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Sofia Paderes Feb 2015
Summer, Day 1.
Do you know how much I love you?
One day you will.
One day you will.
I haven't even seen you yet,
but I am so in love with you.

When the time comes for us to finally be together, I will drive us somewhere outside this concrete jungle to ask you that. Then I will tell you to look at the stars, and you will try to count them, even if you already know that not enough stars were created to compare it to.

Darling, I dance and I sing and I shake in delight at the thought of being with you. I'm a morning person now, because I know that every waking moment is one day closer to forever.

Summer, Day 2.
I have sworn to save every part of this heart for you. I've loved before, but not like this. Not like this. My stone-heart now made flesh beats as if I'd just been born, as if I'd been made to love and to be loved by you.

Summer, Day 3.
I can't believe you chose me. I can't believe I'm going to get to marry you. We've got quite a long way to go, but I'm already preparing, making sure my dress will be as white as snow, every hair in place, this heart pure and this body untouched until the day I put my hand in yours. I can't wait to see your face when I walk down the aisle. I promise to be the perfect bride, your perfect bride.

Fall, Day 1.
I might not write as much as I did during the summer. Life has been getting busier and busier, but I want you to know that I still love you as much as I did from the first day.

Fall, Day 46.
I've been spending quite a bit of time with someone. He's clever and says the most interesting things. I feel like we will never run out of words to say to one another. We talk everyday, and the funny thing is sometimes I feel my day isn't complete yet if we haven't spoken. Don't worry, my heart is still yours. Just thought I'd let you know.

Fall, Day 52.
I think I love him, but just a little bit. I'm sorry, but I'm going to have to cut an inch off of my heart to give to him. It's just an inch less. Surely you won't mind.

Fall, Day 80.
He's been with someone else this entire time. It's a good thing I gave him only an inch of my heart, but the rest is bruised. Don't worry, darling, I'll have it fixed in time.

Fall, Day 100.
It's still beating, but barely. Maybe I should love a little again. Maybe some warmth will do this heart good.

Winter, Day 15.
I think... I gave a little too much.

Winter, Day 50.
My latest disaster said my heart was something worth waiting for. Apparently his second hands tick faster than the usual. He left, taking more than I expected he would.

Winter, Day 65.
Is a heart supposed to look like this?

Winter, Day 90.
I can no longer hear it beating steadily. Some parts have frozen. I have tried to stitch pieces back together and they hold... if you would call it that. There are scars and cuts that haven't healed, swollen bits from the wounds that were infected because I tried to save the poison only to have it lash out and bite me in the back.

Winter, Day 104.
What have I done?

Winter, Day 135.
Look at it. No wait, don't. There isn't anything left to give you, anything worthy enough to even stand in your shadow. I promised you everything now I give you nothing. You waited for me yet I pursued others, consumed by my lust and my pride, where can I hide that I myself will not see this mess of a heart I've created? Where can I run to that I will not have to see the look on your face when you see what I have left to give you? Do you still want this, this broken vessel, this torn up heart, all the pieces that don't fit, all the stitched up parts? Do you still want me?

Spring, Day 1.
You do.

Spring, Day 3.
You do because you knew what you were getting yourself into long before you met me, you knew I would break your heart yet you still asked for mine, you do because you are love itself. A death defeating, grave shaking, forgiving, full of grace and mercy, life and righteousness kind of love. This is the love that chose me. Now I choose you.

Spring, Day 5.
What have I done to deserve this? As far as the east is from the west, so you have cleared my offense. When others asked for me, they knelt on one knee but you asked nailed to a tree. Now here you are. Despite what I've done you want me to return to you, want me to still have you. And you know what?

Spring, Day 7.
I do. And I give my heart to you in absolute surrender and total abandon. Here, though broken and torn, take it and make it new.
It was yours all along. I was yours all along.
A piece written for Logos' Vessel under Fringe Manila.
Joseph Hart Oct 2014
You're busier than the crocodiles,
Swatting at the bees,
avoiding mumps and measles
that carry with the fleas.

In the time I could sit,
and bade my day awhile,
but now I've stuck to moving now,
now my soul is defilled!

You were busier than a ***** cat
swatting at the mouse,
and kicked closed, of that door,
that once was our own house.
When Man, expell’d from Eden’s bowers,
  A moment linger’d near the gate,
Each scene recall’d the vanish’d hours,
  And bade him curse his future fate.

But, wandering on through distant climes,
  He learnt to bear his load of grief;
Just gave a sigh to other times,
  And found in busier scenes relief.

Thus, Lady! will it be with me,
  And I must view thy charms no more;
For, while I linger near to thee,
  I sigh for all I knew before.

In flight I shall be surely wise,
  Escaping from temptation’s snare:
I cannot view my Paradise
  Without the wish of dwelling there.
Mateuš Conrad Dec 2019
i can clearly hear how english mutates...
a book review by a channel... better than food...
the book he's reviewing is goETHE's captain faust:
and the non-avengers...
but no...

i don't hear: stick an umlaut anywhere you please...
i, "for some reason"... do not hear
a: Θ... a göethe... or a goëthe (ladin alphabet -
the germans know about this)...
there is this... goe-ether association...
it's sometimes a riddle of goë, göe...
or quiet simply...
the remains of the ancient latin grapheme (œ)?

educated people make this distinction -
and they'll catch "you" out on it...
since... they represent the Hyacinth Bucket brigade...
gynocentrism doing a snail-trail:
one step forward... two steps back...
it's beside what the linguist "says":
a bucket is a bucket a ***** is a *****...
otherwise? glorifying such a harsh reality
of a surname like: bucket... but not beckett?
no... "samuel"? well then...
it's not a bucket if it's somehow
translated via chernobyll as: bouquet...
is it?! is it?
because even in french: they self-cannibalise...
i.e. they "eat" some letters...
they write one language: but speak another...
what isn't bucket what is nonetheless
bouquet? well... isn't it: bouque-?
it's not even that... boo-k for the ones that
still hear... and can write grafitti schlang...
in some variation of a german...

becuase educated people can get away
with treating GOETHE...
as?  '/ˈɡɜːrtə, ˈɡeɪtə'...
or in simple-me-and-you being bilingual...
fiddling around we arrive at:
Göerte... which is "said"...
but this "lunatic asylum" exception has
to be written: with a clarity of a *******
Greek THETA... a fin! the end!
which always makes lying easier...
when you can: say (a)... but... but...
imply (b)... like some "metaphor"...
some forever useful tool of nuance...
some "spectacle"...
it's easier to lie when... you say (a)
but are "implying" (b)...
then you can blame it on...
not allow the literacy of the masses:
quite as much... you require... exceptions
to the rule... to **** out the lesser educated
"people"...

don't get me started...
born? Ostrowiec Świętokrzyski...
perhaps i should have never left...
3 years in Edinburgh...
over a month in St. Petersburg...
somewhere in Paris, Stochholm, Venice...
Athens... Belgrade from a distance...
Amsterdam... two weeks in Kenya...
and a nonchalant attitude surrounding
London... a strong distaste for Warsaw...
a myth of Cracow...

and no, i haven't been everywhere...
but... after a while... does it really matter
where you go, if you're bringing
expectations with you?
expectations and postcards?
clichés? clichés expectations and postcards?
and... a whole lot of strangers
you haven't met?
tourism and: feeding the ghost town
mentality... perhaps a ghost town would be
something to behold... instead of this...
atypical metropolitan casualness of avoiding
each other... busier busier: and no more
busy than once pronounced dead...
but wait for it: you're at least given a "scene"...

but no... i know one language that
makes pedantic orthographical observations...
but i also know a language that...
write one way... speaks another...
whichever way, best, to suit it...

and you "know" it would only be Fa-Ber'g -
no... borrow the j- from je suis...
if that last E was not an acute É...
but an grave È (grave... or? gráve...
grrrr'av... not a hey hey grave...
GRA-Vity)...

hence? my point exactly..
if the diacritical markers are respected
in fwench... with an acute É and a grave È...
why do "we" need... I(i) and J(j)?
why not... I(ı) and J(ȷ)?

besides... ever imagine writing an autobiography
like a Knausgård... defender of the runes
for a sentence in volume 1...
major google-maps ****** *** volume 2...
i write that with a "glee"...
i mean... you can be immediately be put off
writing an autobiography...
just to avoid the mediocre descriptive elements
of using something more complicated
than a hammer...
for an otherwise... less than a hammer's worth
of banality: evaluation of modern banality /
procrastination...
no one we have been given these complicated
tools... and to the best of our abilities we
best procrastinate, using them...
i hardly think a hammer would be used
to... pretend to play the drums...
but yes: Knausgård... the defender of runes...
irony... but the mr. google-earth guy to turn to...

yes... and before i discovered a past...
there were the runes... and there was
forever this latin morph of the barbarians
"thieving"... but there was also the glagolitic script...
apparently! and before that there was the greek!
and... somehow... i did arrive at having
to master some vague understanding of
mother cyrillic!

