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Ria Aug 2014
words are so complicated when trying to describe someone who you really adore and admire
there are 26 letters in the English alphabet but why does it feel like there should be more?
so here are several reasons why i cherish bianca

number one: she is so understanding and easy to talk to, like at first i thought she was an untouchable force; some sort of female celestial being you know
i was shocked she followed me via twitter and that's how we met
we both were sad
yep, sad that's the word to describe it
a gloomy looming figure standing on top of your heart

number two: she told me who she wrote about, (i don't know if you remember lil' sunflower) but i asked her once
-and mind you, i was terrified of how she'd react because i was so interested and i usually ask other writers, poets, artists who they wrote about.
however, bianca answered truthfully and calmly
in fact she sad nobody asked her this before and i was perplexed why people didn't ask her before in the past

number three: she's like a sunflower,
why? she is such a darling, she's so sweet and she brightens the day by smiling right back at the sun. she needs to rest at night though, so she reads and listens to music and rests just like a sunflower
she also has a knack of cheering me up just like a sunflower

number four: this reason may be stupid but i actually remember her name, so many people i meet i forget their name quickly but hers sticked
i remember her, this is important: i feel like this is my subconscious trying to tell me something. it may seem farfetched but i believe she's special somehow, i may be crazy for saying this....but yeah lol

number five: she has goals in life
this darling has real aspirations in her time here, which i admire about her

number six: her fashion/makeup factor is so on point
we have similar tastes in fashion and makeup hence we watch the same youtubers and such, i really like this about her
it shows more of her quirky and interesting personality

number seven: lucky seven, she loves tea
i don't mean she just drinks it, she breathes tea,
we like the same types as well: none of that nasty berry tea (sorry)

number eight: she can understand me, she listens
bianca listens to my ridiculous little rants all the time even if they're stupid and tedious and i really thank her for this, i go to her when i feel like the four walls are closing in on me and she really does listen to what i have to say

number nine: we plan on meeting someday...
when we both gain some self-confidence and when a jolt of adrenaline kicks in, i'm super excited

number ten: i know there are more reasons but this is where this letter shall end today
she puts up with my stupid imessage not working and the dms on twitter suffice for our friendship, sigh it's annoying but true

i love you darling dear, i hope you have a wonderful night!!

sincerely,
Ria **
this is a letter to one of the sweetest people i know on this odd lil planet
LanTive Dec 2016
Lost; Lost in her Massive beautiful eyes
Oh Bianca, My Seraph in disguise
her skin has diamond patterns
Her voice like my dear own Mother's
For her I lay Spineless for her heart is my own Metropolis
When She feels lonely I will not leave her in Isolation
I reckon she does not feel the same way
I hate my own premonitions
This love For her does not make me wary
Oh Bianca You are my Sanctuary
and when life gets meaningless you are my Dictionary

You are so Unique! Your Vogue and your Face, none can compete
You make my outermost shell complete
Please do tell me, does Noble love exist?
Oh Bianca, You I can't resist
Your body is so Luminous and you light up my entire Universe
The cypress stood up like a church
That night we felt our love would hold,
And saintly moonlight seemed to search
And wash the whole world clean as gold;
The olives crystallized the vales’
Broad slopes until the hills grew strong:
The fireflies and the nightingales
Throbbed each to either, flame and song.
The nightingales, the nightingales.

Upon the angle of its shade
The cypress stood, self-balanced high;
Half up, half down, as double-made,
Along the ground, against the sky.
And we, too! from such soul-height went
Such leaps of blood, so blindly driven,
We scarce knew if our nature meant
Most passionate earth or intense heaven.
The nightingales, the nightingales.

We paled with love, we shook with love,
We kissed so close we could not vow;
Till Giulio whispered, ‘Sweet, above
God’s Ever guarantees this Now.’
And through his words the nightingales
Drove straight and full their long clear call,
Like arrows through heroic mails,
And love was awful in it all.
The nightingales, the nightingales.

O cold white moonlight of the north,
Refresh these pulses, quench this hell!
O coverture of death drawn forth
Across this garden-chamber… well!
But what have nightingales to do
In gloomy England, called the free.
(Yes, free to die in!…) when we two
Are sundered, singing still to me?
And still they sing, the nightingales.

I think I hear him, how he cried
‘My own soul’s life’ between their notes.
Each man has but one soul supplied,
And that’s immortal. Though his throat’s
On fire with passion now, to her
He can’t say what to me he said!
And yet he moves her, they aver.
The nightingales sing through my head.
The nightingales, the nightingales.

He says to her what moves her most.
He would not name his soul within
Her hearing,—rather pays her cost
With praises to her lips and chin.
Man has but one soul, ’tis ordained,
And each soul but one love, I add;
Yet souls are ****** and love’s profaned.
These nightingales will sing me mad!
The nightingales, the nightingales.

I marvel how the birds can sing.
There’s little difference, in their view,
Betwixt our Tuscan trees that spring
As vital flames into the blue,
And dull round blots of foliage meant
Like saturated sponges here
To **** the fogs up. As content
Is he too in this land, ’tis clear.
And still they sing, the nightingales.

My native Florence! dear, forgone!
I see across the Alpine ridge
How the last feast-day of Saint John
Shot rockets from Carraia bridge.
The luminous city, tall with fire,
Trod deep down in that river of ours,
While many a boat with lamp and choir
Skimmed birdlike over glittering towers.
I will not hear these nightingales.

I seem to float, we seem to float
Down Arno’s stream in festive guise;
A boat strikes flame into our boat,
And up that lady seems to rise
As then she rose. The shock had flashed
A vision on us! What a head,
What leaping eyeballs!—beauty dashed
To splendour by a sudden dread.
And still they sing, the nightingales.

Too bold to sin, too weak to die;
Such women are so. As for me,
I would we had drowned there, he and I,
That moment, loving perfectly.
He had not caught her with her loosed
Gold ringlets… rarer in the south…
Nor heard the ‘Grazie tanto’ bruised
To sweetness by her English mouth.
And still they sing, the nightingales.

She had not reached him at my heart
With her fine tongue, as snakes indeed
**** flies; nor had I, for my part,
Yearned after, in my desperate need,
And followed him as he did her
To coasts left bitter by the tide,
Whose very nightingales, elsewhere
Delighting, torture and deride!
For still they sing, the nightingales.

