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Love risin from the fields

Oh oh my sister !


Nature striving for to yield

grace unto  every         Stranger


//

We are strong

We are           Gentle


••

//


we are the child of the Manger !

•                          •






                                                ( the daughters of love 's laughter )

|||||


Every dance  

Every hill

Every             Forever After

( ><)


Oh sweet offspring of pure EARTH

holy Disciple & the Master !


///


we rejoice in each other's hearts

Now that the wars are over

) )  ( (

Oh oh sister love


The long stream and the River
First snow is falling...
melting on the wet road,
flocking the grasses
and crispy leaves.

Smiling sweetly, my
brother eats his last bite
of warm corn pancakes.

Local honey shines
on the empty
white plate.
©Elisa Maria Argiro
The Bells of Notre Dame called out “Come fill my Center Hall”
“Come Catholic, Muslim, Hindu and Jew; Come with no faith at all”
The Mothers of the Murdered came, united in their grief.
For bullets and I.E.D’s cannot sort us by belief.
One woman in a hijab had come here from Verdun.
Like the Protestant beside her, She had lost her only son.
Both were strangers to this place, Unfamiliar with the prayers
But, having no place else to go; They found some comfort there.
The Highborn and the famous came with those of low estate
Some came here to find peace of Soul; to put an end to hate.
Some sought shelter from the world; to find sanctuary.
But the figure on the Cross proclaims we all face Calvary.
We all face the same sentence; all perish in the end.
We know this evil must be stopped but know not how or when.
The Bells of Notre Dame call out
“Let us begin again.”
An ecumenical service for the fallen in Notre Dame de paris
LET
THERE
BE
LIGHT
a
fierce
sun ******
vapors
into
a
thunderous
sky
which
wept
sixty
sextillion
t­ears
creating
a
riddled
calibration:
the river  
time

we
came
cells
devouring
cells
metastasizing
into
li­fe
first
cruel crawlers
then
stealthy stalkers
wicked walkers  
and
finally
THE
terrible talkers
blasphemers
bending
time
asking
WHY
it
flows
?

we
are
th­ey
who
have
no
shore
to
which
to
moor
on the river,
time
what comes at 2:00 AM when I had too much chocolate
Reach and fail
Reach and
                   fail,
Coming to terms with who is who
And what is what
What gifts have been given
What gifts will never be delivered
Where the darkness reigns
Where the light rains
Where love remains

Coming to terms with the four white walls,
What is projection?
What are delusions?
What is truth and beauty?
What is it
we are grateful for?

Each step taken
One step forward
Two steps back
Honing
Moaning
Calling out into the night
Looking for the dawn
With words that
Pitter patter -
Tears that are wet for a moment
but evaporate on the floor -
Calling out
"come on, come on -
Give me some
At least one more time"

In this awkwardness
In these limitations
Of vocabulary
In the flatness of these
Rhythms and rhymes
While others create spaces
and lines
Pieces expanding to the skies
Maybe even a little bit more than
wise - touching the divine

I'm
Twisting and falling
Holding on
Coming to terms with who is who
and
What is what
Still gotta try to find
the true poetry
One more time
One more line
Gotta do it
Before I really die.
brushstrokes, some broad,  
some as narrow as one fine hair,  
are often red  

scarlet and scattered
across the canvas, splattered
against a crumbling wall, where,
for no rhyme or reason, the artist
may place a wilted wreath of flowers,
pallid, yellow
      
horses and people, babes
and the ancient not spared  
their share of the crimson cream  
the painter heaped munificently
on their mangled remains

Paris, Beirut, Yola yet to be painted
but there is still time: in its abundance
someone else will need only lift a hand  
to spill the ubiquitous blood      

our palettes do own other hues
black for charred crosses, white,
the lightning streaked screaming sky
but  none so plentiful as the red  
none so plentiful as the red
dating a writer
is like guessing the weather.
you think you know what you'll get,
but you never do.

you never know
because

she'll create a hero
from your weaknesses

and she'll write a great character,
from every last flaw.

she'll create a thousand plots  
from your worst nightmares.

she'll take every last thing you hate
and create something you'll love.

she'll turn your anger
into confessions of adoration,

and she'll make you,
everything you're not.

but worst of all,
she'll leave you wondering-
is it you she's in love with,
or things she's created from you?

but here's the beauty of it:

if you date a writer,
you'll never die.
~~
behind the shadow a distinct lost dream  
standing opposite of a long bridge
crossing through the middle cutoff
see the river flowing beneath

illusive calling but can't go
on the edge a dark sharp sign  
known voices floating over
echoing an ego which cover the shadow

how many days offset!
and try to touch the last sunset
still silhouette stands on the shore
what is mystic that always opens the door

the river bumping with waves
between the broken parts of the bridge
passing a phase of life on the ridge
yet subconscious grew a cohesion of dream
~~
@Musfiq us shaleheen
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