MY PRIVATE ISLAND & OTHER POEMS…

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By Tom H. Brooks 3

 

Walking on a highway of diamonds into a fiery red sunset…

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A RIVER OF WORDS FLOWING FROM MY MIND INTO YOURS»»»»»>

IT`S STREET JOURNAL 78!!!

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“Not until you have killed the last fish, and cut down the last tree, and poisoned the last river,

will you discover that you cannot eat money…”

Chief Seattle

1780 to 1866

Chief of the Suquamish Indians in the Pacific Northwest of the U.S.

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TOKYO HAIKU

EMPTY MORNING STREETS

THE CITY IS STILL SLEEPING

THE DAY IS ALL MINE

THB3

4/14/14

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“I`m going out of this world the same way I came in –

naked, screaming, and covered in blood.”

Louis

Bartender at Freeman`s, New York City, Lower East Side

2005

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It seems that my purpose in life is to be some kind

of unofficial record-keeper of forgotten histories…

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MY PRIVATE ISLAND

I sit bathed in warm sunlight

as it wavers gently through the trees

A cool green mystical island

on a glassy jade lake

filled with giant koi fish

in the middle of the city

The world moves past me

around me

but it does not touch me

I am alone with my thoughts

I am at peace with this mad world

I can feel the ghosts here,

the lost spirits of a

distant and forgotten past

They float through the trees

with the enigmatic squawks

of the crows and the singing sparrows

The wind song of the leaves

flows throughout my mind

and takes me away to a higher place

where I want to dwell

There are no worldly problems here

I have left one form of existence behind

and traded it in for another

My soul drifts up into the clouds

and touches the endless azure sky

I see myself down there

in the crazy world and I

cannot stop laughing about

how beautiful and stupid it all is

Hours pass in this deep spiritual trance

Night falls

I sink back to earth

and I am one with the darkness…

THB3

4/15/14

Tokyo, Japan

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I AM HERE TO CREATE ALTERNATIVE WORLDS

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Not that anyone but me could possibly care about this, but apparently,

koi fish, with their big Mick Jagger lips, really like potato chips…

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“The task of art is to transform what is continuously happening to us, to transform all these things into symbols, into music, into something which can last in man’s memory. That is our duty. If we don’t fulfill it, we feel unhappy. A writer or any artist has the sometimes joyful duty to transform all that into symbols. These symbols could be colors, forms or sounds. For a poet, the symbols are sounds and also words, fables, stories, poetry. The work of a poet never ends. It has nothing to do with working hours. Your are continuously receiving things from the external world. These must be transformed, and eventually will be transformed. This revelation can appear anytime. A poet never rests. He’s always working, even when he dreams. Besides, the life of a writer, is a lonely one. You think you are alone, and as the years go by, if the stars are on your side, you may discover that you are at the center of a vast circle of invisible friends whom you will never get to know but who love you. And that is an immense reward.”

Jorge Luis Borges

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LOOK AT ME

 

Everyone is crying out for attention

Everybody is screaming to be heard

People want to be understood,

to communicate,

to explain their feelings about the world

We all seem to want to share our vision

As much as it can be said that we are all one,

we are also, in turn,

each and every one of us,

alone

in our seeking

We strive to be a part of something,

to feel a connection with humanity

as a sort of vast family

Sometimes

words are not enough

Art

Photography;

they cannot stand alone

You have to put yourself out there,

your heart and soul,

to try with all your power

to be honest and true,

to become one with the Universal Spirit

Like the old song says,

People Are Strange,

You

Me

Everybody

Everywhere

But there are times when

words are enough,

as these words are right now…

THB3

4/18/14

Tokyo, Japan

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ROOM AT THE EDGE OF THE WORLD

A shadowy room

in the soft, still glow

of an opaque light

A window lies open

covered by dirty curtains

fluttering in a light wind

A fly buzzes about the room

aimlessly

seeking an exit

An empty wooden chair

sits by the window

serving no purpose

Motes of dust swirl about

in a knife-beam of sunlight

stabbing through the curtains

A spider crawls across

an old wooden table

in the center of the room

There is an empty bottle of whiskey

on the table next to a full ashtray

and a notebook filled with words

Distant sounds of traffic

the cry of a bird

a siren, a door slams

All is still here in this quiet room

a sense of anticipation

a world waiting for something to happen…

THB3

4/19/14

Tokyo, Japan

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