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There are more than 200 results, only the first 200 are displayed here.
You, too, despite the false witness of the mirror in your mind, are part, a very small part, of a very old music ... Poetry writes the only prayers you feel free to offer these days. It is the glint in the eye of the god you stopped believing, when she started causing you all this pain.
The tragic deaths of five Australian soldiers last week in Afghanistan highlights yet again the ongoing cross-cultural and interreligious violence that is very much a mark of our times. Usually we look for solutions to conflict through talking and negotiations. However interfaith minister Helen Summers does it through promotion of cultural activities.
Children need to walk together, arm in arm with strangers, wear badges of hope and T-shirts with lifelines, sing words of wisdom and history, chant choric responses of camaraderie in a mass movement of human voices. Understand the justice of causes and the constant need for change.
Somewhere else car bombs split-screen the news. Somewhere else couples harangue vows and baggaged fears. Somewhere else children mimic fashion of what works what conceals. Here ... Silence infuses skin and thought ... Much like that pause before a newborn's first surprise of light.
Dark shadow, I don't love you anymore. (You're deadly, the sea of Ezekiel; the flame forever roiling the bush ...) I don't think I ever did.
Death is different at night ... A cool light we gently call dawn enters the tree tops and so enters me. I am entering the next world ... Can it be in some secret way I am dead?
Our species believes it progresses without limitation. We shout when a swimmer wins silver, 'That's no inspiration'. As humans pound forward, no 'burden of care' limitation ... We deserve only winners, our species the sole inspiration.
At times the music holds him still, and a jonquil light beams through two pinholes in his brain, singing of a caged soul.
Blessed are those with empty chests, soles ripped from their shoes, fed to dogs. But most blessed are those who stole the hound scraps, nailed them to their feet and kept on marching.
Sophie, a Malagay slave in Mauritius, torched a barn housing a collection of leather straps — the flames soaring like the sounds of the black horses inside — and was packed off in a ship-sized crate to New South Wales.
I want you to list the epiphanies in your lives, says the lecturer. We'll build poems around them... I ponder, but cannot manage to think of one. Does he really believe people have several? My extra years are like binoculars peered through from the wrong end, shrinking past significance to present inconsequence.
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