A worthless woman! mere cold clay
As all false things are! but so fair,
She takes the breath of men away
Who gaze upon her unaware.
I would not play her larcenous tricks
To have her looks! She lied and stole,
And spat into my love’s pure pyx
The rank saliva of her soul.
And still they sing, the nightingales.

I would not for her white and pink,
Though such he likes—her grace of limb,
Though such he has praised—nor yet, I think,
For life itself, though spent with him,
Commit such sacrilege, affront
God’s nature which is love, intrude
‘Twixt two affianced souls, and hunt
Like spiders, in the altar’s wood.
I cannot bear these nightingales.

If she chose sin, some gentler guise
She might have sinned in, so it seems:
She might have pricked out both my eyes,
And I still seen him in my dreams!
- Or drugged me in my soup or wine,
Nor left me angry afterward:
To die here with his hand in mine
His breath upon me, were not hard.
(Our Lady hush these nightingales!)

But set a springe for him, ‘mio ben’,
My only good, my first last love!—
Though Christ knows well what sin is, when
He sees some things done they must move
Himself to wonder. Let her pass.
I think of her by night and day.
Must I too join her… out, alas!…
With Giulio, in each word I say!
And evermore the nightingales!

Giulio, my Giulio!—sing they so,
And you be silent? Do I speak,
And you not hear? An arm you throw
Round some one, and I feel so weak?
- Oh, owl-like birds! They sing for spite,
They sing for hate, they sing for doom!
They’ll sing through death who sing through night,
They’ll sing and stun me in the tomb—
The nightingales, the nightingales!
Coyote Siren Jun 2011
I hope you’re doing okay,
but from what I’ve heard,
I don’t think you’ll ever do well.

I heard you were wasted, puking
on *** that was shoplifted
by your friend. Your ***** smelled like
oranges and everyone took you home drunk
to your mom like it was their fault.

Because I remember when you were just cutting yourself
to escape the trauma of your mom beating you
and living with runaways. Your friends raised you,
but they’ve gone to college, and you’re left
with drunk driving drug dealing boyfriends

A couple summers ago you called me when
you lost your virginity in the bed of your
obsession’s truck and you thought you
would be pregnant and drank yourself
to sleep because you thought it was decent
birth control, even though he came on your back

didn’t see you for a couple of years and thought we lost touch
because we were broken down and giving up
and I thought if you could just find a place that didn’t
party or abuse their girlfriends that you could find
a place to be where you wouldn’t feel so numb

Way too long ago I remember stories of your friends
running away to Canada, being kidnapped
or arrested, sent to the emergency room
like when you tried to **** yourself over some boy
or because you hated your mom
or you thought you were too fat

when you’re trying to forget yourself
drinking cheap alcohol and skinny dipping
I hope that you won’t have to last as long
because you aren’t meant to be ******,
intoxicated or depressed, when that’s
all you’ll ever do.
Jimmy Desire Dec 2010
Bianca Lorenzo
Your pretty wings stretch farther than the arms I long to hold
to fly into the breathe that speaks of sultry whispers in my ears
is what I dream of.
Your eyes can't reach my beauty
my soft exterior won't allow it
I seek the remedy that allows my heart to beat when i can't see you
so I close my eyes to feel the strokes that part my indecisions
Love took time by storm when it left us alone in quiet rooms
you leave my tongue heavy with the words that I can't roll out
and my heart beats in intervals of two
once for me
and once for you...

James Desire**
Reach for the sky
so that these pretty wings may carry you too
because we both dream of a shared solitude
that would ignite our souls and express our passion
so why not make our dreams a reality...
Steel chains cage my heart
with a lock in the middle that requires  your touch
free me and reveal everything that the smile contains
hidden inhibitions that call out your name
Our bodies rage in responce to each others animalistic phase
a struggle to tame our hearts begin whenever we reach this stage
so i'll give you all my love
and feed the beast that resides within us both
so we can both find ecestacy in each other....
Louis Brown Oct 2011
There's a woman in my arms
As close as skin can get
I want to fall in love again
I'm still not ready yet
Your  shadow slips between us
Like every other time
And as cold chills cool the passion
Her love can't cross the line

My arms are full of memories of you
I pull the shades and lock the doors
But yesterday comes through
As I hold her in the dark
I still hold you in my heart
My arms are full of memories of you

I found her at an upscale dance
She's all woman to the bone
But I slipped and cried your name again
And I knew the night was gone
She slipped right through my fingers
Cause her pride can't play that role
She wants all of me or nothing
But it's not in her control

CHORUS

Copyright Louis Brown
Long auburn hair bellows behind
I’ve got so much to choose from, but I’ll just change my mind.
These hazel eyes are the mark of mystery
Yeah, once I’m famous, they’ll make some history.
Got my pencil tucked ‘hind my ear
Life for me ain’t very austere.
I’ll leave to where the wind is takin’ me
No permanent home, this is what I call free.
Gimme music or gimme death.
I never knew the taste o’ your breath.
But I don’t care.
My heart still survived ev’ry freakin’ tear.
A notebook under my arm
Yeah, y’know I’m worth three times the charm.
Let’s keep traveling, c’mon, let’s just get away.
Don’t tie me down, ‘cause I’m bound to betray.
Gawky, yeah, and not too pretty
Dude, sorry, but that’s just me.
I’ve got guitars and screaming pounding in my head.
This pain doesn’t make me wanna prove my blood is red.
Just give me sunshine and a clear blue sky
And maybe some o’ that Boston Cream Pie.
Some consider me a nerd, but I’m just as clueless as you.
Ha, I’ve got way too many library books overdue.
There’re some friendships ya just gotta reminisce.
See ya somewhere beyond this oceanic abyss.
my sad attempt at a rap. oh well, i guess it'll pass as a poem.
Michael W Noland Feb 2013
13
I was an early teen with a black and white TV, staying up way too late to see magnum p.i., while smoking ****** slime re-fries, for a high so intense, i even shat my pants, ****** myself, or collapsed my fat *** on the couch.

I was alive while not

My mother worked typical nine to fives, and even nights, and with no father in sight for guidance, a kid can slide, into redefining the lining of respect, one lining, or even lying instead, it was better than dying inside, and i tried, oh i tried to go outside, inside a box.