- but prior to... did you know what
slavs love cabbage? all the pakistani point this
out: slav love cabbage!
today? i watched the film Layer Cake
and made some cabbage soup...
Layer Cake being? the pre-to-a-bond-film
taster for the actor Daniel Craig...
it was hardly a Guy ******* Ritchie film...
woz itz? but... a decent actor advert...
with "hindsight"...
if i watched the film then...
or as i whatched the now...
and all the known actors jumped the train...
well... cabbage soup... base?
a decent polish / jewish chicken broth...
most of the chicken goes into a ***...
except the *******: you make a *******
roulade with that...
and proper potato bakes...
potato bakes like Heston Blumethal
boils a soft egg...
tatties in cold water... until they start boiling...
then you hunch over them...
boil them for a decent fiver...
turn off the heat...
again... hunch over them...
like an inquistive condor waitig for
the water to stop bubbling...
asking the question: are we all ready...
for the oven? yes, my toy soldiers,
are we, ready?

apparently they taste like christmas
tatties in waistcoats!
my my... what a lovely affair!
cabbage soup? you really need a complete
lack of imagination and a work-around
using root veg...
the european way...
but what is preferred is ensuring
you make a cabbage soup like...
a slav treats a cabbage like a frenchman treats
an onion: you suffocate it...
an hour minimum...
until the crass ******* boils out...
and you're left with...
a sweetness... and softness...
bay leaf all-spice (english spice) included...
some kiełbasa (etymology?
root... kieł- derived from the plural?
kły... canines... suffix -basa?
baza - base... canine-base...
something that requires an understanding
that elevates the dog, "debases" the man...
no quran reader will understand this:
for lack of a better word: shaming food...

where would pakistani cuisine be...
without the pantheon of hindu spices?!
i'll eat like a dog and in so doing:
live a tier above a king...
i still find it highly unimaginative...
to call one fruit "forbidden"
and one meat: "impure"...
whatever Gabriel spoke to Muhammad...
never really explained crab meat...
crab meat crab meat...
the Maldive muslims eat crab meat...
what's crab meat again:
when it concentrates a comparison
with ol' porky porky? scavenger of the seas...
what's with the muslim beef on pork?
and god was critical...
of his perfected animal worthy of
consumption... looks pretty silly from
Beijing... so Beijing is ensuring that Muslims
"look silly"... well... "live"... silly...
so god was so... this that and the other...
then he lent his "all knowing wisdom" and said...
no... this one animal... which you can...
butcher and make use of...
all that's missing is the oink and the hoofs!
or whatever it was: i can't eat the oink,
the grunt remain's the bacon's owner...
and perhaps the "hoofs"...
but such a pristine animal...
tapeworms come... much larger in size...
from aquatic flesh... so...
tic-toc... tic-toc... pull a sly porky on me or...
Gabriel my ***...

the Pwophet sez!
much easier these days: to, "get away" with "it"...
camel jockeys turned oil barons...
yachts... whizzed-up-*******-white-****-****...
and never... the odd-ball from
that long extended lineage of the family
living with a cuddles *****, soft toys...
east of Beirut...
that pencil girth's woe explosion in the sky...
"built" by people...
who employ slave Bangladeshis for
a sunday's worth of sabbath cricket in the desert...
i thought that deserts were only good
for waiting for qurans and dinosaur blood
and myopia and... the odd dehydration
hallucinations?!

i'll eat some sushi to sober up before
i accompany my mother: circa 60 getting
a hip replacement surgery done on her...
i'll sober up: but first things first:
spew...

mind you... below you will find some
ancients inscriptions...
i had to wonder: if the precursor text
of the anglo-sphere people...
the germans and "celts" of the british isles...
the welsh... the scandinavians...
was bound to runes...
before the latin men came...
what did "we", the slavs, use?

before the greeks allowed us entry into
the realm of mediating the otherwise:
quasi-fathomable?
cyrillic is what came: AFTER...
but there was a prior...
i'm no longer interested in the prior...
no more than i am interested in greek...
i once slurred russian cyrillic
for not having any diacritical markers...
i knew they had them...
but that they were... crude...
for lack of a better word...

how does that theory sound?
the: ex Africae omnis est Africanus...
sorry... what?!
giving my scrutiny of phonetic encoding...
am i closer to speak...
or thinking, and if not thinking,
then, reading?!
by the looks of it...
i devolved from encoding in
chinese... perhaps not so much:
sanskrit... but i most certainly suffered
moving across Siberia: obviously: not "i"...

mind you: i've looked at "it" and thought...
me, reproduce? add a stranger to the equation
of my family? i'm just happy to end
the libeage... thank god i don't have
some inheritence complex abounding...
no expectation, no "legacy" akin
to a surname like Rhodes (circa NY)...
i was born with one ****** surname,
which changed... i'll die with another ******
surname: that never made it to a status
of Eshlert... nonetheless! i'll leave...
like a ******* Einstein of an acronym:
E = MC... good for me! bravo ty! bravo ja!

beside the egyptian hieroglyphs...
i'm yet to read something...
from... Congo... perhaps i'm just too ignorant...
or the -igger shade was just too much
that it... grabbed my attention and
i forgot that the victim olympics didn't
happen every 4 years...
but every... whimsical time-span of...
a quarter of the length of a fortnite...

whatever: all out of africa implies...
i'm writing in a devolved chinese...
frozen bits across the siberian fickle desert...
next stopover? Novosibirsk!
no need for pyramids in Novosibirsk...
no "awe" to be found...
when you're toe-dead numb from
frost bite.... is there?!

my letters are a sieve... they allow meaning
through like hands praying to cusp water!
it's, the, reality...
you have ****-wit socialists on one side...
and then... this hyper-inflated
darwinism is all historism on the other...
middle ground, people!
"democracy"! i stand stand both the marxism...
or the darwinism... but arguments failed...
or? we can have the extreme of both ends
of the argument! enough of reading
Pasternak will teach you...
hey... shhh shhh... the collective can
congregate any minute now...
they don't need that many intelligent people
to rally them...
what your, "your" side needs, though?
if enough brass people: stupid enough
to entertain, to lulluby...
em... that's now much to "go on"... is it?
the intelligent with pour gasoline
on a fire...
the entertainers will simply pour
cold milk into a saucepan that contains
milk you're warming to...
melt some butter some honey and an egg yolk
to self-remedy: devoid of big pharma influences...
a witches' brew for a cold and soar throat...

side note: do i "worry" about not having children?
if i lived on the Faroe islands,
Greeland, Iceland, Norway -
i most probably would probably mind...
small town mentality: enlarged...
then again: my family, "my" and "family"
is not exactly accomodating...
why am i not spending time with my grandparents?
at least one side... the "patriarchal" side
drops off: accomodating the madonna anyways...
a sister (my mother) and a brother (my uncle)
are waging a war...
this... "eastender" soap opera is...
i don't have the finances to grativate away
from it...
enter children? and they'd be more ******
up than i already am with my libido
and no outlet... i've stopped seeing prostitutes:
no because i felt "bad":
that one time we only pretended to be
leeching / kissing oysters just because
i forgot to trim my ***** hair:
like some western feminist argument
about the exploitation of romanian women "matters"...
when... the labourer drones of men
of building sites... coming in to work...
hangover... might perhaps... stop...
fuelling the english lush economy...
i didn't want to have children because:
family-wise? things, "things" are messy...
and there's no magic carpet to get me out
of here... not when the last surviving remnant
of a past... i.e. my grandmother,
talks to my dementia riddled grandfather
with the words...
and he stresses them: you no good...
skurwysyn!
elaborate? sure! z-kurwy-syn...
from-a-*****-son..
my grandfather's mother...
well... let's put it in facts...
my grandfather is an illegitimate (
oh **** me, i spelled that right, drunk)
son... his mamma then married...
the father of this illegitimate child...
was a polyglot... spoke 7 languages...
emigrated to the U.S. of A...
remarried, fostered some shards of glass...
and sent his last postcard...
from Niagara Falls... before jumping
into the kamikazee sun...
oh my family is perfect...
then this mother of his...
had two children with a man...
who would beat my grandfather...
which is why he became a "pioneer"
coal-miner aged 15 or 14 or 16...
then this one kid ended up being
fostered... then this "watermelon" of a kid
(nickname) came out...
from a love affair... and when the "*****" died...
his quasi-foster father lived with him...
and in this custard: he...
the father semi-god-know's what...
abused the old man for putting up with
him as a love-child: in wedlock...
and... well thank god there was
no epitaph to begin an end with...

me and children? i am gracious,
i am kind... i don't want them to inherit this
history... which is worse than
a history of germany... at least those *******
had the nazis... which is worthwhile
in terms of exploiting them via video games
as those: evilz badz guyz!

i always think: the sooner i'm dead -
the more chances i have
to either dream... or breathe...
currently i quasi the former and accept
the reality of the latter...
but me and children? my, own, brood?
em... for some capitalistic driven darwinism
pressure ploy of narrative?
taxes and retirement plans for
the western: placebo: aged?
grand'm'ah and gwand'p'ah not fit under
the same roof... set them on the butcher's
path toward the "shop" of wrinkle
and: pristine effortless economic
endeavor... the pig's the lot...
economic meat and... about as barren as a dinner
plate scooped up for examination
once a pauper sat before it to supper...
ingenious! if only, if only we were all born
into a Charlie ******* Dickens' lot of life!
then, only then, we could, we could
perhaps, perhaps: write about it!

i have seen how people have lived their lives...
how... they had wish to write about it...
which always involved a lot of other people -
movie scripts written by directors
and not... actual manuscripts of scripters...
they would write... but then:
started to gag from **** at the mere of thought
of being: brutal, honest, honing...

people either write an honest autobiography,
they ghost it: have someone write a biography,
they write an autobiography that's
designated as: tabloid...
but most importantly... they forget...
a "Moscow"...
when i was in Moscow... i felt like i was
in London for the very first time...
a last time...

i did mention that i didn't envy the russian
diacritical approach...
the odd: miss and "there"...
but no... i didn't envy them...
to me there was no russian orthography...
there is an orthography: which you mind
above any metaphysical discussion...
when, and only when... aesthetics comes
into play...
i.e. rz = ż and ó = u and ch (cerp i ha) = h (samo ha)
this is how orthography is born...
sorry... i'm too "busy" dealing with
orthographic ******* to even mind
your "metaphysics" or a death of (it): interim...

as i stood at the feet of the tower of babel...
i started to su doku the pieces that
pleased my eyes... and the pieces...
left in leftover arabic squiggles of
the remnants of the 20th century...
and the new emergence of environmental
beijing free-of-syndromes to spawn
the 21st... or...
the child of a one-child-state-policy
without a Beijing... only a gradual evaluation
of... concerns for...
not giving birth to yet another ****-wit
of the world's counter to: another
****** of a gullible persuasion...
given that law is blind...
he must have been born: deaf!

