Come with me..

If I could take you with me, 
I would...
To the edge of my imagination, 
to the secrets of my soul, 
to my deepest fears, 
the peaks of my ecstasy...

There we can sit, 
staring out over the plains of eternity, 
the abyss of thought, 
the blinding light of knowledge..
Our legs dangling over the edge.

We can float away 
on the breath of dreams, 
slowly drift towards 
the multicoloured sunset of ideas.

Memories

I.. 
made some memories for me. 
Memories that's good 
and fancyful and free. 
And it's all about you and me. 

Memories do not have to be true, 
you see, 
it just have to be believable 
and beautiful and fanciful... 
and containing you, 
to satisfy me. 

You... 
Have to ensure that: 
You make enough 
memories in your youth 
to last you a lifetime, 
because you might need them... 

When you lie there, 
dreaming, wanting, 
pining for someone old, 
for someone new, 
someone borrowed, 
someone blue... 

Thinking of how it could have been, 
how it all would have been, 
how it should have been, 
had you made the other choice, 
had you listened to your inner voice.. 
Not the people around you, 
the ones that say they adore you, 
the ones that's trying 
to live your life for you.. 

Making memories with you, 
singing songs for you, 
writing poems about you.. 

I hope you have enough. 
Enough to last a lifetime, 
enough to keep you warm, 
enough to help you through 
the dark when the winter comes 
and the nightfall leaves you all alone.. 

For I, 
I've made enough, 
I hope. 

Enough to keep me warm, 
enough to keep me still.. 
enough to fill 
my heart and soul 
with things to think, 
with things to do, 
with things to say, 
for more than just a day. 

Something for 
the hot summer nights, 
the cold days, 
the lonely times, 
the dreary years... 
The neverending fights.. 

Yes, for all of these, 
I am all right. 

I.. 
made some memories for me. 
Memories that's good 
and fancyful and free. 
And it's all about you and me.

Lust in thought

I once gave to you my heart.. 

I thought. 

But in the end it was but another part... 

You thought.

You once gave your love to me, 

I thought 

your heart and soul, 

I was sure 

your attention and time, 

I recognised 

but in the end... 
it must have been 

just your body, 

the empty vessel for your soul,

It wasn't your soul, 

for that was already taken, 

broken, abducted, 

by someone just like me... 

Someone thinking that: 
Love could be 
both fanciful and free, 
love could be a thing of beauty, 
a golden chain, unchained, 
a silver locket, unlocked, 
a platinum ring, unbroken, 
a lifelong friendship, uninterrupted. 
How wrong can someone be? 

There we were, 
sitting in a tree. 
Both fanciful and free. 
We thought, 

but did not think... 

That love could be 
something meant 
for the likes of you and me...

A Few English poems: Good poetry is timeless

'I cannot live with You'

by Emily Dickinson



I cannot live with You -
It would be Life -
And Life is over there -
Behind the Shelf

The Sexton keeps the Key to -
Putting up
Our Life – His porcelain -
Like a Cup -

Discarded of the Housewife -
Quaint – or Broke -
A newer Sevres pleases -
Old Ones crack -

I could not die- with You -
For One must wait
To shut the Other’s Gaze down -
You – could not -

And I – Could I stand by
And see You – freeze -
Without my Right of Frost -
Death’s privilege?

Nor could I rise – with You -
Because Your Face
Would put out Jesus’ -
That New Grace

Glow plain – and foreign
On my homesick Eye -
Except that You than He
Shone closer by -

They’d judge Us – How -
For You – served Heaven – You know,
Or sought to -
I could not -

Because You saturated Sight -
And I had not more Eyes
For sordid excellence
As Paradise

And were You lost, I would be -
Though My Name
Rang loudest
On the Heavenly fame -

And were You – saved -
And I – condemned to be
Where You were not -
That self – were Hell to Me -

So We must meet apart -
You there – I – here -
With just the Door ajar
That Oceans are – and Prayer -
And that White Sustenance -
Despair -


'Because I could not stop for Death'

by Emily Dickinson



Because I could not stop for Death -
He kindly stopped for me -
The Carriage held but just Ourselves -
And Immortality.