I tried to deny my crimes, my thievery, my sublime feelings of neglect, but maybe i was less neglected, and more centered at the core of the universe, where snake eyes protected Bianca from Cobra commanders clutch, but Bianca, was into it, and wasn't like us, ***** knew it, and set us all up.

Dumb *****

Rubber bands
Screws and guns
All piled up
And that's all that's left
Or ever was?

Ninja nothing

My imagination was corrupted
I wanted something
But knew i couldn't have it
Couldn't put my finger on it
But knew the dangle of a carrot
And i was on it

Moth to light

That's how the infection spread, dissecting eloquence, and injecting prisms into the imprisonment of reflectous rages in the intersecting of the yellow projections on my television, as i would just lay there on my bed, and soak it all in, hoping for something better, or perhaps just something different.

I had already written by that time, a thousand lines to the screams, behind the screen, as the programing repeats, and repeats in mastered recipes under a canopy of grief, and humility, holding the people humbly to their seats.

The records not scratched
The needle
Is seated
Exactly
Where it intends
To be

I cheered for tanks
I cheered for bombs
Cheered for any ******* thing
That sounded the alarms

Suits, with ties, next to the soccer moms in line, at the grocery store, complaining about meat cuts, to a brain dead acne laden ****, making 6 bucks an hour, the dream had died before me, and begun to sour, but not one would see what they were doing in the scheme of things, and only seen what they wanted to, and i wasn't about to wear anyone's shoes, but mine.

That's when it whooshed over me, in the spark that grew my heart to be bigger than the rest, and i stepped outside, poking sticks in hives, and even lost a few fights, but saw through my own eyes with nobody at my side, though alone and wandering, i was still alright, and stronger than those family types, who would hide from life, in wealthy slights of hand, i still demanded nothing.

I wont beg for a leg at the masters feet, after i have broken my leash and ceased to be anything close to a functional member of society.

I was 13 and just starting.
Raquel Martinez Jan 2013
Nel mio cuore,
una fata dorme.
Lungo per i sogni,
sono una povera, piccola ragazza all'interno.
Per fuori, sono una ragazza coraggiosa e matura.

Pero, io non posso fingere che non voglio essere nei miei sogni,
dove si incontra tutto lo che mi piace,
tutto che io voglio.
i principe con gli occhi azzurri,
il castello bianco dove io vivo,
il cavallo bianco,
la carrozza bianca,
tutto bianco.

perche tutto bianco?
forse vedo tutto cosi buio,
crudele,
spietato.
La gente non voglie essere tu amici,
ancora meno riconoscerti.

Vogliono solo guardarti piangere.
Vogliono guardare cuando ti realizza
che non si puoi vivere nei tuoi sogni.
Che non sara' giovane per sempre.
Che non sei piu un bambino.

Prima o dopo,
sarai uno di loro.
amaro e apatico.
non ti sognare.
Non esiste il principe con gli occhi azzuri,
non esiste il castello bianco,
non esiste il cavallo bianco,
non esiste la carrozza bianca.

**Non tutto e' bianco.
Mary McCray Apr 2013
Profile of the Romans, statuesque, we gave her the Italian
Bianca, but from that failed into Bianca Bee, Binky Bee,
****** Pitty for that war injury when she was stationed
in neglect out in someone else’s yard. She keeps her nails
long, is soft as a humus dip, Mediterranean classical,
once a conqueror now gregarious, glamorous
like a female lion or demur when cornered
like movie stars before the war. Plump and voluptuous
like a tank who wants to snuggle and snore
wearing you like a wrap. She made us sure
with her love, inexhaustible
like a Western religion,
unabashed.
Cheyenne Apr 2016
Hello friend, how have you been?
I don't think I'll ever see you again.
And I'm not sure if I ever want to.
Ask me again in a few years time.

I know it is because of you
That I am where I am.
It is because of you that I ever learned to swim.
It is because of you I learned how to survive.
But only because you left me there to die.

But you were young;
We both were young.
So I don't blame you.
I try not to.
And yet,
I still blame you a little bit.
Maybe a lot a bit.
I am ambivalent.

I am torn between
Thanking you for
What you did for me and
Hating you for
What you did to me.

But I have been thinking about you a lot lately.
Not of you, I guess.
I don't really remember you.
But of me.
I've been thinking of me
And what I use to be.

I have changed so much
Since you left;
Because you left.
Not in anyway you would notice.
I still act the same.
And look the same.
Still the socially awkward,
A little bit hefty,
Un-styled.
Perhaps I'm unaltered. Physically at least.
But I love myself.
And that makes all the difference.

But I am also more timid.
More sheepish and reluctant
To speak up, to say things, to try things.
And that's because you scared me.
And that fear, it scarred me.

I am not sure why you left.
I have an idea. A pretty good guess.
But I never asked and you never said.
And that question, the reason, it still hangs there
Between us.
Between all these miles.
Between all this time.

Did you know that this year,
This August,
It marks the sixth year?
We were only friends for five.
In the eleven years I've known you
I have been missing you,
Hating you,
You have been a somebody I use to know
Longer than you have ever been my friend.
And that seems significant.

But maybe my math is wrong.
Maybe I shouldn't stop counting in August.
Maybe I should stop in May.
Earlier? You tell me.
When did you really leave?
Either way, the fact remains.

And I don't hate you,
Not really.
Whoever you are now is not who you were.
And your decision,
Regardless of reason,
Left me for the better.

Eventually it did, at least,
But it took a long time.
And even now, even here,
Where and when I love myself,
I love my friends,
I love my life.
Even here, even now,
I still remember you.
I still bear the scars.
And I still wonder what was wrong with me.
Why don't I ever ask what was wrong with you?

I'll never ask you for the reason.
I'll never tell you how it felt.
Maybe you already know.
Maybe you don't.
I'll never ask even though it still haunts me,
Even though you're still haunting.
Because I know you couldn't tell me straight.
Just like I couldn't tell you straight.
I can't even tell myself straight.

There is no straight line between cause and effect;
No logical conclusion from all that has happened.
You are a reason I am where I am,
That I am who I am,
And I was who I was.
But not the only one.

It is a mash up of tragedies
And comedies
And dramas
And fantasies.
It's life.
And in the grand scheme, you won't matter.
What you did won't matter.