- you didn't see me coming;
i didn't even see you leave... -

since the greek letters i tend to most "forget"
are:
- gamma lower-case (γ) because
of the upper-case upsilon (Υ)
- lower-case zeta (ζ) becaue
of the lower-case "11" (ξ)
- eta, lower-case (η) is no real grief
with lower-case EPSILON (ε)
until... you enter the cyrillic
"debate" of е and э...
- lower-case NU (ν) and lower-case
UPSILON (υ)
- Ξ (Θ, Φ) i.e.: XI, PSI, CHI, PHI...
return: that first 'un' is an ale'ks...
alex... but it's not an X in the way that
CHI expresses itself in CHurCH...
lay-teΞ...
- then again... greek orthography begins
in SIGMA... those... quasi-germans...
those remnants of the northern / teutonic
crusade... those Pruσσianς...
or... Prußianς...
the greek F and the greek "F"...
key into a keyhole: Φ...
key turning in a keyhole: Θ...
the iota of four uses... Θ, Φ, Ξ... Ψ...

but that's only the greek... i will not touch
on the glagolitic... until, barely skimming
the draft months earlier...
until i come with my own diacritical markers
and show you: how i was wrong...
yes... the russians do use these markers...
but they, mostly... do not "accent" them...

because i'm no Ezra Pound i didn't have
to imagine going as far back
as the Taoist ideogram...
because i remained bound to the anchor
of europe and...
i really didn't find anything of worth
in africa encoding: silence into their
verbiage with anything:
beside the odd spell of hieroglyphs...
so? i am not an Idaho man...
or whatever mid-western miss-western
******* the genius came from...

i don't have an ideogram:
i have a synonym... the sound is exactly
the same... but Charon 'ave their eyes!
mind you...
ądam and ęwa are off limits...
as is: ł... then again: given that i write in english...
em... "yes, and no"...

but here's my rubric... a rubric implies:
i will not narrate this crap:

don't get me started on the russian variations
of Y... i once said... because the greeks had
names for their letters... and the romans didn't...
well... in western slavic: Y "why, I" has a name:
e'GREK... iGrek... e and i are interchanged
between the western slavs and the islanders...
but the russians?
let me Shakespeare that for you:
pre-scriptum - don't ask me...
how oh how a german umlaut infiltrated
the alphabet: i blame catherine the great...
you have...

е (ye)
ё (yo)
й (-y-) - which acts like a "ȷUDAS"
ы (ý) - alt. to? ıGREK
ю (yu)
я (ya)

all that's missing is a: иы variation?!
let me check my pentagram of vowels...
e, o... u, a... oh right... IO-T'AH-T'AH-T'AH...
sinking the ******* POTEMPKIN!

it's for the best: i'm entrenched in two languages...
which makes me "schizophrenic" /
bilingual... ergo? i have to write in at least:
four... pepper in some latin etc.....
and modern slang? i need that...
and some german... and perhaps a dash
of Gaelic... and some scandi-navigational
pseudo-romancing the rosetta stone...

the rest is quiet "simple"...
a french-atypical acute... because there's no gr'ah-v'eh!
grave ole...
and a dot... like the dot used for no real purpose
in english...

i.e. ь involves the acute...
while the ъ involes the "horde" symbol...
either the dot above the Z in ż or the caron
above the R: ř...
alternative interpretations invoke
even more: 'hide and seek" mechanisms
of the russian Y...
  объект: interJEct with an obJEct...
thus? there just seem to be gradations
of hiding a why (y) with its added vowel...
and its mutant й... crescent mongol moon...
and all the rest of "it"...
since when you "borrow": yew borrow...
you get something along the lines
of: e.g.:

ć.        ць: c.f. surnames ending with -CKI
ń.       нь
ó.      "u" or? Loonin...
ś.        cь
ź.        зь
dz.     ž (dzik - boar - the wild adjective is a tautology)    
ż.      ř       rz   (зъ) or? ж...
ł.       woad... łagodny (he - gentle)
                        łagodna (she - gentle)
š.      sz.      ш             (sh)
č.      cz.      ч               (ch... you're not foreign
to graphemes... mr. Æ ms. Œ...
you simply haven't seen it applied
to consonants... only vowels!)
щ     šč     (szczypta - pinch -
a germanic, saxon "ch" is a cz...
or a caron above the C...
ch' ch'.... akin to the caron above the S...
sh' sh'... so far away from "god": YHWH...
yet so close, so, close!)
ha ha... a "dangling bit"...
and i thought the russians weren't
good at hiding "things"... from ш to щ
you have hidden: a caron a "c"...
a ****'s CHeap... in a dangling "left-over"...
of an otherwise caron S... heap of SH SH ****...

in terms of the cerp and ha and samo ha?
the greek χ (chi) comes into play...
but not like a cheeze...
more like a vowel-catcher breath...
eerie as ****... a HA HA with...
cHA cHA! i.e. like the surds you allow
hindu words access to: gnostic -
'nostic... or... knife... i.e. 'nife...

it's no surprise for me, now...
out of all the black caribbean kids,
the indian and pakistani,
the africans... i was one of the first
to: come out swinging from under
the iron curtain:
distrust levels? high... near almighty...
not enough "japanese" in me
to squander a late debt from
Hiroshima or some other etc.

in some remote original draft...

as ever, i drink, and am a nobody, but then i find myself inclined to look upon the god of gods: whatever remains of worth for the phonetic encoding... whether latin, greek, rune, cyrillic, or ⰒⰑⰃⰀⰐ ⰒⰉⰔⰏ (another googlewhack)... the glagolitic phonetic encoding... sure, first they'll ban the runes in sweden, before realißing that... there's another alphabet... the glagolith...
                  Ⱉ = Ω, given Ѡ = ω...
         this alphabet has been suppressed, long enough!
to be honest? i've never seen a more beautiful letter,
anywhere, other than in the glatolith...
     Ⰿ = M = ᛗ...
                      maybe that's why i like my given names
so much...
                            ⰏⰀⰕⰅⰖⰞ
                 i too! i too have a past!
             i don't need to peer into pseudo-arab ***
the quran religiosity of hieroglyphs
of the northern africans, camel jockeys!
                             there's, oh there's so much
more at stake than the runes...
                what of the Kiev Rus vikings?
this, this is their language:
                ⰕⰑ          "ⰏⰑⰆⰅ"          (może = maybe)    
(to = this)
                                                   (ⰜⰀ = trzeba, trza /
                                                            tsa)­
            ⰕⰔⰑ (tsa)           ⰃⰀ (ga)     ⰂⰀⰓⰉ (vari)
               (gadać = converse... gavari)

    Ⰴ (d)                ⰆⰫⰕ (żyt = fathoming life)

                             ⰆⰫⰕ (worthwile noting:
this is out lot of, a, life)...

      ⰛⰫⰛⰍⰀ (szyszka = cone, of the ᚦᛁᚱ /
                                     ⰡⰑⰄⰟⰀ - fir /
                              jodła tree)

see, i can't solve crossword puzzles...
      i don't know where i would begin,
fathoming this sort of "plaything" thesaurus...
i can play a solitaire mahjong,
i can solve you a su doku puzzle
without wanting to compensate myself
by competing...
                  
   but i do know...
                    what conjured the atom,
the letter?
  what conjured the atom, the letter,
and subsequently, the alphabet?
        noun...
                  the cipher conceptualißation
of making a name, smaller,
so small, in fact...
that letter emerged, and names were
no longer indicative...
of a meaning...
  so much so, that units were
formed, fathomed...
and when merely giving names
to these units, akin to the greeks,
alpha...
        which had to become a-lpha...
and beta had to become b-eta...
          well... only thanks to the latin men...
they became songs...
sing-alongs...
   very much thanks for the H vowel
catcher of the hebrew god...
ah... said the castrato...
  b'eeh sang the castrato...
           em...
  obviously the devil managed to keep
some of the letters...
z'ed...
                 it's still bewildering...
how the latin men "reinterpreted"
the northern runes...
   as the greek men "reinterpreted"
the north eastern glagolitic script...
and to think! to think!
    Ⱃ = R = ρ = rho...
         but what happened, "elsewhere"?
ᚱ = R... but... but... where's the trill?
R, as a letter, looks like it's about
to hide a leg... and start rolling...
ripping apart all other onomatopeias
associated with the rattle of a rattlesnake,
or the sound it could make,
to associate itself with the sound
of water boiling... where did that "go"?
with the french hark "innovation",
and the english tongue...
being bitten and left numb by
a tarantula?!
                      
  point being... i never imagined myself
much of an archeologist...
i always found:
  if you state your "necessary" freedom
to speak?
you're a tongue inside one cranium,
at a particular time, in a universal space...
but, like kierkegaard,
you care more about a freedom to think?
i'm "here", i'm "there", i'm "i'm"
like heidegger might state...
                  using this very modern
language that's english...
          but then sliding back into...
an obscure region of history...
      in two places at once...
        at a universal moment in time,
in a particular space...
                   talking exhausts me,
whenever i start speaking for more than
ten minutes,
there is a cotton mouth infestation,
my tongue turns into a serpent about
to shed a layer of its skin,
and, if i'm lucky,
i will not swollow the tongue...

                    and why wouldn't the runes
be more protected, but currently under
siege -
             both the latin text and the greek
text (respectively),
had the ambition of performing an
x-ray on the runes and the glagolitic texts,
treating them as pseudo-hieroglyphics...

but they found similarities,
   which made this foreign phonetic
encoding systems relateable...

ᚠ = F
                ᚢ = U         (copernican "up-side-down")
ᚨ = A (strange sort of arithmetic, / \
                                              )
               ­ ᚱ = R (d'uh)
   ᚺ = H...
           ᛁ = I
               ᛋ = s
                ᛏ = t (what's with the "bending knee",
so much for the supposed: "arrow"),
               ᛒ = B...
           ᛖ = Σ = E...
                   ᛗ = M...
                   ᛚ = L...
                  ᛟ = o - crude version of circle...

so? the latin men had an easier way to
fathom the runes, and ingest them
into the x-ray vision of post-latin...
   the greeks with the glagolitic script?
much harder...

