Spirit Light

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by Robin Stiles

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I remember thinking on several occasions

I’d never be able to see enough stars

But I see that star filled sky in your eyes,

all around us, until we are each

a pulsating star in the heavens

In a single instant, you are everything,

from darkness to light

~

You continually align into new patterns for me

You are fluid like a waterfall,

yet strong as the Earth herself

and tempered with a gentleness of spirit

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You awaken my desire to ride the spirit winds

Your voice calls to me on the dream paths

where I wait for you to join me

~

from her book of poems

Skipping Stones Through The Cosmos

1997

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http://www.fishpond.co.nz/Books/Skipping-Stones-through-Cosmos-Robin-Stiles/9780965475310

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Halo

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by Rawclyde!

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You & I

Two daffodils in a flower pot

Watching TV

The image is blurry

Mightily

I stomp my foot

Now the image is clear & percise

Triumphantly

I & the TV glare back at you

In your faded flower-print nightie

In your comfortable chair

Your hair growing long & elegantly cornball

You won’t look at me

Okay, you sneak a glance

Suddenly

I see a halo around your head

I see I see

You are a saint!

~

photo by

Agnieszka Osipa

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Uncivilized Ecstasies

a book of poems

by Happy Oasis

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your kisses tender as moss

cascade

then gather as pools

in forgotten recessed caverns

of my heart

let’s build our home

in solitude together

a home with walls of freedom

and freely-shimmering trees

gables of sky

gentlekindness the foundation

beneath pastel breaths

and flutelike gazes

let’s dream from the depths

of darkness darling

let’s dream new dawns

how beautiful can they be?

~

http://www.happyoasis.com/uncivilized-ecstasies

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What A Gal!

Clyde (left) and Susan and (right) Chuck

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First love

Way back in the fifth grade

A vivid classroom memory prevails

Chuck & I watching you

Pick your nose & roll your boogers into little balls

Then tossing them into the hair of Greg P

As he slept with his head on his desk

What a gal

!

from

The Autobiographical Fantasies & Transformations Of

Rawclyde

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photo from Annie Get Your Gun (1950)

!

Sufi Shores

Featured

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Sometimes

Things are beyond planning

And life doesn’t always turn out as planned

You don’t plan for a broken heart

You plan to be young forever

You plan to conquer the universe

You plan to fall in love

And be loved forever

~

You don’t plan to be sad

You don’t plan to be hurt

You don’t plan to be broke

You don’t plan to be betrayed

You don’t plan to be alone in this world

You plan to be happy

You don’t plan to be shattered

~

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Sometimes if you work hard enough

You can get what you want

But most times

What you want & what you get

Are two different things

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We mortals plan

But so does Allah in the heavens

Sometimes it is difficult to understand Allah’s plans

Especially when His plans are not in consonance with ours

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Often

When he sends us crisis

We turn to Him in anger

True

We cannot choose what Allah wishes us to carry

But we can carry it with courage

Knowing that He will never abandon us

Nor send us something we cannot cope with

~

~

Sometimes Allah breaks our spirit to save our soul

Sometimes He breaks our heart to make us whole

Sometimes He allows pain so we can be stronger

Sometimes Allah sends us failure so we can be humble

Sometimes He allows illness

So we can take better care of ourselves

And sometimes

Allah takes everything away from us

So we can learn the value of everything he gave us

~

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Make plans

But understand that we live

By Allah’s grace

~

Sufi Girl

https://yabakientelbaki.wordpress.com

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editor

Rawclyde!

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The surfer girl photographed here is Claire “Bevo” Bevilacqua, a pro from Perth, Australia.  She has won many competitions…

Semra Polat, who I identified here as Sufi Girl, humbly & graciously accepted my reblogging of her poem & I’m very grateful…

Peace!

~

Note II From The Editor

Dear Reader ~

Movies starring Errol Flynn enthralled me when I was a child sitting at the feet of my father.  We were always watching Errol Flynn movies on TV.  One of these action-packed dramas was Charge Of The Light Brigade, made in 1936.  I was 5-years-old in 1955, which was about when I became captivated by this movie.

Later, maybe when 9-years-old, I was digging thru the Junior Classics set of books on the bottom shelf in my older sister’s room when I found Alfred Lord Tennyson’s poem, The Charge Of The Light Brigade.  It enthralled me.  I remember memorizing the whole thing when I was sick at home from school.  Voluntary memorization ~ it’s not every poem that inspires a boy thusly.

When a beginner journalist in high school, I came across in a bookstore a collection of old news stories, one of which covered the actual, you guessed it, that awesome Charge Of The Light Brigade.  I bought the book & read in it an eye-witness account of what turned out to be a ribald episode in the Crimean War.  I studied the episode even further years later when I found a whole book written about that particular military blunder & how it was so foolish.  In fact, as I recall, the whole Crimean War was pretty foolish according to various resources I’ve read along the way.