I'm sure it doesn't matter to you.
I don't think you think of me.
I don't think you have been counting the years,
The moments.
I don't think you've cried.
I don't think you have wondered what you might say
If we ever ran into each other.
I don't think you would know to apologize.

And if I never cross your mind,
If you don't think of me when making new friends,
When meeting new people,
Or when you read a new book
And really love it (even though it's stupid),
Or when you need someone to go to a midnight premier with you,
If you don't remember me,
If you don't remember you when we were us,
If you never wonder what if,
If you never cried about what happened,
Then I don't want your apology.
Because it would be empty.

Not because you don't mean it.
Maybe you would mean it.
Maybe you have had a lot of time to reflect.
Maybe you regret it.
Maybe you don't.
But if you haven't felt what I have felt,
If your life went on with no diversion,
Then any apology you might have to offer me
Would echo in the abyss of my what if,
While my forgiveness could never echo in yours.
Because you wouldn't have one.
And the lack of somewhere to put my forgiveness
Means the apology you gave to me never took up any space.
And it will just echo a few times,
Weakening as it bounces,
Until finally dying out
With no sign it was ever there.
Is that what I was to you? An echo?

And I am sure you don't imagine that the decision you made,
That decision to leave,
Could have ever had such a long lasting ripple.
That I would ever remember
Or fixate
Or cry about it
For this long.
I don't know why you are still on my mind.
I know that I want you gone.

I want to forget,
And to get over it.
For it to be something stupid
That happened when I was young.
Like losing a friend because we didn't have the same favorite color.
But six years later
I still remember.
It still hurts not knowing why.
And it is only within the last two years
That I no longer cry.

And, as much as I wish it didn't,
It matters.
As much as I wish I didn't,
I care.

And I have thought many times about what I would say
If I ever saw you standing there:
I would first try to hide,
But if you saw me I would smile.
Probably say hi.
And if you did nothing more than smile back,
If you didn't ask me how things were or how I've been,
I wouldn't ask you and just let you walk away.
The question. The reason.
Still hanging.

And if you did ask I would tell you,
But only the basic details,
Not any of the real meaning behind them.
And I would return with polite questions of my own
And we would part with kind words.
Just like nothing ever happened at all.
The question. The reason.
Still hanging.

And I would regret not doing
Or asking
Or saying anything more.
But I would also know that, if I could do it again,
I wouldn't change a thing.
There is nothing more I need
Or want
Or seek
From you.
I don't want the truth.
Not now.

Because I don't remember you.
You are just a face and a name I put to a change,
To a time in my life I cannot forget.
And who you are now
And who you were then,
It doesn't matter in my story.
Only what you did.

And this poem
Or this letter
Or whatever this has become,
It is not for you.
It is for me.
Because your memory persists
In all my rhymes and relationships.
You persist in all the books
And poems I read
And movies I see
And friends I meet.
I think of you and cry for you and write of you,
Even though I don't want to.
Because you represent my greatest fear:
Being rejected for all that I cannot change about myself.

You are a reason I am where I am,
That I am who I am now.
And I don't forgive you.
I don't think you need me to.
Though, I thank you anyhow.
But I hope I'll never see you again.
I hope you see me,
Happy and healthy and wonderful,
And regret, even just a little bit,
That you gave up any opportunity of knowing me,
Even just a little bit.

And if by some miracle,
Or disaster,
These words ever find you,
If you ever read this,
I am sure it will confuse you.
Because I am sure you do not remember as I do.
Or hurt as I do.
And that's why I hate you.
Or rather hate the idea of you.
Because you just walked away and left me to deal with the consequences.
My world was upended.
And six years later I am not okay.
What you did was not okay.

And I don't know how to end this.
I'm not sure if I have more to say.
Or if I have said too much.
Or if what I said is all meaningless anyway.
I don't wish you well,
But I don't wish you ill.
And though I still think about you
It is not really you I am thinking about.
You are a stranger now.
You have been for a long time.
And I feel for you just as I feel for any random stranger,
Perhaps even less,
Because I actively try to feel nothing at all.

So I'll say to you now what you never said.
Not sure why, but
There was an entire conversation we never had,
Though I know how it would have ended,
What I would have said if given the chance:
Goodbye.
Sincerely yours,
Cheyenne

I don't really expect anyone to read through all of this... this is much longer than I had intended. Then again, when I started writing this I meant to make it more like all my other poems with an obvious rhyming scheme and a more universal story or message or what have you. Instead I wrote this. Bianca was my best friend up until high school when she left me high and dry and that change set a lot of things in motion. While all my poems are personal, this one is important to me because it has allowed me to explore my own thoughts and feelings that I haven't done in writing before. Like I said, I don't really expect anyone to read all of this or even like if they do (I'm not even sure if I like it), but it is important enough to me that I want to share it anyhow.
O voi che, mentre i culmini Apuani
il sole cinge d'un vapor vermiglio,
e fa di contro splendere i lontani
vetri di Tiglio;
venite a questa fonte nuova, sulle
***** la brocca, netta come specchio,
equilibrando tremula, fanciulle
di Castelvecchio;
e nella strada che già s'ombra, il busso
picchia dè duri zoccoli, e la gonna
stiocca passando, e suona eterno il flusso
della Corsonna:
fanciulle, io sono l'acqua della Borra,
dove brusivo con un lieve rombo
sotto i castagni; ora convien che corra
chiusa nel piombo.
A voi, prigione dalle verdi alture,
pura di vena, vergine di fango,
scendo; a voi sgorgo facile: ma, pure
vergini, piango:
non come piange nel salir grondando
l'acqua tra l'aspro cigolìo del pozzo:
io solo mando tra il gorgoglio blando
qualche singhiozzo.
Oh! la mia vita di solinga polla
nel taciturno colle delle capre!
Udir soltanto foglia che si crolla,
cardo che s'apre,
vespa che ronza, e queruli richiami
del forasiepe! Il mio cantar sommesso
era tra i poggi ornati di ciclami
sempre lo stesso;
sempre sì dolce! E nelle estive notti,
più, se l'eterno mio lamento solo
s'accompagnava ai gemiti interrotti
dell'assiuolo,
più dolce, più! Ma date a me, ragazze
di Castelvecchio, date a me le nuove
del mondo bello: che si fa? Le guazze
cadono, o piove?
E per le selve ancora si tracoglie,
o fate appietto? Ed il metato fuma,
o già picchiate? Aspettano le foglie
molli la bruma,
o le crinelle empite nè frondai
in cui dall'Alpe è scesa qualche breve
frasca di faggio? Od è già l'Alpe ormai
bianca di neve?
Più nulla io vedo, io che vedea non molto
quando chiamavo, con il mio rumore
fresco, il fanciullo che cogliea nel folto
macole e more.
Col nepotino a me venìa la bianca
vecchia, la Matta; e tuttavia la vedo
andare come vaccherella stanca
va col suo redo.
Nella deserta chiesa che rovina,
vive la bianca Matta dei Beghelli
più? Desta lei la sveglia mattutina
più, dè fringuelli?
Essa veniva al garrulo mio rivo
sempre garrendo dentro sé, la vecchia:
e io, garrendo ancora più, l'empivo
sempre la secchia.
Ah! che credevo d'essere sua cosa!
Con lei parlavo, ella parlava meco,
come una voce nella valle ombrosa
parla con l'eco.
Però singhiozzo ripensando a questa
che lasciai nella chiesa solitaria,
che avea due cose al mondo, e gliene resta
l'una, ch'è l'aria.
Next, then, the peacock, gilt
With all its feathers. Look, what gorgeous dyes
Flow in the eyes!
And how deep, lustrous greens are splashed and spilt
Along the back, that like a sea-wave's crest
Scatters soft beauty o'er th' emblazoned breast!

