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Today I was walking past my pile of old Time magazines...and saw that it was throwing up letters =/
5 minutes later...this is what I saw...a poem.
----
for an awesome friend
the time I spent on this is worth like at least 10..."learn australian slang / melbourne tour" vids.
☾ °☆¸. * ● ¸ .☾ °☆¸. *☾ °☆☾ °☆¸. * ● ¸ .☾ °☆¸*
* _██_*。*. / \ .˛* .˛.*.★Happy New Year 2013★ 。*
˛. (´• ̮•)*˛°* /.♫.\*˛.* ˛_Π_____. * ˛*
.°( . • . ) ˛°. /• '♫ '\.˛*. /______/~＼*. ˛*.。˛* ˛. *。
*(...'•'.. ) *˛╬╬╬╬╬˛°.｜田田 ｜門｜╬╬╬╬ .
.·:*¨¨*:·. .·:*¨¨*:·. .·:*¨¨*:·. .·:*¨¨*:·. .·:*¨¨*:·..·:*¨¨*:·.
BONNE ANNEE**
Les voeux sont de rigueur
En cette année qui se meurt
Janvier nouveau sera t'il meilleur?
C'est l'espoir qui brûle les coeurs
Le nouvel an sera t 'il un sauveur ?
Pour ce monde fade et sans saveur
Où la crainte s'abat avec ferveur
Sur les miséreux sans faveur
Aux sans abris donner une demeure
A la solitude offrir la chaleur
Un mot ou un sourire est douceur
Qui apporte toujours le bonheur
Entamer ce nouveau cycle en vainqueur
Colorons nos jours de bonne humeur
N'oublions pas, pour encore quelques heures
De souhaiter 'bonne année' en offrant des fleurs
POESIE DE MARIE**
POEMA NO TREM DA MEIA-NOITE
1. é pouco ou quase nada o que fazemos
com a caneta, com o lápis, com as teclas.
o tufão não nos escuta, o ladrão
não nos leva a sério.
2. quem vai matar, tempo não tem
para o que vai em laudas, cadernos,
arquivos, blocos, fichários.
quem vai matar tem urgência, tanta
que até mata antes de haver matado.
3. a letra atrás de outra letra que plantamos
na lavoura, papel-lavoura, nada
demove em quem terá gatilho, em quem
possui a chave do cemitério. a letra
atrás de outra letra que plantamos
na lavoura, papel-lavoura, é cisco
que se varre para o limbo.
4. desde homero, ou antes dele, somos
essa espécie de gente feita de letras,
temos a caneta, o lápis, as teclas, só
não temos o jeito de parar o tanque,
a forca, o ácido que consome o estômago
de um menino só ossos em lugares ermos
da somália.
5. do começo ao final dos tempos, aqui estamos,
aqui estaremos, porém. mas sabemos
(ou não sabemos)
que também na tinta que da caneta
brota, feito flor, que escorre,
feito mel, vai para o papel o traço
de um sangüinolento embaraço,
de uma sangüínea vergonha,
de um sangüíneo rubor.
* * *
Paulinho Assunção
Editora 2 Luas
Belo Horizonte
Writing
Twiggy pencils, telling tales again
Scratching lead-gray slate above
And clawing the dirt of lonely paths below
And yet here we are
Searching for honeycomb in glass jars
That no one will eat
Because it's liquid gold on a sunlit shelf
.
.
©Christine A. Owens 3.30.18
.
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
Poem from 2014, photo this past week in Cheesman Park.
You will find more than 190 of my poems HERE. fno.org/poetry/index.html
Where?
Where does the luck go
When she goes?
Lady Luck
When she takes a powder
Ignores you
Makes you gasp
Tortures you
And makes you question everything
How do we bring her back?
Wake her up?
Catch her attention?
Win her blessings
When we need her?
Without seeming desperate
Or craven
Just eager
© Jamie McKenzie, all rights reserved
You will find more of my poems and songs here
and in The Storm in Its Passing and Flights of Fancy.
My songs are at
I took this shot few weeks ago and I didn't share it because I've been waiting for the right song, but none seemed fit. Last night I found this video and I think it's a perfect fit.
www.youtube.com/watch?v=f2zR7brOA3E
"Tonight I can write the saddest lines" - Pablo Neruda
You will find 184+ of my poems HERE. fno.org/poetry/index.html
Forgotten
I have forgotten your name
It seems
Somewhere
Along the way
Dropped it
Lost it
Or tossed it aside
Like shedding a skin
Shrugging off a cold
I no longer whisper
The five syllables
Deep in the night
No longer call out
Feel you by my side
Or dream of skating
Hand in hand
Across the shimmering lake
Of tomorrow
Or the next day
Month
Or year
I cannot recall
Who you are
Who you were
Or how we met
Cannot remember much
Of anything
At all
Until the sun sets
Lighting up the sky
Like you once lit my heart
And then
All at once
I remember every kiss
Every smile
And every touch
© Jamie McKenzie, all rights reserved
You will find more of my poems and songs here
and in The Storm in Its Passing and Flights of Fancy.