         Ⱂ = Π = P = ρ (rho)
                 Ⰰ = A = ᛉ = Z...
             Ⱇ = φ = ᚦ = θ...
                             Ѡ = ω...
                Ⱑ = A...
                          Ⱔ = ε....
                                            Ⱚ = θ...

but i agree... you couldn't get "our"
peoples to where we are now,
with these pseudo-hieroglyphics...
   after all: Ⰿ (M) is a beautiful letter...
in glagolitic terms...
          but... it's too complicated for us,
at this moment in time...
it might have had all the necessary
practicality in its necessary time...
that it was allocated to...
but... given people these days
are looking at X-|ɔ\
                              /
\ /_ / ?
                            how ******* hard must
it have been, when,
the phonetic encoding,
was as hard as it, to now, us,
it seems?!
                   so... whatever is happening
in sweden, right now?
       i'm not bemaoning it,
   i have a tattoo... it reads: Sienkiewicz...
the swedish deluge of 1626–29... a.d.,
          **** it, ban the runes...
i've "just" discovered the gagolitic phonetic
encoding, the sort of **** that
st. cyril and methodius had to work with,
and it wasn't as easy as translating /
incorporating the runes...

                     oh sure, i'm waiting...
                 first they ban the runes...
   then they'll have to learn something akin
to the glagolitic script...
             returning back to their x-ray
latin lettering...
                       i still can't believe that
james joyce got away with writing finnegans
wake... without ever employing a single
diacritical marker...
spewing out... what became the modern
english grafitti spreschen...
   e.g.: lolz...
                              und: L8ER...
it's like: the worst of the worst of what
already is the worst in the form
of the h'american demands for acronyms.          

after watching an old couple walk
past me into the supermarket:
    or unlike the men climbing
           the matterhorn:
   which from postcards seems so
much more majestic in its formidable
shape than the goliath everest
    (from postcards) -
                 5 miles, a dark forest,
  and i can show you where english
druids chant: satanus in excelsior!
   and i thought i spoke bad english:
it's: in excelsis satanus...
       i would have approached them,
but then i was alone,
      and there was one idiot shouting
and about a crowd of twenty disciples:
you could hear the murmur
   adhering to the chant from a distance
of about 300 metres...
                    i only had beer on me,
no goat blood, no woad pigment...
                crash a party when they
were having a party in complete
darkness?
                     it's a good thing there was
a song change on my headphones
               and for a minute i picked it up...
wait a minute: i thought i owned
these woods, walking at night?
               ragnarök blood of Hvalba:
unfortunately the norse founded
kiev,
           so if they founded kiev,
                they must have past where
i made mark as: the land immune to
                                       the black death...
if i were an academic with a stipend,
   i'd write another boorish book on the matter
to attract moths...
          but the old couple, hand in hand,
shrinking but not exactly disappearing...
     in me the inherent conceptualisation
of a twin, like a limb missing,
  but with all my limbs intact...
              yet still a twin gleaming in my mind,
as the story i was told in my childhood
no echoes like a behemoth ghouling:
    they said to me:
   did you know that in this world there exists
a person that looks exactly like you?
         what? so i started looking,
      not leonardo, not brad,
                    can't compete -
            if i really am the stronger twin
                 who sent my twin to the plough
and the hearth... am i not to suddenly
    lick ash?
                  but the old couple:
   what a rarity to see, dwarfs,
                                  of former majestic
forms... elsewhere the single mother with
a baby in a buggy at 10 minutes to 11 during
the week, bewildered by reading
frozen foods labels...
           oh... about the supermarket...
grr... mein gott!
                    Surabhis! Surabhis everywhere!
the joy of walking into a supermarket
last, aisles as spacious as any king's
    lonely castle...
        but in the hours 12 in the afternoon
till about 5 in the afternoon?
        traffic jams!
                   zombified shoppers, women,
of course, children to boot...
                           how many times i might
have bumped into them...
      gaze lost, hazy eyed...
                 sometimes i had to walk down one
aisle, emerge from another, just to pass
  a woman standing fiddling with her
hair...
           the new meeting place, apparently,
but that's beside the point,
   the more i listen to radio,
  the more i learned that i'm far from
a music snob...
            take for example:
       free deejays's song
                            el amor es un party...
what? cuba not pretty any more?
              but there's a worthwhile observation
in there:
        only rich men have the chance
        to play a woman's game of "the chase"...
        only rich men get to "chase" women...
        the poor schmucks?
                          ****! have to live with them.  
****... i need to find that
    one exchange in ingmar bergman's
film wild strawberries:
            when the old man wakes from
a dream-memory in which he is
the ****** of a **** scene...
        where a woman is teasing a man
to the point, until he transcendes
                   a teasing woman,
                       and finds a Jezebel...
so upon waking...
                the "children" are picking
flowers in the rain...
                          and there's talk of
abortion...
       at this point it's gone beyond
castration...
                      the conversation invokes
the death-mask of man,
    or man as tomb, and woman as
the robber -
                         apparently once impregnated
man cannot ask for his ***** back,
and in some twisted way:
           and as much as i'd like to "cheat"
having found the screenplay online,
   i have the misfortune of owning the ****
movie...
        and how i like returning
to silent cinema, black & white, foreign,
with subtitles...
                     at this point,
because didn't place the subtitles: on top
of the screen, but at the bottom...
   well, **** me: am i looking for
Cindarella, because focusing back
on those faces means i seem them without
lips and merely eyes and noses,
   and perhaps a chance to spot
   a wriggling, morphed into an insect
st. peter's, if not van gogh's ear!
              or the lost "art" of handwriting...
Cinderella? my focus is so low from
      the action, that i might as well be
  watching, either a ballet, or a *******
riverdance!
             dr. isak borg (a)
marianne borg (b)
        dr. evald borg (d)

such a weird and heart-numbing thinking
went into writing this...
i have a history, a past:
regardless of having children and with
their existence: some sort of guarantee
for a future...
that i have a past, a history,
and it exists... outside of its current
written format,
that i can escape with or without having
children: that i would have probably
later ***** mentally...
having ingested all this third party
quasi-history propaganda
for the only history that's being
salvaged: the insect prone libido
of a status quo... well then...
let my "failure" be the patent for all future
success.
for everything worth some sushi glue? this isn't part of it.
judy smith Apr 2017
It’s the tail end of fashion week in Paris, the busiest week of the year for fashion buyers.

When I meet Clodagh Shorten, owner of Samui, the game-changing boutique that put Cork on the fashion map, she’s already been here four days and is on her tenth buying appointment — there’ll be at least another five before she leaves in a couple of days time.

These appointments, private bookings with designers, allow her to get up close and personal with the clothes that have just been showcased on catwalks.

She’s deciding which pieces will best suit her customers.

Today, we meet at Schumacher, the stunning German label known for its easy chic look.

A beautiful white space, with lush cream velvet sofas, bare walls and white rails (nothing here to distract from the main event — the clothes), this room, prime space in Paris, is rented by the designer year-round just so they have the right venue to sell at Fashion Week.

It gives some indication of the power Fashion Week wields.

Clodagh is here with her right-hand woman, Samui manager Mary-Claire O’Sullivan.

There are two rails — the keepers and the ‘ones that got away’.

They’ve already seen this collection in London.

Today they are here to fine-tune.

This is unusual, Mary-Claire explains — at most appointments, they are seeing the clothes for the very first time.

“This is a big spend,” they tell me, and they’ll stay as long as they need “to get it right”.

Piecing together a collection is something akin to a jigsaw puzzle.

All the items are photographed — later they will be analysed back in the apartment they rent during Fashion Week.

The mix has to be right.

So the coats, a sleeveless waistcoat, are moved to the rail on the right.

They won’t make it to Cork.

Coats were already picked up this morning at another appointment.

Like I said, a jigsaw puzzle.

Two models are on hand to try on clothes when requested — I hear ‘can I just see this on one more time’ a lot.

There’s no haggling over prices in these sales negotiations — it’s all too civilised.

The price is set, as is the instore mark-up. These lauded designs must cost the same the world over.

Clodagh and Mary-Claire share a language and a wavelength. They can finish each other’s sentences and, while I don’t so much as sniff a hint of tension, they tell me they can disagree on buys.

“Clodagh doesn’t want a yes woman,” Mary-Claire says simply.

From Schumacher, Clodagh leads the way through the Parisian cobbled streets, phone held aloft, Google Maps to direct her.

Her wheelie bag is constantly behind her — inside there’s the laptop for orders and a camera for instant access to photographs of collections.

Her calculator is another permanent fixture in the showroom.

Today, Clodagh is dressed in an Australian label coming soon to Samui, Ellery. The lush black fabric sways and moves with her body; an outfit like that makes you really appreciate her eye for fashion. It’s sensational.

For this 5.30pm appointment we are heading to see another new label for Samui — Paskal (Clodagh will wear a piece from this line tomorrow).

The Ukrainian designer is looked after by an agency so in this showroom there are pieces by a handful of brands.

Again, the setup is the same — private appointments, models on hand.

Clodagh and Mary-Claire have to be more careful here — this is a new label and it’s more fashion forward so black is prioritised.

Not every client at Samui will wear this line. Every purchase, I realise, is a gamble.

“We’ve made mistakes, of course we have,” says Mary-Claire though you get the feeling that could be a rare event.

Pieces bought by these two women rarely end up in Samui’s sales rack.

They know their customer, plain and simple.

There is so much trust there, some clients are simply sent collections each season, allowing Clodagh to make the call for them.

So much of their day is spent discussing various clients (never by name in my presence) — what they might like, the best size.

It is effectively the ultimate personal shopping experience.

The number of items and sizes are limited, so customers know they are truly getting one-off pieces.

As we leave, kisses over, the agency head tells them, “you’re our favourites” and you just know it’s not empty fashion talk.

People genuinely love Clodagh and Mary-Claire. And they respect what they do.

Samui is open 16 years now. Clodagh mastered her trade at Monica John before stepping out on her own. Mary-Claire joined her eight years ago.

It has been one of the few boutiques in Cork to not just survive the downturn but to positively thrive.

As the economy spluttered around her, Clodagh very masterfully decided to go high end.

First came Moncler — the top people here had to come and view Samui to see if it was the right match for their esteemed label.

It was — and, increasingly, doors began to open.

Carven, Marni, Rick Owens — people really began to sit up and take notice of Samui.

Now labels are often vying for space on the shop floor. Still though, it takes work to secure the big new names.

Clodagh spends a lot of time on planes, networking, meeting the key players. And it’s not as simple as a visit to Fashion Week twice a year either.

These days pre-collections are key too: these pieces will be on the shop floor for longer.

So Clodagh and Mary-Claire travel in January to Paris for pre- collections, Milan in February for Moncler, Paris in March. The same cycle begins again in June for A/W pre-collections, with S/S Fashion Week in September.