A strange fowl! But most fit
For feasts like this, whereby I honor one
Pure as the sun!
Yet glowing with the fiery zeal of it!
Some wine? Your goblet's empty? Let it foam!
It is not often that you come to Rome!

You like the Venice glass?
Rippled with lines that float like women's curls,
Neck like a girl's,
Fierce-glowing as a chalice in the Mass?
You start -- 'twas artist then, not Pope who spoke!
Ave Maria stella! -- ah, it broke!

'Tis said they break alone
When poison writhes within. A foolish tale!
What, you look pale?
Caraffa, fetch a silver cup! . . . You own
A Birth of Venus, now -- or so I've heard,
Lovely as the breast-plumage of a bird.

Also a Dancing Faun,
Hewn with the lithe grace of Praxiteles;
Globed pearls to please
A sultan; golden veils that drop like lawn --
How happy I could be with but a tithe
Of your possessions, fortunate one! Don't writhe

But take these cushions here!
Now for the fruit! Great peaches, satin-skinned,
Rough tamarind,
Pomegranates red as lips -- oh they come dear!
But men like you we feast at any price --
A plum perhaps? They're looking rather nice!

I'll cut the thing in half.
There's yours! Now, with a one-side-poisoned knife
One might ***** life
And leave one's friend with -- "fool" for epitaph!
An old trick? Truth! But when one has the itch
For pretty things and isn't very rich. . . .

There, eat it all or I'll
Be angry! You feel giddy? Well, it's hot!
This bergamot
Take home and smell -- it purges blood of bile!
And when you kiss Bianca's dimpled knee,
Think of the poor Pope in his misery!

Now you may kiss my ring!
** there, the Cardinal's litter! -- You must dine
When the new wine
Is in, again with me -- hear Bice sing,
Even admire my frescoes -- though they're nought
Beside the calm Greek glories you have bought!

Godspeed, Sir Cardinal!
And take a weak man's blessing! Help him there
To the cool air! . . .
Lucrezia here? You're ready for the ball?
-- He'll die within ten hours, I suppose --
Mhm! Kiss your poor old father, little rose!
Madison Dec 2017
Today you told me you moved on
You found someone new

Someone prettier
Someone smarter
Someone who makes you more happier than I ever could

It’s crazy to think you found that person
Because I thought I was her
I gave you countless times to realize I was the one

The one who would put up with everything you put me through
The one who stuck by your side no matter what
The one who always defended you no matter the ****** situation
The one who would never leave no matter how many times you broke me down

Little did I know
You’d be the one to leave
The one to have had enough of this so called love

And it’s crazy because no one saw it coming
And I guess I should’ve listened to Bianca when she said to leave before they realize you are not worth staying for

you are a speckle of dust and i am a star and i will never think of using my radiance to make you glow ever again
Mary McCray Apr 2015
(NaPoWriMo Challenge: April 25, 2015)

The tendency to judge harmful actions as worse, or less moral, than equally harmful omissions.

The tendency to persuade oneself through rational argument that a purchase was a good value.


It's late at night and I'm forty years into a very thorough and consumerist collection of the vast ouvre of Cherilyn Sarkisian, 60s street urchin turned enshrined Hollywood A-lister -- iconic up there with Halston, Bianca, Liz and Jackie.

Paper and vinyl and electromagnetic tape, discs and cassettes and books and blankets and dolls and perfumes and magnets. Words and music and ideas every one purchased from corporations and strangers and seven 7-inch picture discs bartered online from a friend I didn't know I would one day meet.

It's late and I've been the Wrecking Crew premiere, sitting in the middle
of an Albuquerque scene of sorts,  the documentary opening at the local art house with me wedged between California-Sound fanatics. I'm sitting next to an oldies DJ everybody in town seems to knows but me.

The DJ laments how political the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame is, (but then aren't they all?), and how Chubby Checker has yet to be inducted. As I see Cher self-depricate through the movie, I know she's an outsider to even this outsider culture. And if we peruse the halls rosters, we can easily make her case. But omissions always mean something. My basement full of memorabilia tells me what ain't right. But that's the bias talking. The same bias that gets The Byrds inducted, those who we've just learned didn't even play on their own records, or the theatrics of Alice Cooper, or the season of Ricky Nelson, or the artifice of KISS, Madonna....I've spent a fortune but just wait until the book comes out.

Post-purchase rationalizations, aren't they all?
Go see The Wrecking Crew movie. Went to the Q and A tonight to listen to stories of directory Denny Todesco.
Ian Beckett Mar 2014
Sky
Familiar “Buenos dias” from Bianca again,
Sandwiched, betubed with 5000 miles to go,
The blue-black spaceness of the endless sky,
And runwayless earth of comfortable clouds,
Reflecting on what has been and is yet to come,
A million miles of poetry, pain and pleasure,
Star Trek on the TV, seared Tilapia on my plate,
Flying to you for a first-date hello-again feeling.
Nevermore May 2014
They called me an iconoclast
Blessed
With a templar-like fervor,
Fueled by my devotion
To the intangible potentate, Logic --
Omnipresent, omnipotent.

