Ola! Anyone interested, Peter Sutherland does an exquisite vocal and musical rendition of part of Longfellow's "Psalm Of Life"

"Love Is Not All"/
They ask what they know. For, if I'm, but,
the shadow of a man, then, my life proceeds
me, no? As their psychic abomination
breathes my life, again they refrain, "she rides
on your back", I Beren be, on paths untold,
On Elbereth, of old. They mock, and harking
boast, as they've already drunk many a toast
to what is man's, woman's death, entombed,
crested by their seal, their ghostly host.

False-ego, the answer to their opening joke,
their precious just a parlance for,
what you grasp possesses you. "Though,
if there's no possession, how could this be
true?" The body, phenomena too, of
elements and to elements goes. Like attracts
like, the earth beckons, as well, to her womb.
Yet, as Longfellow's "Psalm of Life", retorts,
"dust thou art, to dust returnest, wasn't
spoken of the soul." Nor, of spirit, the whole.

Grimace, they fear undermining life's fabric,
the evolution, will be more arduous than
undoing a thread. I liken their mask to Eric
Fromm's admonition, "people tend to escape
from freedom to familiar forms of authority."
What of the fullest reach of life, being
ourselves to be? There, they fade, "From
Whence, To Wither", they go, shadows.

For, now Socrates defames them with, "the
unexamined life's not worth living". Defying
the tacit assumptions of their convolution,
like, winner, loser, predator, prey, sides,
the most fit instead of those that fit most
to reality. Why, you ask, do they substitute
slogans for being? 'Cause, "the introspective
life takes more courage than soldiering." Still
ossifying, the corporate machine continues to
shape the world in its own adolescent,
oligarchic image, as it has God.

Here, hear, off in the distance, Cornel West's
"Socratic, prophetic, brought together blues."
For, it's old news that "we've hardly any
rights, and liberties left. Just sounding brass,
tinkling cymbals." Reigning on humanities'
parade. You see, we've not exercised our
responsibility, so, its Siamese sister, freedom,
has withered as well. As Emily Dickinson's
poem's refrain refrains, "Not In Vain", now,
will we be this day, what it is to be this day?

silent siren/
As embryo brought to not know,
With ancient forests gone,
Obsolescence of rights,
Liberty's torch scorched, bell cracked,
Knell snatched, how could she go on.

Yet, borne in arms drawn
From beyond man's loss,
Though, bearing that cross,
We, midwived through the body of blue, go!

For, we hear the call resounding from earth,
As the sun illumines and springs burst,
Gaia's silence implores, humanity
Be not my stillbirth!

Copy, share as you will. Enjoy a vernal eve' as you can.

james m nordlund reality (aja)

Moderator, please remove this topic, it is an accidental duplicate. Thanx