Clodagh is always pushing, always striving for new.

She was devastated to say farewell to Transit, the brand with her from the very beginning. It was simply time for a change she tells me.

They love seeking out new labels, nurturing them, sharing them with their customers.

The next morning we meet at 9am for Dries van Noten.

Clodagh stocks around 50 different labels, most exclusive to Cork. This Belgian designer is one of them.

Here again is a very fashion forward line.

There’s a minimum €20,000 spend here, and that’s the amount Clodagh and Mary-Claire can play with.

This is a much busier showroom, a slick operation. Buyers are everywhere, the models weaving between them.

They are assigned a seller and a table, laptop at the ready to secure the sale.

Sophie, today’s seller, walks them through the long rails and talks to them about the collection, the fabrics, the colour, the catwalk, the vision.

Clodagh and Mary-Claire repeat the process a second time alone, a third time again with Sophie.

There are little standing breaks for coffee — refreshments and lunch are provided by the designer.

Clodagh and Mary-Claire know to carry snacks everywhere. The buying process can be a long one; Dries could be an all-day event.

The price point is much higher here so, again, each piece has to be carefully thought out. Checked and checked again.

These A/W deliveries will land in store in July.

Watching them make their Samui edit on that March morning, I just know the Dries selection will be a show-stopper this Autumn.

I leave them to sign on the dotted line, wishing them success for the rest of their gruelling schedule as I head for Charles de Gaulle.

“People don’t realise what goes into this,” says Clodagh. And she’s right.

None of us can possibly grasp what it must have taken for one woman to put Cork on the fashion radar.Read more at:http://www.marieaustralia.com/short-formal-dresses | www.marieaustralia.com/red-carpet-celebrity-dresses
Danielle Shorr Dec 2015
It's not always going to be perfect
some days will be busier than others
with more work done than attention given

some weeks will be harder than most
time, us both lacking enough of it
wishing there was more to have and spend

now and then
the chaos of priority will challenge us
to choose between the crazy of our schedules
and the enjoyment of each other's company

I'm not sure when this will happen
or how often
but one thing I know for certain
is that each day will always be better if it ends in the same bed
and each morning brighter if it starts with light peeking in to wake us from the same window
spending a night together
is the only way I know how to stop time

the hectic of life will come when we least expect it
the struggles, right smack dab in the center of contentedness
there will be moments where we question our own sanity
wondering what to do with all this passion
when the only real option we have is to embrace it

we're not always going to be perfect
we're not always going to be ideal
there is too much unknown in life to call us a kind of forever
I can not promise that we are
but I can promise a few things

we may not always be successful in our pursuit of each other's happiness
but I can promise you
I will always try to find yours first

I will be your tomorrow
always pushing you to make it there
the call of a new day and a guarantee of something great the next
so that even in the lowest of points you know the future is rooting for you

I will wear a smile even when you're not around
just because I know it's your favorite look on me

I will be as grounded as possible
just so you know there's always a part of this earth that loves you

and when the day comes when we do argue
I can promise I will push the bull in me aside for a little
us, both taurus, could easily fight to the death but I
want nothing more than to be the first to surrender

it's not always going to be perfect
I, will not always be perfect
but you have never wanted me to be anything close to it
only happy

some days we will question how worth it all of the effort we put in is
you'll have my laugh and the curve of my lips to remind you
and I'll have yours
Late, late yestreen I saw the new moon,
With the old moon in her arms;
And I fear, I fear, my master dear!
We shall have a deadly storm.
Ballad of Sir Patrick Spence.

I

Well! If the Bard was weather-wise, who made
The grand old ballad of Sir Patrick Spence,
This night, so tranquil now, will not go hence
Unroused by winds, that ply a busier trade
Than those which mould yon cloud in lazy flakes,
Or the dull sobbing draft, that moans and rakes
Upon the strings of this Aeolian lute,
Which better far were mute.
For lo! the New-moon winter-bright!
And overspread with phantom light,
(With swimming phantom light o’erspread
But rimmed and circled by a silver thread)
I see the old Moon in her lap, foretelling
The coming-on of rain and squally blast.
And oh! that even now the gust were swelling,
And the slant night-shower driving loud and fast!
Those sounds which oft have raised me, whilst they awed,
And sent my soul abroad,
Might now perhaps their wonted impulse give,
Might startle this dull pain, and make it move and live!

II

A grief without a pang, void, dark, and drear,
A stifled, drowsy, unimpassioned grief,
Which finds no natural outlet, no relief,
In word, or sigh, or tear—
O Lady! in this wan and heartless mood,
To other thoughts by yonder throstle wooed,
All this long eve, so balmy and serene,
Have I been gazing on the western sky,
And its peculiar tint of yellow green:
And still I gaze—and with how blank an eye!
And those thin clouds above, in flakes and bars,
That give away their motion to the stars;
Those stars, that glide behind them or between,
Now sparkling, now bedimmed, but always seen:
Yon crescent Moon, as fixed as if it grew
In its own cloudless, starless lake of blue;
I see them all so excellently fair,
I see, not feel, how beautiful they are!

III

My genial spirits fail;
And what can these avail
To lift the smothering weight from off my breast?
It were a vain endeavour,
Though I should gaze forever
On that green light that lingers in the west:
I may not hope from outward forms to win
The passion and the life, whose fountains are within.

IV

O Lady! we receive but what we give,
And in our life alone does Nature live:
Ours is her wedding-garment, ours her shroud!
And would we aught behold, of higher worth,
Than that inanimate cold world allowed
To the poor loveless ever-anxious crowd,
Ah! from the soul itself must issue forth
A light, a glory, a fair luminous cloud
Enveloping the Earth—
And from the soul itself must there be sent
A sweet and potent voice, of its own birth,
Of all sweet sounds the life and element!

V

O pure of heart! thou need’st not ask of me
What this strong music in the soul may be!
What, and wherein it doth exist,
This light, this glory, this fair luminous mist,
This beautiful and beauty-making power.
Joy, virtuous Lady! Joy that ne’er was given,
Save to the pure, and in their purest hour,
Life, and Life’s effluence, cloud at once and shower,
Joy, Lady! is the spirit and the power,
Which wedding Nature to us gives in dower,
A new Earth and new Heaven,
Undreamt of by the sensual and the proud—
Joy is the sweet voice, Joy the luminous cloud—
We in ourselves rejoice!
And thence flows all that charms or ear or sight,
All melodies the echoes of that voice,
All colours a suffusion from that light.

VI

There was a time when, though my path was rough,
This joy within me dallied with distress,
And all misfortunes were but as the stuff
Whence Fancy made me dreams of happiness:
For hope grew round me, like the twining vine,
And fruits, and foliage, not my own, seemed mine.
But now afflictions bow me down to earth:
Nor care I that they rob me of my mirth;
But oh! each visitation
Suspends what Nature gave me at my birth,
My shaping spirit of Imagination.
For not to think of what I needs must feel,
But to be still and patient, all I can;
And haply by abstruse research to steal
From my own nature all the natural man—
This was my sole resource, my only plan:
Till that which suits a part infects the whole,
And now is almost grown the habit of my soul.

VII

Hence, viper thoughts, that coil around my mind,
Reality’s dark dream!
I turn from you, and listen to the wind,
Which long has raved unnoticed. What a scream
Of agony by torture lengthened out
That lute sent forth! Thou Wind, that rav’st without,
Bare crag, or mountain-tairn, or blasted tree,
Or pine-grove whither woodman never clomb,
Or lonely house, long held the witches’ home,
Methinks were fitter instruments for thee,
Mad Lutanist! who in this month of showers,
Of dark-brown gardens, and of peeping flowers,
Mak’st Devils’ yule, with worse than wintry song,
The blossoms, buds, and timorous leaves among.
Thou actor, perfect in all tragic sounds!
Thou mighty poet, e’en to frenzy bold!
What tell’st thou now about?
’Tis of the rushing of an host in rout,
With groans, of trampled men, with smarting wounds—
At once they groan with pain, and shudder with the cold!
But hush! there is a pause of deepest silence!
And all that noise, as of a rushing crowd,
With groans, and tremulous shudderings—all is over—
It tells another tale, with sounds less deep and loud!
A tale of less affright,
And tempered with delight,
As Otway’s self had framed the tender lay—
’Tis of a little child
Upon a lonesome wild,
Not far from home, but she hath lost her way:
And now moans low in bitter grief and fear,
And now screams loud, and hopes to make her mother hear.

VIII

’Tis midnight, but small thoughts have I of sleep:
Full seldom may my friend such vigils keep!
Visit her, gentle Sleep! with wings of healing,
And may this storm be but a mountain-birth,
May all the stars hang bright above her dwelling,
Silent as though they watched the sleeping Earth!
With light heart may she rise,
Gay fancy, cheerful eyes,
Joy lift her spirit, joy attune her voice;
To her may all things live, from pole to pole,
Their life the eddying of her living soul!
O simple spirit, guided from above,
Dear Lady! friend devoutest of my choice,
Thus mayst thou ever, evermore rejoice.
sweetrevoirs Aug 2016
love changes
love doesn't rub my cheeks gently like love used to
love doesn't hold my hand as tight as love used to
love doesn't smile a lot these days
love's eyes are full of uncertainty
love
doesn't share his thoughts anymore
love doesn't share his favorite songs
love doesn't joke freely like before

love is still love but
love doesn't miss me when i'm away
love used to text me with “I guess you're asleep, may tomorrow you be safe, let me know when you're awake, and goodnight!” when i fell asleep and forgot to text back
love doesn't notice me as much as love did a month ago

i'm not saying love is dead but
love doesn't say love like love did
love doesn't love like love did
love gets busier
love gets fader
love thought i was joking when i said “I give up”

love won't answer my texts
love won't pick up my calls

love now walks faster than me
love now speaks in a lower tone
love is now silent
love feels awkward seeing me
love now doesn't sound as excited
and as curious
love is now not as comfortable with my presence
is it normal for love?

or maybe love is dead?
love fell asleep one day and woke up not love
wrong love
maybe love has become somebody else's love
maybe love is still love but not for my love
maybe love is still love but love is tired
maybe love is still love but love is getting tired of my love

or maybe love is just dead.