So am I going to make a comment here on war?  The American invasion of Iraq maybe?  Bullying, colonialism, sharia law?  Fighting for national independence, democracy, freedom?  No, not at all.  All I want to do is say a little something about three of my most favorite poems ~ The Charge Of You Know What, The Ballad Of The Northern Lights, and The Flyin’ Outlaw ~ all of which you can find right below this note.  Just scroll on down.  But, before you do, please realize, each one of these 3 awesome poems is about pure unadulterated foolishness.

There ~ I said what had to be said.  And I’m not saying anything more about it.  Amen.

Rawclyde!

Charge of the Light Brigade

Half a league, half a league,
Half a league onward,
All in the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.

“Forward, the Light Brigade!
Charge for the guns!” he said.
Into the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.
~

“Forward, the Light Brigade!”
Was there a man dismayed?
Not though the soldier knew
Someone had blundered.
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Theirs not to make reply,
Theirs not to reason why,
Theirs but to do and die.
Into the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.
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Cannon to right of them,
Cannon to left of them,
Cannon in front of them
Volleyed and thundered;
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Stormed at with shot and shell,
Boldly they rode and well,
Into the jaws of Death,
Into the mouth of hell
Rode the six hundred.
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Flashed all their sabres bare,
Flashed as they turned in air
Sabring the gunners there,
Charging an army, while
All the world wondered.
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Plunged in the battery-smoke
Right through the line they broke;
Cossack and Russian
Reeled from the sabre stroke
Shattered and sundered.
~

Then they rode back, but not
Not the six hundred.
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Cannon to right of them,
Cannon to left of them,
Cannon behind them
Volleyed and thundered;
~

Stormed at with shot and shell,
While horse and hero fell.
They that had fought so well
Came through the jaws of Death,
Back from the mouth of hell,
~

All that was left of them,
Left of six hundred.
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When can their glory fade?
O the wild charge they made!
All the world wondered.
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Honour the charge they made!
Honour the Light Brigade,
Noble six hundred!

~

Alfred Lord Tennyson

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Ballad of The Northern Lights

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by Robert W. Service

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One of the Down and Out–that’s me. Stare at me well, ay, stare!
Stare and shrink–say! you wouldn’t think that I was a millionaire.
Look at my face, it’s crimped and gouged–one of them death-mask things;
Don’t seem the sort of man, do I, as might be the pal of kings?
Slouching along in smelly rags, a bleary-eyed, no-good bum;
A knight of the hollow needle, pard, spewed from the sodden slum.
Look me all over from head to foot; how much would you think I was worth?
A dollar? a dime? a nickel? Why, I’M THE WEALTHIEST MAN ON EARTH.

No, don’t you think that I’m off my base. You’ll sing a different tune
If only you’ll let me spin my yarn. Come over to this saloon;
Wet my throat–it’s as dry as chalk, and seeing as how it’s you,
I’ll tell the tale of a Northern trail, and so help me God, it’s true.
I’ll tell of the howling wilderness and the haggard Arctic heights,
Of a reckless vow that I made, and how I STAKED THE NORTHERN LIGHTS.

Remember the year of the Big Stampede and the trail of Ninety-eight,
When the eyes of the world were turned to the North, and the hearts of men elate;
Hearts of the old dare-devil breed thrilled at the wondrous strike,
And to every man who could hold a pan came the message, “Up and hike”.
Well, I was there with the best of them, and I knew I would not fail.
You wouldn’t believe it to see me now; but wait till you’ve heard my tale.

You’ve read of the trail of Ninety-eight, but its woe no man may tell;
It was all of a piece and a whole yard wide, and the name of the brand was “Hell”.
We heard the call and we staked our all; we were plungers playing blind,
And no man cared how his neighbor fared, and no man looked behind;
For a ruthless greed was born of need, and the weakling went to the wall,
And a curse might avail where a prayer would fail, and the gold lust crazed us all.

Bold were we, and they called us three the “Unholy Trinity”;
There was Ole Olson, the sailor Swede, and the Dago Kid and me.
We were the discards of the pack, the foreloopers of Unrest,
Reckless spirits of fierce revolt in the ferment of the West.
We were bound to win and we revelled in the hardships of the way.
We staked our ground and our hopes were crowned, and we hoisted out the pay.
We were rich in a day beyond our dreams, it was gold from the grass-roots down;
But we weren’t used to such sudden wealth, and there was the siren town.
We were crude and careless frontiersmen, with much in us of the beast;
We could bear the famine worthily, but we lost our heads at the feast.

