without windows
Dear Most High,
I pray for the crimes I tend to commit
My mind that will justify my actions legit
My cronies in their trials I pray for their lives
For haters come hatin' with their guns and knives
My enemies loathe me and fear me the same
I pray that their envy don't make me their blame
My family, despite being dysfunctionally grimy--
I love 'em the same, from the proud to the whiny
The ladies that serve my multiple reasons--
I pray for their purpose from lessons in seasons
For the real folks that's seekin' my progress and theirs--
I pray our success will endure through the years
I pray for these streets which bore me and raise me
I pray reconstruction 'cause these times gettin' crazy
I pray for the knowledge I'm continually shown
But most of all I pray for the unseen and the unknown.
THIS MORN' I CLIMBED THE MISTY HILL,
AND ROAMED THE PASTURES THROUGH;
HOW DANCED THY FORM BEFORE MY PATH,
AMID THE DEEP-EYED DEW!
WHEN THE REDBIRD SPREAD HIS SABLE WING,
AND SHOWED HIS SIDE OF FLAME;
WHEN THE ROSEBUD RIPENED TO THE ROSE,
IN BOTH I READ THY NAME--SPECIAL!
THOU ART TO ME A BRIGHT REVELATION,
OF THE BEST NATURE OF WOMAN PASSED:
WHAT IS TRUE AT LAST WILL TELL;
FEW AT FIRST WILL PLACE THEE WELL;
SOME TOO LOW WOULD HAVE THEE SHINE,
SOME TOO HIGH--NO FAULT OF THINE:
HOLD THINE OWN, AND MAKE THY WILL!
YEAR WILL GRAZE THE HEEL OF YEAR,
BUT SELDOM COMES THE POET HERE,
AND THE CRITIC'S RARER STILL.
The natural history of some has never been written, We’re but a stream whose source is hidden
The most exact calculator has no prescience,
Our being is descending into us from we know not whence.
I’m many a times moody and wildly wise,
pursuing daring games with joyful eyes,
which chose, like meteors, their way
And rived the dark with private ray:
I am owner of my private atmosphere,
of the ample tears shed in a year,
of pupil’s hand, and oracle’s brain,
of Lord Christ heart, and prophet’s strain.
I am one found overleapting the horizon’s edge,
searching with host’s privilege;
through man, woman, sea, and star,
Glancing the dance of nature forward far;
Through demensions, races, terms, and times,
Beholding melodical order, and juxtaposing rhymes.
I’m one treading fountain-heads and pathless groves,
Spaces which pale passion loves,
Starlight walks, when all the fowls
Are safely sheltered, save bats and owls,
A midnight bell, a passing groan,
Such are the sounds I feed upon.
Somewhere, someplace,
someone is playing a guitar.
Sitting alone,
in a room, in an unromantic city.
Somewhere, someplace,
someone truly honest, sublime
birth of a phoenix
renaissance of hope
where the snow piles up
and the sun becomes a clouded pimple.
Somewhere, someplace,
someone is alone
in an unromantic room.
Believing that no one hears,
or cares.
Never caring, never hoping,
someone is playing six strings
to the beat of the oversoul.
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