But how could I be?
Not with Katarina and Bianca
Still resting in grottoes.
Not when I still stop by now and then,
Meandering in from my countless excursions,
Traipsing about in my mind,
To leave a few trinkets
And light some candles
And maybe a murmured prayer.

Those snapshots of memory
Revisiting me on rare occasions now,
But not a moment of recollection goes by
Without remembering
Katarina
Writhing beneath my grip,
Her slender fingers entwined with mine,
Or Bianca
Enclosing me in her warmth,
Her gnarled hands reeking of cigarettes.
Their I love yous, I like yous,
Whispers and kisses,
All branded on my skin.

No, sir.

Label me not
As one,
Not when I still keep their memories
On a pedestal,
Not when I still heave sighs
Of longing and fondness
To herald in nostalgia
And its hangers on,
Regret and despair,
However blasphemous.

An iconoclast I am not.
Anything but.
Revile me
For exalting heretics.

I deserve the rack and the stake
For becoming
Just as much a heretic
As the ones I was tasked to condemn.
Sole di mezzogiorno, nel luglio felice, sulla piazza deserta:
piazza lontana di città lontana, tu ed il tuo uomo,
e quello era il mondo.
Bianca nella tua veste, bianca vibratile fiamma tu pure,
nell'abbaglio d'incendio dell'aria.
Bianco il tuo riso perduto nel riso di lui, fresco di polla il
tuo riso d'amore tra il vasto fulgere ed ardere.
Non sarebbe discesa la notte, non sarebbe venuto il domani,
tua la luce, tuo l'uomo, tuo il tempo.
Fermasti il tempo in pieno sull'ora solare per cui in terra
tu fosti divina:
il resto è ombra e polvere d'ombra.
tangshunzi Jun 2014
<p><p> Questo matrimonio è follemente bello .Ma non è sorprendente.considerando che è un oro .rosa e rosso infuso bellezza culturale realizzato da una squadra di talento seriamente di venditori Texas .Pensa Posey floreali e progettazione di eventi .Caroline + Ben Fotografia e 36th Street Events .tutti insieme per creare una giornata che mette in evidenza il vero amore e uno dei duo più simpatico che abbia mai incontrato .Vedi tutto qui nella piena galleria .<p><p> E un film dolce da photohouse Films .impressionante .Si prega di aggiornare il tuo <p> browserColorsSeasonsSpringSettingsBallroomResortStylesCultural Beauty Dalla Sposa .Ci siamo incontrati a Tokyo nel 2005. Eravamo entrambi insegnamento della lingua inglese .Eravamo buoni amici in un primo momento .ma entrambi sapevamo che c'era qualcosa di più ad esso e nel 2006 siamo diventati una coppia .<p> nostro tema iniziato come "leggero" .ma penso che come è progredito quando abbiamo trovato la nostra citazione ( "Siamo andati a trovare noi stessi e abbiamo trovato l'altro" ).e che è diventato il tema .come era nei nostri inviti.il nostro segnoe il nostro video.<p> Abbiamo fatto i segni della barra ( " Sei Reddy per una notte Phull di divertimento?" ) .i segni tavolo escort e carte di escort che si basavano sulla skyline delle nostre rispettive città di provenienza (Londra .Chicago ) e la città cheincontrato a ( Tokyo) .<p> nostro planner Beth fece il segno principale tendone che è stato il fulcro per la <b>abiti da sposa corti</b>  camera .Conteneva la nostra citazione - "Siamo andati a trovare noi stessi e abbiamo trovato l'un l'altro . "<p> Abbiamo comprato qualche nuvoletta bianca e pannelli di gesso da Etsy  <a href="http://www.belloabito.com/abiti-da-sposa-corti-c-49"><b>abiti da sposa corti</b></a>  così le persone possono scrivere i loro consigli coniugale e scattare foto di se stessi .<p> Abbiamo anche chiesto un amico a mettere insieme un video di immagini di noi che crescono con i nostri amici e le famiglie e poi noi insieme con i reciproci amici e famiglie che abbiamo giocato prima del nostro ingresso alla sala di ricevimento .<p> Abbiamo trovato avere un wedding planner è stata la chiave .Soprattutto visto come fosse un matrimonio posizione.Inoltre .abbiamo usato il sito wedsimple.com per mantenere i nostri clienti informati attraverso il nostro sito .per fare le nostre RSVP e tenere sotto controllo che stava arrivando .Il mio momento preferito della giornata è stata capolino attraverso le porte appena prima del nostro ingresso nella hall della reception .a guardare tutti i nostri ospiti ridere ( e piangere ) al nostro video. <p> Mia più grande pezzo di consulenza per le spose e sposi pianificare il loro matrimonio oggi: non ti accontentare tutti .Non  <p><a href="http://www.belloabito.com/goods.php?id=575" target="blank"><img width="240" height="320" src="http://188.138.88.219/imagesld/td//t35/productthumb/1/1957335353535394817.jpg"></a></p>  cercare di .<p> Fotografo: Caroline + Ben Fotografia | dell'artista: photohouse Film | Wedding Planner : 36th Street  <a href="http://www.belloabito.com/abiti-da-sposa-c-1"><b>vestiti da sposa</b></a>  Eventi | Fiorista : Posey floreale e Design Event | Dress : Ritu Kumar | Scarpe : Nine West | Catering : Barton Creek Resort \u0026 Spa | Illuminazione:Illios Illuminazione | vestito dello sposo : Jaeger | Cerimonia di Set - up : Prashe | Hair \u0026 Make-up : Pearl Hair \u0026 Make-up Studio | lino.Chairs \u0026 Piatti : Marquee affitti | Luogo : Barton Creek Resort \u0026 SpaMarquee Event Group .36th Street Eventi e Posey floreale e progettazione di eventi fanno parte del nostro Little Black Book .Scopri come i membri sono scelti visitando la nostra pagina delle FAQ .Marquee Group Event vedi portfolio 36th Street Eventi vedi portfolio Posey floreale e Event Design VIEW</p>
Colorful Matrimonio indiano_abiti da sposa on line
How about that Polish guy:
Karol Jozef Wojtyla!
AKA Pope John Paul II,
Previously, a Cardinal,
The Archbishop of Krakow . . .
A tough cookie; in 1941
His mother, father, and brother
All died, leaving him the family's
Sole survivor.
Worked in a quarry,
Later a chemical factory,
Enrolled at a university,
Closed by the Nazis during WWII.
Ordained as a priest in 1946.
Holding 2 doctorates, Professor of
Moral Theology & Social ethics;
A powerful preacher,
A great intellect with vast charisma,
Working as a Catholic priest in
Communist Eastern Europe,
He was often asked
If he feared retribution from
Communist leaders? He replied:
“I’m not afraid of them.
They are afraid of me.”