love is now more brilliant
love stands tall in love's world
love is loved by so many loves
love forgets about love's love
love thrives
love grows
alone
Jodie Addams Mar 2014
Childhood. Play.
Idle time - Watch TV

Teenage. Build friendship.
Idle time- Watch TV

College. Thesis and deadline.
Idle time - Watch TV

Work mode. Busy and busier.
Idle time - Watch TV

Old age. Eyeglasses and hearing aid.
Idle time - Someone who can respond to a stimuli,
preferably a husband.
OUR LITTLE HOME CALLED LONDON TOWN
HOW BIG WE'VE SEEN YOU GROWN
YOUR BUILDINGS MADE BY ELLIS-DON
YOUR SKYLINE BY CAMPEAU,
THE MAYOR HAS KEPT EXPANDING
IT' TOO HARD TO BELIEVE
IF LONDON GETS MUCH LARGER THEN,
I KNOW WE'LL HAVE TO LEAVE.
OUR LITTLE HOME CALLED LONDON TOWN
YOU'VE GROWN UP REALLY FAST
YOU SHOW NO SIGNS OF SLOWING DOWN
HOW LONG WILL THIS ALL LAST ?
YOUR ROADS ARE ALWAYS RIPPED UP
IT'S REALLY SAD TO SEE
TO FIND THE ROUTE THAT LEADS TO WORK
WE CALL THE P.U.C.
OUR LITTLE HOME CALLED LONDON TOWN
WE DON'T KNOW YOU NO MORE
YOU'VE GROWN SO BIG WE DON'T KNOW HOW
TO FIND THE CORNER STORE
WE THING YOUR PARKS ARE LOVELY
THE BEST WE'VE EVER SEEN
THE ONLY PROBLEM THAT WE SEE
IS THAT THEY'RE FEW AND FAR BETWEEN.
OUR LITTLE HOME CALLED LONDON TOWN
YOU'RE NOT MANAGED TOO WELL
'CAUSE EVERYTIME IT SEEMS TO SNOW
YOUR BUDGET'S SHOT TO HELL
YOU NEVER HAVE THE MONEY
TO KEEP THE STREETS SO CLEAR
YOU'RE BUSIER AT LABATT'S PARK
DECIDING TO SELL BEER.
OUR LITTLE HOME CALLED LONDON TOWN
WE KNOW YOU MUST EXPAND
THE PROBLEM THAT WE HAVE WITH THIS
WE'RE LOSING OUR FARM LAND
TO SHOW THE KIDDIES CATTLE
WE TAKE THEM TO THE ZOO
AND WHEN OUR KIDS ASKE WHY THEY'RE HERE
THEY MOVE WHEN LONDON GREW.
OUR LITTLE HOME CALLED LONDON TOWN
YOU'VE ******* UP ONCE AGAIN
YOUR FOOTBALL FIELD HAS GOT NO LIGHTS
AND THAT'S TICKED OF TSN
IN ORDER TO PLAY NIGHT GAMES
YOU HAVE TO SPEND A LOAD
OF OUR FIRST FIFTEEN GAMES AT HOME
WE PLAYED SIX ON THE ROAD.
OUR LITTLE HOME CALLED LONDON TOWN
YOU'TRE PEPPERED WITH STRIP MALLS
WE'VE MORE OF THESE IN THIS FAIR TOWN
THAN SPALDING HAS BASEBALLS
INSTEAD OF SPENDING MONEY
ON PLAZAS SUCH AS THESE
WHEY DON'T YOU HELP THE HOMELESS
SO THESE POOR FOLKS DON'T FREEZE
OUR LITTLE HOME CALLED LONDON TOWN
GETS BIGGER EVERY DAY
THE PROBLEM THAT I HAVE WITH THIS
IS WE'RE THE ONE'S WHO PAY
EACH TIME A NEW FIRM COMES HERE
I FEEL WE'RE GETTING HOSED
FOR EVERY ONE THAT COMES TO TOWN
THERE TWO MORE THAT HAVE CLOSED
OUR LITTLE HOME CALLED LONDON TOWN
YOU MUST THINK I'M A FOOL
YOU WANT TO RAISE MY TAXES UP
TO PAY FOR YOUR NEW POOL
AN AQUATIC CENTER
IS SURE A GOOD IDEA
TOO BAD THE **** THING COSTS SO MUCH
SO, WE DON'T NEED IT HERE
OUR LITTLE HOME CALLED LONDON TOWN
IT CHANGES BY THE DAY
YOU'VE ANNEXED UP WESTMINISTER
AND WE'RE THE ONE'S WHO PAY
YOU DO NOT WANT TO HIT THEM
WITH TAX HIKES REALLY QUICK
SO WE MAKE UP THE DEFECIT
IT REALLY MAKES ME SICK
OUR LITTLE HOME CALLED LONDON TOWN
WITH WHITE ELEPHANTS GALORE
YOUR CONVENTION CENTRE'S LOSING BUCKS
THIS CAN'T GO ON NO MORE
YOU SHOULD HAVE LEARNED YOUR LESSON
BESIDE CENTENNIAL HALL
YOU'VE GOT AN EMPLY PLAZA THERE
NOW YOU'VE AN EMPTY MALL
OUT LITTLE HOME CALLED LONDON TOWN
IS REALLY LIKE T.O
IT'S NOT AS LARGE IN SIZE JUST YET
BUT, GIVE IT TIME TO GROW
THE DOWNTOWN IS MORE DANGEROUS
WITH FOLKS SCARED FOR THEIR LIVES
JUST TELL ME NOW WHERE DO THESE KIDS
GET ALL THESE GUNS AND KNIVES?
OUR LITTLE HOME CALLED LONDON TOWN
PLEASE THINK ON THIS REAL WELL
'CAUSE IF WE STAY ON THIS SAME COURSE
WE'RE HEADING STRAIGHT TO HELL
YOU'RE ALWAYS TRYING NEW THINGS
THAT TURN IN TO A JOKE
REMBEMBER THIS NEXT TIME YOU TRY
DON'T FIX WHAT ISN'T BROKE!
OUR LITTLE HOME CALLED LONDON TOWN
TWENTY YEARS HAVE PASSED
SINCE I FIRST WROTE THIS EPIC POEM
NOW THIS VERSE IS THE LAST
REGARDLESS WHERE I TRAVEL
NO MATTER WHERE I ROAM
I'LL THINK OF LITTLE LONDON TOWN
THE PLACE IT IS MY HOME.
Jason Cale Feb 2012
painted frowns on the sunday town
peddling backwards on the underground
sinking slander
thunder-strikes that planned her
slap up shower towel
bloom-faced scowl
kissing kissing kissing i turn my eyes down

beautiful sunlight
road sign canvas
hunger and caffeine fix
walking towards to busier stores
oxford street in the middle of october
remembering my birthday wasn't just for me

relaxing on the submarine
escalator down blue and brown
blue change to black
southern bound
dishwasher sandwich
tea cup bandage
the simple and effective afternoon

bound by thought posts
wandering from my host
tormenting and enlightening
silence and the noise she keeps
playground heartattack
softly spoken words are back
forget to smile on sunday
higher in the afternoon
monday brings a chorus swoon

bluejay on the roof above
sinking in slumber of my forgotten ...
what you did is yesterday
let go of that and this moment underway
forgive forgive forgive and sigh
smile upstairs and wave yourself bye

all i want is to see is myself through my mothers eyes
Written 24th October 2010
YOU SEE I FEEL LIKE I AM BEING TREATED LIKE AN ANIMAL, AND I REMEMBER BACK IN THE 1930s, WHEN I WAS

BARNEY THE DOG, YA SEE I JUMPED AROUND ALL OVER THE PLACE, AND ROLLING AROUND ALL OVER THE

LAWN, IN THE MIDDLE OF THE NIGHT, YA SEE I AM GETTING VISIONS, OF ME AS BARNEY THE DOG, AND

I REMEMBER CHARLIE CHAPLIN PATTED ME ON THE HEAD, AND I BIT HIM SOMETHING FIERCE

AND CHARLIE CHAPLIN WASN’T IMPRESSED ONE LITTLE BIT, SO FROM THAT MOMENT, KRIS KRINGLE

DECIDED TO HAASLE CRONUS’S SPIRIT WHICH IS ME, AND I REMEMBERED JUMPING ALL

OVER EVERYONE, BUT I MAULED LITTLE KIDS AND CATS AND OTHER DOGS, AND I AM HAVING TROUBLE BATTLING

THIS VOICE TONIGHT, AS BUDDHA IS LIFTING BARNEY THE DOG UP, AND THEN DROPPING, YA SEE

MY OWNERS BACK THEN, REALLY HATED MY VIOLENT OUTBURSTS, AND I BARKED VERY FIERCELY BACK

AND I MADE MY OWNER REALLY SCARED OF ME.