My songs are at
Spring Poems 春詩
By Daniel Arrhakis / 丹尼尔·红龙 (2020)
With the music : Osmanthus / 人閑桂花靜
Music by: Yoro光
________________________________________________
Composition made with stock images and images of mine. Model by Min An in Pexels (modified for this work) :
images.pexels.com/photos/1118689/pexels-photo-1118689.jpe...
_______________________________________________
_____
“in the end
it is words
poetry. sunsets
someone’s deep blue
silk voice.
mountain scents.
someone’s smile.
eyes. that we have
no defenses against.”
- Sanober Khan
wake in the dark
then shock of light
feel translucent
paper thin
coffee brews
to fortify
muscles move
without force
eyes remain
open on their own
thus, i embark
1.17.17
Dark Thumb
discrediting my intelligence
I counter
with determination
dividing the corms
and blooming anew
.
.
©Christine A. Owens 2.1.18
.
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
Something different this time. I recorded the music on this track for Michelle Dill spoken word poetry before the lockdown last year. It's one of a few I worked on. Michelle wrote the poem and I recorded the music to fit it. It's a dance style track. It does have some swearing in it and an adult theme. Stock Photo used. Find out more here on Michelle's Facebook page - www.facebook.com/Michelle-Dill-spoken-word-poetry-2535723...
Poem.
Silver sea across the Kyle of Lochalsh and the Inner Sound.
Wave upon wave of threatening cloud clings
to the crumpled sequence of rolling summits.
Onwards and upwards, over twenty miles, Sgurr Alasdair
emerges from the moody skies.
From a recent structure, a scene repeated millions of times,
puts us back in context,
in
time
and
space.
"And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon’s that is dreaming,
And the lamp-light o’er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
Shall be lifted—nevermore!" -Edgar Allan Poe
This post was inspired from probably my favourite poem. It's hauntingly tones have stuck with me ever since I read it in high school. Little did I know that years later the raven would visit me and I think I could relate to the poem a little. Nevermore.
Found with my grandmother's things. I don't know what newspaper it's from, but there are references on the back to Princess Anne's birth, and Prince Charles being 21 months old. That would date it as August 1950.
"Arise, oh western sky ! expose the grandeur of mountain high,
with majestic fir and whispering pine; with prospector's hopes of gold to mine.
The radient hue of desert land; of painted rocks and burning sand.
Of vast plains once filled with hope, of buffalo and antelope.
Of cowboy camp and indian lodge; of western towns... "Fort Worth and "Dodge"
within my heart all carefully drawn..as I stand in awe of a western dawn.
(original image and poem by R. Gann
I'll begin my day with a poem:
Being small
Is no problem at all
It's never
Too far to fall
My best friend
Is a doll
I'm nearly invisible
When I crawl
No one will ever say
"You are too tall"
Being small
Is the most magical thing
Of all.
Ihr, die ihr euch mit der Kraft der unbekannten
Gestirne umwickelt wie Garnrollen,
die ihr näht und wieder auftrennt das Genähte,
die ihr in die Sprachverwirrung steigt
wie in Bienenkörbe,
um im Süßen zu stechen
und gestochen zu werden –
Völker der Erde,
zerstört nicht das Weltall der Worte,
zerschneidet nicht mit den Messern des Hasses
den Laut, der mit dem Atem zugleich geboren wurde.
Völker der Erde,
O daß nicht Einer Tod meine, wenn er Leben sagt –
und nicht Einer Blut, wenn er Wiege spricht –
Völker der Erde,
lasset die Worte an ihrer Quelle,
denn sie sind es, die die Horizonte
in die wahren Himmel rücken können
und mit ihrer abgewandten Seite
wie eine Maske dahinter die Nacht gähnt
die Sterne gebären helfen –
~ Nelly Sachs ~
Memories are made of this
But made of what?
We never forget to remember HOW:
how to swim
to ride a bike
to do research
to cook a meal
or to recall the grammar of a sentence
But we increasingly forget to remember THAT
or to remember to
or to remember where
The memory of grammar
Is easier to recall
Than the grammar of memory