Sounds like a scary guy?
Pope John Paul II,
The name he chose--
Tipping his yarmulke
To Lennon & McCartney,
For “Hey Jude,” no doubt,
Patron Saint of lost causes &
Desperate cases--
History’s most well traveled pope,
With that signature bit,
Coming off trans-oceanic airplanes,
Cutely kissing the ground.
First non-Italian Pope
Since the 16th century.
A strong stoneworker’s body, &
Knowledge of chemistry,
When Pope John Paul I--
Another Beatles fan—died in 1978,
After only a 34-day reign,
Few suspected Wojtyla.
White smoke (fumata bianca)
Announcing a new pope,
Chosen on the 7th round of balloting,
The first-ever Slavic pope,
The youngest pope in 132 years,
Yet conservative, a Papacy marked by
Firm, unwavering opposition to
Communism & war,
Abortion & contraception,
Capital punishment, & homosexual ***,
Coming out later against
Euthanasia.
Human cloning, &
Stem-cell research.
But, hey, you had to love him.
Took a bullet, famously in St. Peter’s Square,
By would-be assassin &
Double ***-*******,
Turkish political extremist named
Mehmet Ali Acqa,
A Muslim, later a Catholic-convert,
An early skirmish in 21st Century
Anti-Islamic Crusades.

Our Polish Pope John Paul II,
Died, succeeded in 2005 by
Our German Pope, Herr Ratzinger,
Calling himself Benedict XVI,
After The King of Pop,
Michael Jackson’s favorite rat,
Benny began the beguine—
Beatifying John Paul II,
During his first year on the job.
Later, acting as if
The Papacy was actually, just a job,
Does the unheard of:  RESIGNS,
Rather than die in office.
Rather like Nixon,
*N'est–ce pas?
tangshunzi Aug 2014
Ci sono matrimoni ipnotizzante e poi ci sono i matrimoni ipnotizzante.Una giornata così magico che si deve letteralmente smettere di tutti gli altri obblighi per immergersi in ogni ultimo istante della bella .Questo è uno di quei matrimoni.A chiudere la porta .il silenzio al telefono .sollevare i talloni dal tipo di scrivania vicenda che merita veramente la vostra attenzione .Un matrimonio che brilla dalla testa



ai piedi con dettagli contemporanei Fleurs \u0026Coriandoli e stelle filanti .yummy tratta di Sug'art e un Centro des sciences de l'impostazione Montreal che vi toglierà il fiato .Vedi tutto catturato da Isabelle Paille proprio qui.nella piena galleria .
Condividi questa splendida galleria ColorsSeasonsSpringSettingsMuseumUrban SpaceStylesModernWhimsical

Da Isabelle Paille .Questo particolare matrimonio primaverile amo.perché l'equilibrio della città e del verde .di un luogo industriale decorato con calore in tutte le cose capriccio .di una storia d'amore che è tutto molto urbano .ma con tutto il fascino classico ad esso .E ' così equilibrato come questa coppia è .e la preparazione di questo matrimonio con loro è stato a dir poco un sogno !

Lo spazio moderno e industriale era la tela perfetta bianca .con .di notte .una vista mozzafiato sulla abiti da sposa on line città .Gli inviti sono stati fatti in uno stile moderno ma con colori sorbetto aggiunti .giallo.verde e un po 'di pesca !Tavoli da refettorio sono stati abiti da sposa on line utilizzati drappeggiato in bianco .con sedie pieghevoli bianche pure .per dare un aspetto festoso e fresco .Fiori di primavera gialli come i tulipani sono stati usati abbondantemente.così come lo zucchero coperto i limoni .come segnaposto .Gli elementi di arredo sono semplici e freschi sui tavoli degli ospiti.richiamando l'attenzione sulla sposa e dello sposo tabella che è stata decorata abbondantemente .La tabella dolce è stato un enorme successo too.This matrimonio era assolutamente incantevole .dall'inizio alla fine .con tanti dettagli e rifiniture che ha reso gli ospiti giallo con invidia !E un anno dopo .i clienti sono ancora riferendosi ad esso come il matrimonio Science Center.

Fotografia : vestiti da sposa Isabelle Paille | Floral Design : Fleurs \u0026 Confetti | Abito da sposa : Anne Jean Michel | Cake: Dolci Pi | Cupcakes : Itsi Bitsi | Inviti : Fleurs \u0026 Confetti | Scarpe : Tenere Renfrew | Rosticcerie : Robert Alexis | Cookies :Sug'art | Event Design + Pianificazione : Fleurs \u0026 Confetti | Albergo : w hotel Montreal | vacanze : Bravo | Wedding Venue : Centre des Sciences de
http://www.belloabito.com/goods.php?id=583
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Matrimonio Moderno a Montreal da Isabelle Paille_abiti da sposa corti
E cielo e terra si mostrò qual era:
la terra ansante, livida, in sussulto.
Il cielo ingombro, tragico, disfatto:
bianca bianca nel tacito tumulto
una casa apparì sparì d'un tratto;
come un occhio, che, largo, esterrefatto,
s'aprì e si chiuse, nella notte nera.
Laggiù, ad Auschwitz, lontano dalla Vistola,
amore, lungo la pianura nordica,
in un campo di morte: fredda, funebre,
la pioggia sulla ruggine dei pali
e i grovigli di ferro dei recinti:
e non albero o uccelli nell'aria grigia
o su dal nostro pensiero, ma inerzia
e dolore che la memoria lascia
al suo silenzio senza ironia o ira.
Da quell'inferno aperto da una scritta
bianca: " Il lavoro vi renderà liberi "
uscì continuo il fumo
di migliaia di donne spinte fuori
all'alba dai canili contro il muro
del tiro a segno o soffocate urlando
misericordia all'acqua con la bocca
di scheletro sotto le doccie a gas.
Le troverai tu, soldato, nella tua
storia in forme di fiumi, d'animali,
o sei tu pure cenere d'Auschwitz,
medaglia di silenzio?
Restano lunghe trecce chiuse in urne
di vetro ancora strette da amuleti
e ombre infinite di piccole scarpe
e di sciarpe d'ebrei: sono reliquie
d'un tempo di saggezza, di sapienza
dell'uomo che si fa misura d'armi,
sono i miti, le nostre metamorfosi.

