Posts Tagged ‘poem’

Because She Would Ask Me Why I loved Her

by- Christopher Brennan

If questioning would make us wise

No eyes would ever gaze in eyes;

If all our tale were told in speech

No mouths would wander each to each.

Were spirits free from mortal mesh

And love not bound in hearts of flesh

No aching breasts would yearn to meet

And find their ecstasy complete.

For who is there that lives and knows

The secret powers by which he grows?

Were knowledge all, what were our need

To thrill and faint and sweetly bleed?.

Then seek not, sweet, the “If” and “Why”

I love you now until I die.
For I must love because I live

And life in me is what you give.

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Season’s Greetings

Thorough night or day

In sickness or health,

In being poor or rich

I know day follows night:

What is night but the gleam of light

Waiting to be let in?

Let your hearts with love and light surround,

If only you see the daybreak

Comes in a shower of blessings,-

I wish you all these and much more

But I shall not this blessed day sound a bore.


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I read the news Oh boy it was on prime-time news oh boy

What can you say when you know some one is dead?

It makes me feel sad,

Why, why, why, Madibah

Why, why, why, Madibah?


Did you lose the fight or death lost his bite

When the whole world think you are one of them?


At break of day we grieve the loss and by noon it’s no less;

You have come in each of us something of a hope


Death can’t put that out

Your death has given us something of a fight oh boy

Why why why Madibah

Why why why Madibah


So when unjust laws come in the midnight

To take us to depths of hell do I make a stand or run?

When they crack their whips, they split open our hides oh,oh

We haven’t a thing to make them go as you showed us.


You left not your spirit

Oh boy we will have to carry on just the same.

Why why why Madibah

Why why why Madibah?







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Mild is the weather and yet death has come:

You did think life was a wheel on the go,

Run run run, hitch a ride till kingdom come


 If death is at the door ask not where from:

Break up the wall, let space from within flow

Outwards till cosmos be plumbed: your home.


Seek not how you found life nor left for whom:

Death is a damn fool who shall never know

Taste from touch, much less dram from dream.


Mild is the weather and yet death has come:

You did think life was a wheel on the go,

Run run run, hitch a ride till kingdom come

Hasten not to look for your dream nor home.


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Before beginning was Consciousness

Shall we begin with words?

Sense shall serve us for stars

In their birth in the nursery of Knowing;

Red dwarves or worm holes

Make no sense till we dandle them-

Theorems are fine and logic holds

While our very sense is lost

in the tangle of semantics.

In the beginning was Word

What is Consciousness

Unless named at some point?

From where we range our inside out 

Past Stars, and Time

Shall we name our stars as our very being?



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What can you be? Death! you sound much more

Profound and wiser, than you will ever

Be on this side of living or the other:

Death, I shall name you are least spoken of

Among genteel or rude folks, What’s it?

You hold no part of continents where life

May set foot and claim neither for fame nor

for light,-it casts no farther than dead wall.

If thou be one what avails my life to fight

A dead weight that is better cast aside?

Death I shall name you are least spoken of

And get on with precious joy of life’s savor.

Death is least of the heartaches that I need

While life has with heat of love enow for now.


 John Donne original:

Death be not proud, though some have called thee

Mighty and dreadfull, for, thou art not soe,/

For, those, whom thou think’st, thou dost overthrow,
Die not, poore death, nor yet canst thou kill mee.

From rest and sleepe, which but thy pictures bee,

Much pleasure, then from thee, much more must flow,

And soonest our best men with thee doe goe,

Rest of their bones, and soules deliverie.
Thou art slave to Fate, Chance, kings, and desperate men,

And dost with poyson, warre, and sicknesse dwell,
And poppie, or charmes can make us sleepe as well,

And better then thy stroake; why swell’st thou then?

One short sleepe past, wee wake eternally,

And death shall be no more; death, thou shalt die.



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As you sow shall you reap:

It is seed cast by wind

From which I seek not so much

as the Source but to draw

what stray winds blow

And the loam of habits that gather

to hinder my passage.

I know I have learned to leave the

seat of cosmic filaments firm of hold

To its tasks as it is past my purpose.

What is before is not the comfort

Of tradition sown by stray winds

But my very passage home

where every star is a blossom

Bursting with intimations of

my Immutability.


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