We slowly drove - He knew no haste
And I had put away
My labor and my leisure too,
For His Civility -

We passed the School, where Children strove
At Recess - in the Ring -
We passed the Fields of Gazing Grain -
We passed the Setting Sun -

Or rather - He passed Us -
The Dews drew quivering and chill -
For only Gossamer, my Gown -
My Tippet - only Tulle -

We paused before a House that seemed
A Swelling of the Ground -
The Roof was scarcely visible -
The Cornice - in the Ground -

Since then - 'tis Centuries - and yet
Feels shorter than Day
I first surmised the Horses' Heads
Were towards Eternity -



'I died for Beauty - but was scarce'

by Emily Dickinson



I died for Beauty – but was scarce
Adjusted in the Tomb
When One who died for Truth, was lain
In an adjoining Room –

He questioned softly ‘Why I failed’?
‘For Beauty’, I replied –
‘And I – for Truth – Themself are One –
We Bretheren, are’, He said –

And so, as Kinsmen, met a Night –
We talked between the Rooms –
Until the Moss had reached our lips –
And covered up – our names –



The Passionate Shepherd to His Love

by Christopher Marlowe  (see below for Ralegh's reply)



Come live with me and be my love,
And we will all the pleasures prove,
That hills and valleys, dales and fields,
And all the craggy mountains yields.

There we will sit upon the rocks,
And see the shepherds feed their flocks,
By shallow rivers to whose falls
Melodious birds sing madrigals.

And I will make thee beds of roses
With a thousand fragrant posies,
A cap pf flowers, and a kirtle
Embroidered all with leaves of myrtle;

A gown made of the finest wool
Which from our pretty lambs we pull;
Fair linèd slippers for the cold,
With buckles of the purest gold;

A belt of straw and ivy buds,
With coral clasps and amber studs:
And if these pleasures may thee move,
Come live with me and be my love.

The shepherds' swains shall dance and sing
For thy delight each May morning:
If these delights thy mind may move,
Then live with me and be my love.

Christopher Marlowe                                            


The Nymph's Reply to the Shepherd

by Sir Walter Ralegh



If all the world and love were young,
And truth in every shepherd's tongue,
These pretty pleasures might me move
To live with thee and be thy love.

Time drives the flocks from field to fold,
When rivers rage and rocks grow cold,
And Philomel becometh dumb;
The rest complains of cares to come.

The flowers do fade, and wanton fields
To wayward winter reckoning yields;
A honey tongue, a heart of gall,
Is fancy's spring, but sorrow's fall.

Thy gowns, thy shoes, thy beds of roses,
Thy cap, thy kirtle, and thy posies
Soon break, soon wither, soon forgotten,
In folly ripe, in reason rotten.

Thy belt of straw and ivy buds,
Thy coral clasps and amber studs,
All these in me no means can move
To come to thee and be thy love.

But could youth last and love still breed,
Had joys no date nor age no need,
Then these delights my mind might move
To live with thee and be thy love.

2 maybe's and 20 questions ... or maybe 10?

Maybe giving and receiving is more complicated than winning and losing. 

Perhaps you're making a good fold.... But on the other hand.... you could be missing out on a big win! 

Who knows what life will hold?
What can be classified as a good hand? 
When is a door not a door? When is the only way out the only way in? 
Does one not sometimes need a friend from the past without the fear of commitment? 
Can ex-lovers become friends? Why do we have to always fear what "the world" or "other people" would say? 
Must we not sometimes do what is "right" for ourselves and not worry about the other people? 
For a short while we deserve a little bit of happiness... 
Or do we?

Life

You have to live your own life..
Not fuck your neighbour's wife!
You can't enjoy constant strife..
Nor ignore the blood on the knife!


Life needs to be lived,
Otherwise it's just existence.


Without input from the participant,
he is but a spectator..
We revert to a race of spectators:
Too uninvolved to even pursue our own happiness!


Be your own being,
fight your own fights,
pursue your own dreams.
(Don't follow the sportstars' dreams.)


Go walk at night on a winding path, 
lit by the stars, the moon, your dreams...
Talk to the trees, (if you must!)


Turn your dreams into facts: 
You must! 


Go speak to the Sphinx, 
trust your knowledge of the facts..
Or else! 


The answers lie inside yourself,
so go and dig... 
You will find it!


Take the first step, 
make the first move, 
keep on moving... 
for if movement cease, 
so does life, 
or love, 
or progress... 


It is good to think, 
to plan, 
to plot,
but no use to plan and not,
do the things we planned...
For that, my friend, is not,
what living is about!

I am:

I am ....
Slightly sentimental
A bit mental
A bit sharp
A bit nerdy
A bit needy....
Perhaps I'm an alien!


