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Was actually slightly grey
Darker around the edges
A definite tinge
A flirtatious curve at the bottom
As if daring you to imagine something
Transform it into a different existence
It’s texture was surprising
Smooth and soft like the very top
Of a snowy slope
But hung indoors
It reflected onto the black linoleum floor that was speckled
With unpredictable dashes of white
When you looked down
You imagined
You were floating in a
Modern art galaxy very far away
From everything and everyone
You know
When you looked up you realized
It wasn’t a blank canvas at all.
*******
In May, I went to a doctor's appointment that was very difficult for me. Most of the time, I try to forget about my biology but my heart will often skip beats and I keep spending more money to get no answers, making me wonder if it's just in my head.
I have been living in Chicago for over 20 years but I had never come across The Arts Club of Chicago even though it is located very central downtown near a couple of doctor's offices. It was a dreary day and I spent some time wandering around and happened upon this gallery featuring the exhibit by Huguette Caland: Bribes de corps. It's amazing how art finds you when you least expect it. I found myself staring at canvases and writing poems to calm my nervous system.
This exhibit is ending very soon but I revisited this weekend. The bottom section is the actual canvas. The top portion is a multiple exposure of the canvas and a photograph of a woman passing by from the window opposite of the painting.
en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Huguette_Caland
**All photos are copyrighted**
The cure of time
taken with early stops from the November dew to the uproar when spring awakens.
It pauses in the embrace, exhausted, waving on the shores until the full moon of August sinks into the sea.
Then the decayed arrives, and the earth once trodden by bare feet is renewed...and even the most melancholic recites a poem to the love that departed on the last summer night.
How many will remain to come, walking with different skins and forgotten footprints from childhood.
Will this cure have a sweetness on still-juicy lips or will it bring forth some furrow, shy and salty, in that same mouth.
It is a heartbeat in the chest
a creation without absence
the train of life.
Møøn.
A WOMAN.
She is like that.
Of those.
It's like the times that the verse jumps from its abysses. It is thrown.
Scream, dance, jump, cry.
It's one of those.
It's like sensitivity spontaneous poetry, like that blank paper who is silent, but it knows you and keeps you. He barely reproaches, It can barely be heard.
By Gata Cattana.
We have lost even this twilight.
No one saw us this evening hand in hand
while the blue night dropped on the world.
I have seen from my window
the fiesta of sunset in the distant mountain tops.
Sometimes a piece of sun
burned like a coin in my hand.
I remembered you with my soul clenched
in that sadness of mine that you know.
Where were you then?
Who else was there?
Saying what?
Why will the whole of love come on me suddenly
when I am sad and feel you are far away?
The book fell that always closed at twilight
and my blue sweater rolled like a hurt dog at my feet.
Always, always you recede through the evenings
toward the twilight erasing statues.
Pablo Neruda
Panjin - www.flickr.com/groups/panjin/, Overland Hills (248, 47, 21) - Moderado
Du haut de ma colline ,
J'attends le Printemps...
Dans l'hiver qui décline ,
J’attends le beau temps...
J'ai la tête qui jardine,
Et mon cœur imagine
Des fleurs rouges sanguines,
Des anémones sauvagines.
Des glycines qui dégoulinent
Sur le vieux mur en ruine.
Et mon âme baladine,
Se griffe aux dures épines
De mes roses qui illuminent
Le brun vert de mes rétines .
Et ces crocus en crinolines.
Et ces tulipes rouges aubergines.
Et ces dizaines de capucines ...
Et le muguet qui prend racine ...
Et dans les branches fines
De doux chants me fascinent,
Aussi suaves qu'une mandoline...
Mais..... OUI....j'hallucine !!!!
30 degrés dans ma piscine ??
Cette fois , il me faut une médecine !
Pour calmer mon cerveau qui turbine !
Faut -il peut -être qu'on me vaccine ?
Qu'on m'isole, qu'on me confine ?
NON...je vais être plus maline...
J'ai une autre combine...
Viens Lily....on se débine...
On va prendre une bouffée de vitamines.
On va respirer les aubépines,
Regarder les juments qui poulinent,
Et les vaches qui ruminent.
On va mettre nos plus belles bottines.
Oublier les usines, la benzine et les voisines.
Effacer les Méssalines ,
Et tout ce qui nous chagrine.
Marchons sur ce sentier qui chemine
Au milieu des étamines.
Et au retour...on mangera
Des tartines et de la mousseline !!!
ET....