I REALLY LOVED RUNNING ON THE BEACH IN MIAMI, YEAH IN THE 30s, MIAMI BEACH WAS BUSIER THAN

TODAY, I RAN DOWN AND I MAULED A KID, ON THIS BEACH AND MY OWNER GOT INTO  TROUBLE

CAUSE, DESPITE THE KID NOT DYING, HE HAD FRACTURES IN HIS HANDS, AND I VISION

OF ME PLAYING OUT ON THE FRONT DOOR, BUT I AM TRYING TO IGNORE THAT VOICE

ONLY BECAUSE, I AM NOT BARNEY THE DOG NO MORE, I REMEMBER GOING TO THE

LITTLE LEAGUE BASEBALL, AND I TRAPPED 3 KIDS IN THE BASEBALL SHED, 2 KIDS GOT OUT

BUT 1 KID WAS MAULED BY ME, BARNEY THE DOG, I FIRST STARTED GROWLING AT THE KID

THEN I KILLED HIM, WHICH MADE ME VERY HUNGRY FOR MORE, BUT AFTER MY OWNER HEARD

DESPITE OF WHAT HE SAID, WANTED TO KEEP ME UNDER LOCK AND KEY, HOPING IT WILL

REFORM THE SAVAGE BEAST IN MYSELF, I REALLY DON’T APPRECIATE BEING TREATED LIKE AN

ANIMAL, I AM A HUMAN BEING, NOW, BUT BRIAN ALLAN, WAS PUT ON THIS EARTH TO EXPLAIN

ABOUT HIS PREVIOUS LIVES, AND TAKE ONE FOR THE TEAM, TO HELP THE POOR PEOPLE

I DON’T APPRECIATE BEING TREATED LIKE MY CAT EITHER, CAUSE I WAS RUBUX THE CAT

AND THAT CAT NEVER SLEPT, AFTER I WAS GREAME THORNE AND PATRICK DUNBAR BOTH

KIDNAPPED AND KILLED AT THE AGE OF 8, THEN I WAS RUBUX THE CAT, BUT I WAS A REALLY LOUD

NON FAMILY LOVING CAT, CAUSE MY COSMIC ENERGY, WAS HELPING CRONUS, DESTROY THE

SPIRIT OF STEVEN BRADLEY AS WELL AS THAT CRAZY WITCH DOCTOR, RUBUX WAS ALSO

A VERY HUNGRY CAT, HE ATE 5 TINS A NIGHT, AND THE OWNERS, WERE POOR AND STRUGGLING,

THEY CAN BARELY LOOK AFTER THEMSELVES LET ALONE A CAT, AND THEN RUBUX WAS RUN OVER BY A GROUP

OF KIDS SAYING, RUN HIM OVER, RUN HIM OVER, RUN HIM OVER, PRETTY MUCH WHERE I GOT THAT

STUPID VOICE, OF KIDS SAYING RUN HIM OVER, I DON’T WANT TO BE AN ANIMAL, I AM A HUMAN BEING

I COULD BE DOG WITH A BLOG, BUT I THINK THERE IS NOTHING WRONG WITH WHAT I DO ON

AAA YOUTUBE TV OR AARON CLAYTON, PLEASE STOP TREATING ME LIKE AN ANIMAL, I KNOW

BARNEY THE DOG WAS BAD, BUT KIDS MADE RUBUX PAY FOR WHAT BARNEY DID, I DON’T WANT TO BE A COOL KID

TO THE BED COVERS YOUNG DUDES, TONIGHT I FEEL LIKE A N ANIMAL, SO I WROTE IT OUT OF ME

CAUSE I AM A PERSON A VERY NICE PERSON

I WANT TO BE HAPPY EVERY DAY

BARNEY DOESN’T REALISE HE RUINED CRONUS’S GOOD NAME

BUT HE WAS A DOG, OH YEAH HE PUT OTHER GERMAN SHEPHERDS TO SHAME

I AM NO ANIMAL, BARNEY AND RUBUX, WERE MY LAST CRACKS, THE KIDS KILLED RUBUX, BRIAN

ALLAN WAS BATTLING WITH DAD SAYING LEAVE MY SON ALONE, BRIAN IS A COOL KID

LIKE ALL KIDS, I THOUGHT, I HATE BEING A COOL KID TO DAD, BUT I LIKE DOING THINGS THOUGH

MY COOL KID, IS WATCHING FOOTY, MY BROTHERS WAS PLAYING COWBOYS AND INDIANS

OK THAT IS THIS LIFE, BUT FOR RUBUX AND BARNEY, THEY HAD STUPID OWNERS

RUBUX’S OWNERS WERE SO DEVASTATED, WHEN RUBUX DIED, THEY TOOK THE KIDS TO COURT

GOT $ 1-000-000 IN COLD HARD CASH

AND BOUGHT A HOUSE IN MIAMI AND WENT TO WOODSTOCK IN 1969

AND BRIAN KNEW THIS, CAUSE I USED MY SPIRIT OF RUBUX THROUGH CRONUS TO WATCH THAT

THEY ENJOY THEMSELVES, IN THEIR NEW HOME IN MIAMI
591

To interrupt His Yellow Plan
The Sun does not allow
Caprices of the Atmosphere—
And even when the Snow

Heaves ***** of Specks, like Vicious Boy
Directly in His Eye—
Does not so much as turn His Head
Busy with Majesty—

’Tis His to stimulate the Earth—
And magnetize the Sea—
And bind Astronomy, in place,
Yet Any passing by

Would deem Ourselves—the busier
As the Minutest Bee
That rides—emits a Thunder—
A Bomb—to justify—
My heart have no brakes
Just on a ride with the winds
Pretending to be deaf to what they say
For they are pointless like his dreams.

I can imagine the busy nature of a busy bee
But my heart is busier indeed
Discussing the issues of life in a silent plead
Still no ears ever listened to him.

My heart, a beautifully shapeless engine of life
Travelling far and wide
Intruding without being noticed
Harming not, adventure, learning are his motives.

Daily arguing against nature
Often in his extreme corner fighting for the weak
Heart broken by the harsh policies of his nation
My fate is his only whip.
Aaron LaLux Sep 2016
Busier than I thought,
and money doesn’t buy time,
so I’m rushing to catch up,
to myself so ahead of time,

remind,
me,
why,
you,
are,
divine,

we don’t need a reason,
we just need a rhyme,

I’m,
Busier than I thought,
and money doesn’t buy time,
so I’m rushing to catch up,
to myself so ahead of time…

∆ Aaron LA Lux ∆
tick tock
Solitaire Archer Mar 2010
The candle is lit and the house slumbers as
I turn the pages of this most personal tome it is not magik but memory
that urges the turning.
From the Oh so careful initial lines of a Very young woman beginning her search
with every I dotted and T crossed
every day logged and noted .To the busier
days of finding teachers and noting the questions that HAD to have answers.
With accolade's that came when at last I was asked to lead and the tears and uncertainty when the time had come to leave.
The wonder and renewal that comes with teaching and the pride as my students stand on their own and go forward.
Too the life moments when my attention was scattered a parents passing the ending of a marriage
Every drop of candle wax and oil stained sheet recalls vivid memories and tears and laughter.
My Book is not as pretty as I once thought it would be ,
But I met My Lady in its pages and for that I will every be grateful.

Solita Shadoewalker
- From Night Thoughts
Sa Sa Ra Nov 2012
Been a while sorry I am behind on reads,
overly buzzed busier reading these;

~Hearts Of All~~

I Try Might...
With much mightly...


In My Own
Sorting of
Trance!!!

Dancing In LOVE's
Joyly Fun Seeking
Thine Rightfully
Divined Kiss's
Thine Divine
All Willing
Alrighty
Got
\/
.
.
And
Out of
Ode Baseless
Fearful Trances
Hypnotic Spell's

Broken Freed
~Of IT ALL~
Abusively
Already
Leave's
If You
Let It
Be!!
\/
S
o
.
.
\/
.
.
.
This is my remedy need too;

~~Solutions Want Need Of Their Remedies As Much,
As A True Remedy Wants Their Need Of Solutions.~~

More Right Better
Than needing selfishly sought wants any day,
Who How!!!

~One by for one by two of each others just for starters.~

~~Love seeks need always as need is calling of Love too truly!!!~~

Is this not then for each others better of the seeding,
growing than shoving else of each other's else's

~Thine Divine Bliss's off!!!~~

Uprooting and or smothering one way or any other!!

Overly too close to call home to or,
From when more too eerily at all!!!

Nice though so well thee,

WRITE OF ALL!!!

Very Touching Real Deep!!
So well you All Do Speak!!

Now too I am remembering as much as Eye
Try ever to believe how ever tender forgiving,
And understanding can be, be endlessly!!!!!

It's offensive defensive covering,
Of self hate to hard to conceive,


That can will to go on in such like ways,
Death walking till blood stops pumping,

~Does not sound like the plan,
   That We Inwardly Receive!!~~

Too many lies from to many partners,
In preference-ing of ganging together,

In our latest smash successes so oft,
Momentary and addictive pleasures.

So shallow freaky speaky creepy as,
Much is dead just above ground!!!


Oooh ouch!!!
Please!!!