But, would I not have known
If I were?
Or... Are we not to know 
If if we are? 


Perhaps I am not..
Perhaps I am only
A figment of my imagination..
But how could I be,
A figment of anything
If I am not a being that be?

Was Dexter the Wright right about writing with his right hand in his writings?

Or was it a sinister plot left by the wrong one writing with the left hand to sink the plans of the rightous wright that writes with the right hand? Or was it MacIntyre?

22 02 20 12

2 b 50...
Better than not 2 b
As an avocate once said...
The alternative is: 
"Too ghastly to contemplate."


Not that it should be,
I lost a lot of friends
And family along the way
Some not even making it to this day


So today, my birthday,
I say:
To all the friends I had before
Who ever entered through my door, 
I'm glad you came along. 
I dedicate this.. so read-along, 
to all the friends I had before!


To my shooting friends who didn't make it to today:
Schalk and Carel and Dave and Tony and Mr. Brown..
Shoot a few V-bulls up and down the ranges 
where the wind never changes 
while you're in the aim!


To my family I lost in the recent past...
Oom Roelf, Oom Clem, swaers Ettiene en Chris. 
Ek sal julle mis. 
Maar solank as daar geheue is, 
sal ek onthou wat ons saam kon doen.
Die lief en leed, 
die swoeg en sweet, 
die saam jag, 
die saam lag, 
die saam eet.


En vir die wat steeds by my is: 
Baie baie dankie!!
Ek benodig al jul hulp. 
In die gespartel van dag tot dag oorleef, 
gee julle my die krag 
vir nog 'n dag 
van voorwaarts!!.. 
vergeet en vergeef!


En vir dìe wat verkies om nìe
meer vriende te wees nie..
laat dit goed gaan met julle ook.
Laat die pad vir julle gelyk wees,
maar nie te veel ge-yk wees,
want te min variasie
blyk meestal net vir die eentonige
en eenvoudige nasie 
genoegsaam te wees!

Zen and the art of thinking in singular

Sometimes I wonder when I look in your eyes,
if maybe you're thinking,
of doing some guy...

But mostly I'm thinking,
you're thinking:
"When  will he vanish or die?"
Or maybe,
you're not thinking.
Or maybe you're  thinking...
of nothing at all...
Maybe it's just me, that's doing it all..
All the thinking...
You, doing nothing at all.
Just being yourself,
doing your own thing,
never bothering to think of me at all!

Such a waste of good thoughts, I thought..
Or is it: Such wasteful  thoughts?
Or maybe it is bad thoughts....
Lesser thoughts,
Naughty thoughts..
Worthless thoughts!
Thoughts nonetheless.
Better than no thoughts at all...
Thoughtlessness!

I was thinking:
"What a waste of a thinking brain!"

But thinking alone
Is like drinking alone...

There's no fun in it,
'cause there's no one else in it
None to share in it
No one to cry for it
Nobody to laugh about it
None to be aware of it

None to praise me
No one to correct me
Nobody to contradict me...

What a sad thought, I thought.

Chemical analysis of the curious case of the Polish princess of physics

Marie you were born to be great.
Genetically favoured by the dice of DNA.
But not per chance,
For your pedigree provides the proof
Of your superior bloodline and intellect
That sealed your fate.


Your first love was not to be
Too poor were you for his family
So you turned your back on Poland,
But not to the cause.
For even at the Sorbonne
You thought of your home in Warsaw


You buried your sorrow in studies
In the cause of your work you found
The one that were to fill your soul
The one whose name you would take
For Pierre the Curious gave his name to you
He gave his brain to you
He gave his life to you
As you gave your love to him
As you gave your insight to him
And all of your time
And all of your knowledge
And all of your thoughts


You were the brain,
You were the force
You were the one
Who defined the search
Who made the discovery
Who had to share the fame
For you were the first
The trailblazer
The woman who broke the ice
The one who ignored the mould


The one who still blazes the trail
Nobel one for physics
Nobel two for chemistry
And yet still not finished
The line through mitochondrial DNA
Your daughter in your footsteps
Nobel prize as well
With HER husband like you.
And still not the end
Granddaughter the first
To get the status the powers that be
Denied you Marie,
Just because
You're a woman, Marie.
Your name lives on
Marie Curie
Your work lives on
Marie Curie
Your spirit lives on
Maria Salomea Sklodowska Curie