On plongera dans la piscine !!! 😉
Joélisa
m.youtube.com/watch?v=8_VN0eVvDak&list=RDMM8_VN0eVvDa...
Trabajado por el agua en las orillas, lavado, pulio por
los vientos que lo llevarían y traerían por las estepas del
lenguaje arrastrando polvo, el poema viviría en la plenitud
de la libertad de no deberle nada a quien lo toma y lo arroja
lejos de sí o lo conserva, como un rugoso tesoro de la mano.
By Rafael Castillo Zapata.
THE DEBT
Worked by the water on the banks, washed, polished by
the winds that would carry it back and forth across the steppes of
language, dragging dust along, the poem would live in the fullness
of the freedom of owing nothing to whoever takes it and throws it
away or keeps it, like a rough treasure in one's hand.
each man finally trapped and broken
each grave ready
each hawk killed
and love and luck too
the poems have ended
the throat is dry
I suppose there's no funeral for this
and no tears and no reason
pain's the master
pain is silent
the throats of my poems are dry.
by Charles Bukowski
183 times | Greg Haines
I carry the No that you gave me
in the palm of my hand,
like a lemon of wax
almost white.
Federico Garcia Lorca
trans. Greville Texidor
The Selected Poems of Federico Garcia Lorca
The job
There is nothing more lonely than writing a poem.
Although the outside screams are present there.
There is nothing more alone than to write a picture although the noise of the world wants to interfere. Nothing but loneliness in this language game.
There is no one lonelier and silent than a poet in the craft of writing the world, again, to imagine its beauty.
By Carmen Yañez.
Trees are poems that earth writes upon the sky. We fell them and turn them into newspapers that we may record our emptiness.
-Kahlil Gibran (1883-1931)
Suddenly the smell of mimosas
like a breathing torch
or like an immemorial wave
that kisses the expectant nudity of the beach.
It's just the door
that opens, but sets in motion
an air where it curdles
all the sweetness of this precarious autumn.
by Jorge Riechmann
::Bella's Lullaby:: www.flickr.com/groups/14818647@N22/, Forks (125, 128, 30) - Moderado
Has heat that cuts through the static sky
With its coffee stained clouds
Breathes an uneven dust
Will not back down even if you
Offer him a Stroopwafel
It’s a pity he’s wrecking the city
But he is honestly just a big angry kitty
Who holds grudges over hundreds of years
Senses our utterly human fears
No flood here
But flames and the Black Death may abound
Wherever Dutch monsters are found.
**The above photo was taken in Amsterdam and is a remnant of fliers left on a telephone pole, conveying secret messages and urban fairy tales that very few people pay attention to.**
**All photos and silly poems are copyrighted**
Finally , everything merges into one, and a river flows through it, the river that was carved out by the great universal flood and flows over the stones from the basement of time.
On some of those stones, timeless raindrops fall.
Beneath the stones are words, and some of those words are theirs.
I am enchanted by the waters.
Norman Maclean.
Finalmente, todo se funde en uno, y un río fluye a través de él, el río que fue tallado por el gran diluvio universal y fluye sobre las piedras desde el sótano del tiempo.
Sobre algunas de esas piedras, caen gotas de lluvia eternas.
Bajo las piedras hay palabras, y algunas de esas palabras son suyas. Estoy hechizado por las aguas.
No poem can save us but can say:
on sunday nights
I am a specialist in absence
I can dissect it analyze its parts
and see it multiply all over the house.
The seed in the wound of the earth blooms.
it is possible that the time take root in unusual places while you fix your hair to contemplate the plants in the garden life may be nothing more than that.
By Nadia Sol Caramella.
Ningún poema
puede salvarnos
pero puede decir:
los domingos por las noches
soy especialista en la ausencia
puedo diseccionarla
analizar sus partes
y verla multiplicarse
por toda la casa
***
la semilla
en la herida de la tierra
florece
***
es posible que el tiempo
eche raíces en lugares insólitos
mientras vos acomodás tu pelo
para contemplar las plantas del jardín
puede que la vida no sea más que eso
i know more than i think i know,
and i know less than i want to know . and it continues slowly.
i try to keep up
.
.
no big glittery icons or invitations , please !
Causa imperfecta, descolorido sin la luz que sale del cuadrante de esta casa... el silencio es el santo grial a guardar en lo más profundo del pecho.
Efecto perfecto, deslumbrado en el alféizar de la ventana por el tímido rayo, como una llama... los susurros son la partitura de una frase inacabada en los labios temblorosos.
Moon.