The town looked mighty bright to us, with a bunch of dust to spend,
And nothing was half too good them days, and everyone was our friend.
Wining meant more than mining then, and life was a dizzy whirl,
Gambling and dropping chunks of gold down the neck of a dance-hall girl;
Till we went clean mad, it seems to me, and we squandered our last poke,
And we sold our claim, and we found ourselves one bitter morning–broke.

The Dago Kid he dreamed a dream of his mother’s aunt who died–
In the dawn-light dim she came to him, and she stood by his bedside,
And she said: “Go forth to the highest North till a lonely trail ye find;
Follow it far and trust your star, and fortune will be kind.”
But I jeered at him, and then there came the Sailor Swede to me,
And he said: “I dreamed of my sister’s son, who croaked at the age of three.
From the herded dead he sneaked and said: `Seek you an Arctic trail;
‘Tis pale and grim by the Polar rim, but seek and ye shall not fail.'”
And lo! that night I too did dream of my mother’s sister’s son,
And he said to me: “By the Arctic Sea there’s a treasure to be won.
Follow and follow a lone moose trail, till you come to a valley grim,
On the slope of the lonely watershed that borders the Polar brim.”
Then I woke my pals, and soft we swore by the mystic Silver Flail,
‘Twas the hand of Fate, and to-morrow straight we would seek the lone moose trail.

We watched the groaning ice wrench free, crash on with a hollow din;
Men of the wilderness were we, freed from the taint of sin.
The mighty river snatched us up and it bore us swift along;
The days were bright, and the morning light was sweet with jewelled song.
We poled and lined up nameless streams, portaged o’er hill and plain;
We burnt our boat to save the nails, and built our boat again;
We guessed and groped, North, ever North, with many a twist and turn;
We saw ablaze in the deathless days the splendid sunsets burn.
O’er soundless lakes where the grayling makes a rush at the clumsy fly;
By bluffs so steep that the hard-hit sheep falls sheer from out the sky;
By lilied pools where the bull moose cools and wallows in huge content;
By rocky lairs where the pig-eyed bears peered at our tiny tent.
Through the black canyon’s angry foam we hurled to dreamy bars,
And round in a ring the dog-nosed peaks bayed to the mocking stars.
Spring and summer and autumn went; the sky had a tallow gleam,
Yet North and ever North we pressed to the land of our Golden Dream.

So we came at last to a tundra vast and dark and grim and lone;
And there was the little lone moose trail, and we knew it for our own.
By muskeg hollow and nigger-head it wandered endlessly;
Sorry of heart and sore of foot, weary men were we.
The short-lived sun had a leaden glare and the darkness came too soon,
And stationed there with a solemn stare was the pinched, anaemic moon.
Silence and silvern solitude till it made you dumbly shrink,
And you thought to hear with an outward ear the things you thought to think.

Oh, it was wild and weird and wan, and ever in camp o’ nights
We would watch and watch the silver dance of the mystic Northern Lights.
And soft they danced from the Polar sky and swept in primrose haze;
And swift they pranced with their silver feet, and pierced with a blinding blaze.
They danced a cotillion in the sky; they were rose and silver shod;
It was not good for the eyes of man–’twas a sight for the eyes of God.
It made us mad and strange and sad, and the gold whereof we dreamed
Was all forgot, and our only thought was of the lights that gleamed.

Oh, the tundra sponge it was golden brown, and some was a bright blood-red;
And the reindeer moss gleamed here and there like the tombstones of the dead.
And in and out and around about the little trail ran clear,
And we hated it with a deadly hate and we feared with a deadly fear.
And the skies of night were alive with light, with a throbbing, thrilling flame;
Amber and rose and violet, opal and gold it came.
It swept the sky like a giant scythe, it quivered back to a wedge;
Argently bright, it cleft the night with a wavy golden edge.
Pennants of silver waved and streamed, lazy banners unfurled;
Sudden splendors of sabres gleamed, lightning javelins were hurled.
There in our awe we crouched and saw with our wild, uplifted eyes
Charge and retire the hosts of fire in the battlefield of the skies.

But all things come to an end at last, and the muskeg melted away,
And frowning down to bar our path a muddle of mountains lay.
And a gorge sheered up in granite walls, and the moose trail crept betwixt;
‘Twas as if the earth had gaped too far and her stony jaws were fixt.
Then the winter fell with a sudden swoop, and the heavy clouds sagged low,
And earth and sky were blotted out in a whirl of driving snow.

