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Un profeta nel deserto
mi sto sediendo e mangiando il mio pane quotidiano
mentre le locuste consumano il mondo.
Il sole splende alla mia finestra
come brillerà quando siamo andati,
quando finestre essiste non di più.
È una vita semplice qui in campagna,

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Seduto sotto il noce
Guardo la luna piena che sale
Il sole è tramontato, gli uccelli si sistemano,
la notte è in arrivo.
Una grande pace avvolge.
Sotto l'albero i narcisi brillano
in mezzo a un tappeto di fiori primaverili selvaggi.
Sorseggio il mio tè e ri

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So what, now, is the colour of your soul
Does it change? Will it flaunt a gaudy frock?
Is it young, yet with a lining old as gold?
Does it rhyme like the ticking of a clock?

Do you ever wear a rainbow as a shirt
when you really should have kept things mo

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Here is a poem I had published a while ago...


A longing calls me westward along the pilgrim trail;
a pilgrim hood I’ll have and a staff and donkey friend,
a metal cup to scoop spring water for sweet ale
and strong boots for walking to the

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Memories and faith

The memories like a swirling cloud of a distant life that knew no bound. A soul that hurt and knew the fear of loneliness and uncertain frown. Like echoes from a distant room they come to haunt and I feel them Strewn about my mind like swirling cloud

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The rain was heavy last night,
by noon once again all fine and clear,
on the horizon tiny clouds gathering
with attitude.

Were everything in one’s world pure
so would be one’s heart.
In that case, however,
No objection to stormy weather.

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The white crow

There he is walking from the land of golden sands

Where the sun never sets and the moon never rises.

Walking the cracked grounds of the desert Sahara

To cross the sea and come to you,


The messenger of faith is here

See his glory and bow to his honor

For h

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The blue star

You eye in the sky seer of the all

Judge of the blind, all knowing and all encompassing.

Sirius star of wisdom, bringer of balance guide of humanity

Tell me the answer I seek, let me know which way to go.

On my knees I am begging for your words.


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There is no cause for happiness,
only misery wants reason,
yet happiness has prompts innumerable
while misery is mute;
yet when we know the cause of our distress
it has its limit with its season,
only enduring malady is unable
to give account that is not mo

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Faith is fearless, faith sings gaily,
she touches me tenderly when I’m sad.
Faith sits quietly in the sun
remembering all the fun we’ve had.
Faith inspires as a rising fire
then lies in wait as yesterday’s ashes;
she comes in the wind, in the h

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Seventy circuits round the sun,

although it seems she circuits me,

each day with nothing still to lack, 

her face arises... I bow low.

From this illusion springs our woe,

so natural the illusion is

to think one does not budge one jot

as all revolve

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the blinding silver eastern sun,
dawn metal in the frost,
pull back the curtain, day has begun,
the tattered dreams of night are lost

the empty day begins to fill,
the frost to fade in hours ahead,
the cat upon the window sill,
the old man tur

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Well, I’ll be dying soon but you don’t need to cry,
I will soon be passing and we all know why,
We all know we all know we all have to die,
But that’s not a reason and that’s why we cry.

The body is a-failing and the ailing’s long,
The n

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Poems about personal growth

Peace is Here


The wasteland of my soul

Is littered with bodies dead and dying

The wounded hoist a tattered pole

On which the flag of freedom flying

Dares to claim a victory won

Among the spoils of battles lost

The rising of a better sun

Though shad

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The world is perfectly round
though dented here and there.
Each August it picks up shooting stars
appearing from who knows where
My mind was never so perfectly round
triangular nor square
nor have I recently ever been
a whale, giraffe or koala bear.

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Waka is the classical poetic form of Japan. Each poem is in the syllabic form 5-7-5-7-7. This is the form that was used by the famous Japanese poet Saigyo. He usually wrote a short prose introduction to explain the setting of the poem.

Here is a poem

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I’d like to write a poem
but the muse has deserted
without asking my permission.
It seems rather careless to wander off like that
leaving blank pages
gaps between words
muddled concepts and broken images
scattered around -
not even enough to make a

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Poem by Diane Cadman

This is a poem I write about my stay at La Ville au Roi,



First night in the sheep house

candle blown out,

I lie awake listening

to the walls

making no sound.


Animal antecedents are

embedded in this stone.

I feel them brea

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