Cause imperfect, discolored without the light that leaves the quadrant of this house... silence is the holy grail to keep in the depths of the chest.
Perfect effect, dazzled on the windowsill by the timid ray, like a flame... the whispers are the score of an unfinished phrase on the trembling lips.
Moon.
I THINK
by Clancy (Fancy-Pants) Donnelly
I think that I shall never find
An owner who could be more kind
"Aw, that's sweet--wait, did you break something?"
I think that I shall never fail
To love the Prescott-Russell Trail
I think that for an active dog
The place to be is Mer Bleue Bog
I think it would be tough to find
A dog brain intelligent as mine
"Oh, brother."
I think no matter where you roam
You'll find nothing wonderful as my poem
"You done?"
Yes. What did you think?
"I think that I shall never see
a bigger ego than has Clancy."
Hey, not bad, I can use that!
(Two milestones reached with Clancy's previous photo (Stop and Smell the Echinacea): First photo with 50K+ views; and 1M+ total views. Who'da thunk it almost two years ago when we started this whole thing? Not us. Thank you!)
________________________________________________
Mer Bleue, Ottawa, Ontario
283. Clancy, 4yrs 23wks
Clancy's YEARBOOK 5: www.flickr.com/photos/130722340@N04/albums/72157675110790161
Fortepiyano çalıyor
Gittikçe umutsuz bir müzik
*
Taklacı güvercin havalanır
Birisinin beyaz avucundan
*
Gece çiçeği gibi açık
Kendimi bırakıyorum
Your breast is enough for my heart,
and my wings for your freedom.
What was sleeping above your soul will rise
out of my mouth to heaven.
In you is the illusion of each day.
You arrive like the dew to the cupped flowers.
You undermine the horizon with your absence.
Eternally in flight like the wave.
I have said that you sang in the wind
like the pines and like the masts.
Like them you are tall and taciturn,
and you are sad, all at once, like a voyage.
You gather things to you like an old road.
You are peopled with echoes and nostalgic voices.
I awoke and at times birds fled and migrated
that had been sleeping in your soul.
Pablo Neruda
No known address
Recently this wooden plaque with a poem by Mary Oliver, appeared on one of the old ash trees on the Iron Age ramparts, in Ham Hill Country Park, here is a link to details about the author. en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mary_Oliver
By Javier Velaza:
We don't know how to love, we just plagiarize.
We love as we believe it should be done,
with other people's words, with caresses
copied and borrowed gestures,
we emulate the kisses, the postures,
the gasps, the protests, the goodbyes.
Yes, we also unlove by imitating,
our cruelty is also mimetic,
mannerist the oblivion we suffer.
Don't let them teach you how to love,
disobeys Ovid. May your hug
be different from everyone else,
innovates in every care, creates unprecedented
tenderness, reinvent passion,
be original, inimitable, unique.
May everyone have to say about you
that love did not exist until you loved.
No sabemos amar, solo plagiamos.
Amamos como creemos que ha de hacerse,
con palabras ajenas, con caricias
copiadas y prestados ademanes,
emulamos los besos, las posturas,
los jadeos, las protestas, los adioses.
Sí, también desamamos imitando,
nuestra crueldad es también mimética,
manierista el olvido que sufrimos.
No dejes que te enseñen cómo amar,
desobedece a Ovidio. Que tu abrazo
sea diferente a todos los demás,
innova en cada mimo, crea inéditas
ternuras, reinventa la pasión,
sé original, inimitable, único.
Que de ti tengan todos que decir
que no existió el amor hasta que amaste.
............................................. “Midway”
I don’t know all the bright and shinning paths to heaven,
But I do know that midway along the way we choose
between shadow...and light.
I don’t know if a day shall be marked... "end of days"
But I do know that if it were so, it would fall midway
between counted yesterdays and uncounted tomorrows.
I don’t know if any breath bent to word can truly be true
But I do know the moments most pure are laid midway
between a breath drawn ...and a sigh released.
I don’t know if one should whisper aloud just how passionate the kiss
But I do know that given the chance I would linger midway
between your longest …and your sweetest.
I don’t know how far exactly from "here"... to "there",
But I do know that "midway" is charted somewhere-
between the setting of sails and the lifting of anchors.
...Sigh,
I won't pretend... I don’t know all the bright and shinning paths to heaven.
But I do know that when I follow you -
..."heaven" is found on a wing and a prayer, midway
-between a divided cloud, and a last sacred light of day.
...
.
.
.