We were climbing up a glacier in the neck of a mountain pass,
When the Dago Kid slipped down and fell into a deep crevasse.
When we got him out one leg hung limp, and his brow was wreathed with pain,
And he says: “‘Tis badly broken, boys, and I’ll never walk again.
It’s death for all if ye linger here, and that’s no cursed lie;
Go on, go on while the trail is good, and leave me down to die.”
He raved and swore, but we tended him with our uncouth, clumsy care.
The camp-fire gleamed and he gazed and dreamed with a fixed and curious stare.
Then all at once he grabbed my gun and he put it to his head,
And he says: “I’ll fix it for you, boys”–them are the words he said.

So we sewed him up in a canvas sack and we slung him to a tree;
And the stars like needles stabbed our eyes, and woeful men were we.
And on we went on our woeful way, wrapped in a daze of dream,
And the Northern Lights in the crystal nights came forth with a mystic gleam.
They danced and they danced the devil-dance over the naked snow;
And soft they rolled like a tide upshoaled with a ceaseless ebb and flow.
They rippled green with a wondrous sheen, they fluttered out like a fan;
They spread with a blaze of rose-pink rays never yet seen of man.
They writhed like a brood of angry snakes, hissing and sulphur pale;
Then swift they changed to a dragon vast, lashing a cloven tail.
It seemed to us, as we gazed aloft with an everlasting stare,
The sky was a pit of bale and dread, and a monster revelled there.

We climbed the rise of a hog-back range that was desolate and drear,
When the Sailor Swede had a crazy fit, and he got to talking queer.
He talked of his home in Oregon and the peach trees all in bloom,
And the fern head-high, and the topaz sky, and the forest’s scented gloom.
He talked of the sins of his misspent life, and then he seemed to brood,
And I watched him there like a fox a hare, for I knew it was not good.
And sure enough in the dim dawn-light I missed him from the tent,
And a fresh trail broke through the crusted snow, and I knew not where it went.
But I followed it o’er the seamless waste, and I found him at shut of day,
Naked there as a new-born babe–so I left him where he lay.

Day after day was sinister, and I fought fierce-eyed despair,
And I clung to life, and I struggled on, I knew not why nor where.
I packed my grub in short relays, and I cowered down in my tent,
And the world around was purged of sound like a frozen continent.
Day after day was dark as death, but ever and ever at nights,
With a brilliancy that grew and grew, blazed up the Northern Lights.

They rolled around with a soundless sound like softly bruised silk;
They poured into the bowl of the sky with the gentle flow of milk.
In eager, pulsing violet their wheeling chariots came,
Or they poised above the Polar rim like a coronal of flame.
From depths of darkness fathomless their lancing rays were hurled,
Like the all-combining search-lights of the navies of the world.
There on the roof-pole of the world as one bewitched I gazed,
And howled and grovelled like a beast as the awful splendors blazed.
My eyes were seared, yet thralled I peered through the parka hood nigh blind;
But I staggered on to the lights that shone, and never I looked behind.

There is a mountain round and low that lies by the Polar rim,
And I climbed its height in a whirl of light, and I peered o’er its jagged brim;
And there in a crater deep and vast, ungained, unguessed of men,
The mystery of the Arctic world was flashed into my ken.
For there these poor dim eyes of mine beheld the sight of sights–
That hollow ring was the source and spring of the mystic Northern Lights.

Then I staked that place from crown to base, and I hit the homeward trail.
Ah, God! it was good, though my eyes were blurred, and I crawled like a sickly snail.
In that vast white world where the silent sky communes with the silent snow,
In hunger and cold and misery I wandered to and fro.
But the Lord took pity on my pain, and He led me to the sea,
And some ice-bound whalers heard my moan, and they fed and sheltered me.
They fed the feeble scarecrow thing that stumbled out of the wild
With the ravaged face of a mask of death and the wandering wits of a child–
A craven, cowering bag of bones that once had been a man.
They tended me and they brought me back to the world, and here I am.

Some say that the Northern Lights are the glare of the Arctic ice and snow;
And some that it’s electricity, and nobody seems to know.
But I’ll tell you now–and if I lie, may my lips be stricken dumb–
It’s a MINE, a mine of the precious stuff that men call radium.
I’ts a million dollars a pound, they say, and there’s tons and tons in sight.
You can see it gleam in a golden stream in the solitudes of night.
And it’s mine, all mine–and say! if you have a hundred plunks to spare,
I’ll let you have the chance of your life, I’ll sell you a quarter share.
You turn it down? Well, I’ll make it ten, seeing as you are my friend.
Nothing doing? Say! don’t be hard–have you got a dollar to lend?
Just a dollar to help me out, I know you’ll treat me white;
I’ll do as much for you some day . . . God bless you, sir; good-night.

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art way up at the top of this post

black & white of Xullrae by Yerin Yoo

alias Slugette / DeviantArt.com

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