Sulle distese dove amore e pianto
marcirono e pietà, sotto la pioggia,
laggiù, batteva un no dentro di noi,
un no alla morte, morta ad Auschwitz,
per non ripetere, da quella buca
di cenere, la morte.
bk Mar 2015
I
quel giorno, quando mi hai lasciato sola sul prato bagnato, sono morta per ben 13 secondi & tu non te ne sei accorto neanche.
** lavato la mia faccia con whiskey scadente & tutto è andato per il meglio.

II
se dovessi scegliere un'altra vita vorrei tanto che fosse un'esistenza fatta di cristallo & acqua ghiacciata, penso al profumo della lavanda e a lunghi, lunghissimi nastri blu.

III
passo il mio tempo a graffiare con le chiavi la vernice delle auto e a raccontare in simboli tutto ciò che non so
il mio tempo perduto in cambio del tuo primogenito.

IV
vivevamo in una casa bianca & tu sparavi ai conigli davanti ai miei occhi & io ti amavo ma allo stesso tempo speravo di poter sparare in faccia te, faceva caldo, a casa nostra era sempre giugnoluglioagosto, esisteva solo una stagione, nelle altre dormivamo.

V**
io sono viola scuro, sono polvere, sono sostanze luccicanti, sono fumo, sono nulla, sono tutto ciò che intasa i tuoi polmoni, tutto ciò che ti rovina il fegato.
tokonoma Oct 2014
This very dawn is just a white breath,
an obscene pain: a semblance
of you hardening my veins.
And my father wakes me up: asking
for car keys, but i'll need them
to see if i am seeing you
and then we fight. This october
annoys me and is cheating,
but what i meant is good for you too
you who, with your ecstatic moods,
never listen nor care, ever: as if
on certain days water comes even from the sun
and in mirror shop windows i’m all blue.
And there’s nothing like a ****
that can liberate from the future,
from the multitude of folds
and parts above, over which i identify,
as, on the other hand, all do. So i’m
seeking those private holy parts
and i immediately see yours, that you
reckon so distinguishable. That semblance
of yours, and its vessels, are as red as
bootyless burglars or amphorae,
turned to chamber pots
or spittoons. And
my mum shows up doing the math
about the month that’s not coming ; and yet she knows
that our rhythms are not alike .
Not that i’m feeling supportive gender empathy; rather,
i would not wish daughters like her. I’ll withdraw
if i hear them trot me out, in the room
that i want inadequate and warm; i’ll be
alone or with someone: i’ll disclose you
tomorrow on the phone, without telling you.
-----------------------------------------------------------
­Italian version, written in 1995

turbe vascolari

l’alba proprio bianca è un alito,
un dolore osceno: una parvenza
di te che indurisce le vene.
e mio padre mi sveglia: chiede
le chiavi della macchina, ma la macchina
mi serve per vedere se ti vedo
e litighiamo. quest’ottobre
disturba e mi tradisce,
ma quello che ** deciso è un bene anche per te
che non stai, con una certa tua aria estatica,
ad ascoltare né a sentire, mai: come
in certi giorni l’acqua viene anche dal sole
e nelle vetrine a specchio sono tutta azzurra.
e non c’è niente come un cazzo
che possa liberare dal futuro,
da questa moltitudine di pieghe
e parti sotto, sopra cui mi riconosco,
come, d’altra parte tutti. la cerco dunque
questa parte, privata e benedetta,
e penso subito alla tua, che credi che
si conosca cosí bene. quella sua
parvenza, e i vasi, sono rossi co-
me le vergogne di ladri senza refur-
tiva o anfore, a far pitali
o sputacchiere. e
mia madre arriva e fa di conto
sul mese che non torna; eppure sa
che i nostri ritmi sono differenti.
non che senta, io, solidale complicità di genere; anzi,
non vorrei figlie come lei. mi ritirerò se
li sentirò tirarmi in  ballo, nella stanza
che mi piace scarna e riscaldata; starò
da sola o con qualcuno: te lo telefono
domani, senza dirti niente.
annh Apr 2019
[Enter Marco, a young Milanese courtier.]
It is he, is it not, whose honeyed barbs drip with sweet condescension, and whose kisses taint fair Bianca’s lips with similar speech? Behold, how he frames her vision to reflect his own and directs her preferences accordingly.

Fie, I have been April’s fool in believing Antonio my ally. His encouragement was as sweetmeats to a greedy child; but I have chipped a tooth on that candy-coated morsel and found its centre to be flavoured with deceit.

My cousin Bianca, whose name speaks directly to her nature, whose light once made shadows dance for joy; how extinguished she appears now. For as Antonio sparkles and splutters at her side, her brilliance flickers and fades.

Lo, how he has seeded his untruths within her honest heart. His lies smuggled like contraband, his blandishments the articles of his trade. God’s wounds! Such a purveyor of frippery and falsehood I have never met the equal of.

It is high time to confront this sneak thief in his lurking-hole and to uncloak his creeping connivance. I shall bottle my rival’s words and choose carefully the occasion for their uncorking; then pour for the crowd a rich liquor of ripe requital.

‘It is notorious that we speak no more than half-truths in our ordinary conversation, and even a soliloquy is likely to be affected by the apprehension that walls have ears.’
- Eric Robert Linklater
Shoutout to the people who joined this beautiful site that i know in real life.

Lindsey Isbell
Dayton
Evan Hayes
Brittany
Bianca Grace
Jon Wilkes
Anonymous

These are some amazing people who ive grown to love and cherish in the last few years and they are all very deep and intelligent and i couldnt wish for better friends. I hope more of my comrades chose to navigate the blank page with inspiration as the wind behind their sails and i hope they share their work with me amd the world.

— The End —