Greg Hughey Revised August 29, 2004 / 2nd revision August 1, 2007 "/3rd (smile) February 18th, 2014" ** ©
* dedicated to the "soul mates", deep within us all....
Steeped
Emotion realized
Her mouth was parched and bruised
The same as the hibiscus petals
In a heap on the table
Awaiting sympathetic water
To revive pink affections
And refreshment to satiation
.
.
©Christine A. Evans 10.12.17
.
I really appreciate your comments and faves. I'm not a hoarder of contacts, but enjoy real-life, honest people. You are much more likely to get my comments and faves in return if you fit the latter description. Just sayin. :oD
.
If you like b/w photography and/or poetry check out my page at:
expressionsbychristine.blogspot.com/</a
Erithacus rubecula - Robin
FVA_1496c-1
“Who Killed Cock Robin” is a macabre English nursery rhyme / folk song that describes the murder and funeral of a robin. Some scholars believe that it is derived from the early Norse myth about the death of Balder, the god of summer sunlight and the incarnation of the life principle, who was slain by Hoder at Loki’s instigation. Others believe it is related to Robin Hood and the many offers of help received after his death. However, there is no direct indication in the poem to support this claim apart from the similarity of the name. In some Robin Hood tales, Robin is killed by a nun (some say Maid Marian) who bled him to death whilst feigning to tend his wounds, whereas the death in the poem is by an arrow. The story may also be related to the mysterious murder of William Rufus, King of England who was an unpopular son of William the Conqueror, found dead in the New Forest with an arrow piercing his lung.
To give you a flavour of the rhyme here’s the first few verses:-
“Who killed Cock Robin?” “I,” said the Sparrow*,
“With my bow and arrow, I killed Cock Robin.”
“Who saw him die?” “I,” said the Fly,
“With my little eye, I saw him die.”
These are followed by the chorus in my experience, as follows:-
" All the birds of the air fell a-sighing and a-sobbing,
When they heard of the death of poor Cock Robin,
When they heard of the death,
Of poor Cock Robin."
The full version has many verses and the final chorus is slightly altered. As a child in England, a short version was taught to me as a Nursery Rhyme.
[With acknowledgements to "Bird Spot"]
* The commonly suspected assassin of Rufus was a man named Sparrow.
To this day in England, if someone has a consistent run of bad luck, it is said, "He must have shot a robin."
Contours
X on the map
Like a kiss
On a sacred spot
Or an erogenous zone
Contoured
For a full draught
Of ecstasy
.
.
©Christine A. Owens 1.31.18
.
I really appreciate your comments and faves. I'm not a hoarder of contacts, but enjoy real-life, honest people. You are much more likely to get my comments and faves in return if you fit the latter description. Just sayin. :oD
.
If you like b/w photography and/or poetry check out my page at:
expressionsbychristine.blogspot.com/</a
Rabbicorn story poem two
brynoh.blogspot.com/2019/05/the-rabbicorn-story-scene-two...
When she was done
she knew the Rabbicorn must go
and that the government
must never know
For they would not
care about her heart
they would rather
take her apart
So she gave her to
a man she met that day
who had mentioned that
it was his son's birthday
She made him promise
to look after her
and for the first time
the Rabbicorn's heart did whir
As she looked back
she said "Please don't fear"
and as they drove away
wiped away a tear
Um poema
Não tenhas medo, ouve:
É um poema
Um misto de oração e de feitiço...
Sem qualquer compromisso,
Ouve-o atentamente,
De coração lavado.
Poderás decorá-lo
E rezá-lo
Ao deitar,
Ao levantar,
Ou nas restantes horas de tristeza
Na segura certeza
De que mal não te faz.
E pode acontecer que te dê paz...
Miguel Torga
hi dear girl and boys,how's everything?
l watched many movies these days and l feel much better now.how about u recently?
after my movie time,l want to read one elegant poem for you this night.
and also need to listen ♫ Our Hell of Emily Haines.
-
A long - long Sleep - A famous - Sleep -
That makes no show for Morn -
By Stretch of Limb - or stir of Lid -
An independent One -
Was ever idleness like This ?
Upon a Bank of Stone
To bask the Centuries away -
Nor once look up - for Noon ?
一個漫長 - 漫長的睡眠 - 一個有名的 - 睡眠 -
毫無晨起的跡象 -
伸展四肢 - 或眨一下眼皮-
一個獨立的睡眠 -
可曾有這樣賴床的嗎?
躺在堆疊的石頭上
曬上數世紀的太陽 -
甚至看都不看正午一眼?
*The Poems of Emily Dickinson #654*