  ~SELF,    
       OTHER~~

  ~FORGIVENESS
      BREATHE ~~
\             /
  <3<3<3
   #&#
   :):)
   !!!
   !!
   !
   .
   .
   .
   Ty ALL,
  \     /
   .
   .
   L
   O
   V
   E
   .
   .
   R
   \/
    .
    .
      ~Sa Sa~
      ~Ra~
       :):)
        :)
~~~~~~~~~~

Older set so I thought,
I'd bring these here Top with Pop!!

http://hellopoetry.com/poem/in-lakech-ala-kin/
http://hellopoetry.com/poem/hate-spectrums-hallowed-cacophony/
http://hellopoetry.com/poem/black-rainbows-crow/
http://hellopoetry.com/poem/dearly-departed-1/
http://hellopoetry.com/poem/columbuss-crossing/
http://hellopoetry.com/poem/roaming-still-1/
http://hellopoetry.com/poem/wizard-of-kaza/
http://hellopoetry.com/poem/wwjs-dew-appear-as/
http://hellopoetry.com/poem/puff-crispys/
http://hellopoetry.com/poem/unbittered-*****/


More recent Top Pop's and Overly Sweet Treats!!!

http://hellopoetry.com/poem/come-home-all-returning/
http://hellopoetry.com/poem/heavenly-spirit-unite-within-our-earthly-existence/

http://hellopoetry.com/poem/ur-trending-babe/  ***still in making,
Daughter's birth story, by poem here not yet born!!!
Pssst...have two son's and have pretty well drafted first born son's story as well...

http://hellopoetry.com/poem/forgive-me-all/
http://hellopoetry.com/poem/friend-of-heaven/
http://hellopoetry.com/poem/this-eye-timothy/
http://hellopoetry.com/poem/faith-from-whence-they-came/
http://hellopoetry.com/poem/here-we-are-eight-days-a-week/
http://hellopoetry.com/poem/you-are-the-judge-like-believe-know-or-not/
http://hellopoetry.com/poem/just-love-one-another-as/
http://hellopoetry.com/poem/idk-if-you-read-much-my-poems-but/
http://hellopoetry.com/poem/holy-basil/
http://hellopoetry.com/poem/who-me-my-permissions/
http://hellopoetry.com/poem/i-seek-when-i-wake-from-sleep-of-night/
http://hellopoetry.com/poem/his-hers-is-trees-breathe/

Short Tweet Tweets!!!

http://hellopoetry.com/poem/joy-18/
http://hellopoetry.com/poem/heart-time/
http://hellopoetry.com/poem/yours-and-mine/
http://hellopoetry.com/poem/knock-knock-bliss/
http://hellopoetry.com/poem/brooding-in-play/
http://hellopoetry.com/poem/peekaboos-we-are-the-sunny-who-hoots/
http://hellopoetry.com/poem/here-a-home-there-a-home-everywhere-a-home-home/
http://hellopoetry.com/poem/prince-or-princess-son-or-daughter-kings-and-queens-too-be-1/
http://hellopoetry.com/poem/the-middle-riddle-in-medias-res/
http://hellopoetry.com/poem/solomon-is-here/
http://hellopoetry.com/poem/garlic-really-or/
http://hellopoetry.com/poem/one-minus-nine/
http://hellopoetry.com/poem/denial-forsaken/
http://hellopoetry.com/poem/i-am-you-are/
http://hellopoetry.com/poem/ha-om/
http://hellopoetry.com/poem/tasty-1/
http://hellopoetry.com/poem/the-last-dog/
http://hellopoetry.com/poem/onebuddy/
http://hellopoetry.com/poem/oh-but-hell/
We have forgotten
who we are really looking for
when life doesn't hold on to dreams
then live it without love,
and people are getting busier
to see which place is the most comfortable for themselves,
among the boisterous people
vying to be someone else.

We have forgotten
who actually survives
of a life they call a journey
without understanding
where to go home
and they don't realize
that everything had gone too long.

We have forgotten
who actually fell first
when we don't achieve
everything we chase of
what we didn't have
in the first place;
dream,
hope,
love,
or even ideals,
and we feel
we are no longer worthy.

We have forgotten
that actually words
don't want to escape
from the collection of prayers
that we have recited
over and over,
even if it's repeated
we always insult
and berate ourselves.

We have forgotten,
the simplest way
to be a happy human.
Indonesia, 23rd December 2021
Arif Aditya Abyan Nugroho
Anna May 2013
'Waves on a sea bed of linen,
Are at the heart of every prison'

Such a strident thought to plague my mind
A single yawn before the dream.

Outside, I reach my moon
As it touches me,
Such a quiet companion
To be keeping
With the busier of minds.

I sit in the porch swing
For over an hour.
Rocking.
Thinking.
Creating.

I imagine a southern jukebox
That comes through clearly
By listening for its beauty in the ether.
Its music feels too endless.
Too easy.
While moving through me too freely.

My throat heats.
My heart aches.
I begin to weep.

Afterwards, I scare my ducks,
(Because I can)
And make my way towards the pond.

The new grass beneath my feet
Warns me to run forever.
As the memory of you and me,
Stops me at water's edge.

Where the frogs soon move me,
From musing nature's scant lullaby,
To analyzing Pharaoh's teeming nightmare.

I eventually retreat back inside.
Across the lawn.
Through the house.
Up the stairs.

Beneath my canopy of night,
Harsh thoughts
Clash wholeheartedly
With heated tears
And stifled cries.

'The stars were never shining down on me,
They just looked down on their luck.'

Such a wretched truth to plague my mind,
A mere wasted wish before the dream.
ShowYouLove Dec 2013
Christmas Presence

The time of year is upon us once more
Filled with travel, shopping, stress
Running here, over there, buying this, giving gifts,
Ever more and ever longer Christmas lists!
Busier than bees in the summer, nuttier than squirrels in the fall
It's a wonder how we live at all!
We never bother to stop or pause or even slow down,
But what if we did? What if we dared to take a step back;
See beyond what we have to find what it is we lack.
If we go back to the beginning I think we might just find
Some Christmas presents of a slightly different kind.
A child was born a cold dark winter night,
Three rich wisemen brought expensive gifts and travelled many miles
A poor drummer boy played a song for the babe
But the greatest gift of all that day
Was the birth of baby Jesus
Sent to earth to give us great gifts:
The gifts of His mercy, forgiveness and grace,
The gifts of His love, wisdom, and compassion.
But the greatest gift of all was he gave us His LIFE! Died so we might live.
Every day He is with us, we are surrounded by His presence in our hearts and in our lives.
Each morning we wake up is a gift from God and every day and night He is with us.
We celebrate Christmas just one day a year, but Christmas is really all year!
I hope that we do not too quickly forget what is truly important and what Christmas really means.
Christmas isn't about the ribbons, the bows or tags,
It isn't about the packages, the boxes or bags!
It's together with family friends and loved ones to remember the gifts that they are;
Jesus gave us the gift of His PRESENCE, may we be PRESENT to Him and a GIFT to all both near and far!
Thia Jones Mar 2014
Again time passes
and after a while
you escape my waking thoughts
only to haunt my dreams

Your birthday comes around
as birthdays inevitably do
on their ever accelerating cycle
I send my greetings
because I can't resist
we agree how much we've missed
being in touch
that without each other
something's lacking

We go back to regular texts
about our respective lives
I want to say that if we try again
I want your consent to take control
flexibly and without high protocol
to work toward some switching
but that there are things on which I'd insist

Like regular voice contact
because lack of that
was something that dented my trust

Like a commitment to meet
with a date in mind
or at least a date
by when a date must be arranged

Like being able to hold you to things
to answers you don't avoid
and questions you don't evade

Like being able to hold you

But it becomes clear that
none of these will be on offer
you're not returning to your castle
because you say
your Second Life is over

I wonder why in that case
you still pay to keep it there
empty save for an abandoned dog
whose pitiful barking
brings me to tears

Yet once again I bite my tongue
because even this friendship
this new phase
is fragile and on your terms alone
I hold back and accept what you grant
because anything however small
is better than nothing at all

You offer advice with my fitness
and we make a good start
but your promise of more advice
fails to materialise
often you're too busy to talk at all
you're even busier than before

I'm pleased your career has progressed
though puzzled how this happened
in a job you said wasn't you
that more responsibility
wasn't something you'd consider

I'm pleased you're fitting in
charity work too
that working on your fitness
brings you satisfaction

Yet I'm aware that these things
leave you no time for me
or for the desires
that I know still burn within

I wonder if this commitment
of time and consciousness
isn't perhaps a distraction
just another avoidance strategy

Then the crunch comes
I'm upset, shaken
tell you of my pain
any friend would show sympathy
give hugs, even though virtual

But not you
there are worse things you say
as though their existence
invalidates my feelings

I call you on this
and that's it for you
you "can't say the right thing"
but it was never about saying
what I wanted to hear
(was it that for you?)
I'd prefer you said
what you truly feel
and that your actions
followed from that
but now that's easier said
because we're over

Cynthia Pauline Jones, March 2013
The fourth part of my 'After Midnight Suite'
Terry Collett May 2015
Ingrid finds the crowds of people overwhelming the West End of London is busier than she thought it would be theyve just got off the bus at Trafalgar Square quite near from here the National Portrait Gallery he says as they walks through Trafalgar Square past by Nelsons Column its a 170 feet high he says looking up Ingrid looks up too I bet he can see for miles up there she says its been there since 1843 he says walking on howd you know? she asks Mr Finn told us in history the other month Benny says I never heard him say that Ingrid says following behind Benny you were probably asleep Benny says smiling no I wasnt she replies just dont like history I find it bores me they climb the steps into the National Portrait Gallery and spend an hour or so looking around at the various portraits afterwards they come out and Benny says what about a glass of milk and cake in Leicester Square? is it far? she asks no just around the corner he says so they walk around and into Leicester Square my old man brings me here sometimes Benny says usually Sundays and we have a look around then we have a drink some place and have a go on the machines in the pinball alleys  my dad doesnt take me anywhere Ingrid says taking in the bright neon lights and the crowds of people passing them by I came with Mum once when she did evening cleaning at one of the offices up here Ingrid says remembering my mum works up here too cleaning some evenings Benny says they go into a milk bar and sit down at a table a waitress comes over to them and asks them what they wanted to drink or eat Benny tells her and she walks away he looks at Ingrid sitting in the chair he noticed she winced when she sat down whats up? your old man been hitting you again? he asks her why how did you know? she says looking at him blushing slightly saw how you sat and winced he replies he was in a bad mood and said I was too noisy and now that my brother and sister have left home he finds it easier to pick on me and Mum too Ingrid says you should tell someone Benny says Ingrid shakes her head Mum says Ill be taken away and wont see her anymore and I dont want to go in a home away from her so I say nothing and you mustnt either she  says eyeing Benny anxiously whod believe me he says looking at her wishing he could save her from the beatings she gets but he knows no one would believe him the waitress beings their milks and two biscuits and goes off after putting them on the table I saw your mum had a back eye the other week and my mum said she told her she walked into a door some ****** door that must be Benny says she must walk into that door on a regular basis Ingrid begins to sip the milk through a straw the waitress had provided she says nothing but looks at the glass and the sound of other people talking and laughing Benny sips his milk also thinking of the last time hed seen Ingrids old man passed him on the stairs and her old man eyed him coldly but said nothing after he had gone downstairs Benny gave him the ******* gesture Ingrid is glad to be out of the flat and the Square but shes anxious about his return that night after work and what he will ask her and she finds it hard to lie to him and if she says shes been to art gallery and the West End hell whack her for going and for going with Benny and Mumll say nothing then hell thump her for letting me go off and Ill feel guilty for getting Mum into trouble you let a nine year old girl out into the West End with that Benny kid? thump thump Ingrid can see it all now as she sips her milk Benny sips his milk eyeing Ingrid opposite looking anxious her mind on something else her eyes through her glasses enlarged what are you thinking about? he asks she looks at him nothing she replies its impossible for the human brain not to  think about something unless its died of course and I assume your brain hasnt died he says smiling Daddy says Im brain-dead sometimes she says but I wasnt thinking of anything in particular she lies looking at Bennys hair and the quiff and his hazel eyes and that way he has of studying her you dont lie too good he says lying about what? she says trying not to look too guilty Im not lying what were you really thinking about then? he asks she looks away from him and sips more of the milk I bet youre worrying about your old man finding out about us going up West and you know you cant lie to save your life Benny says I wish I could lie but I just blush or my eyes give me away Daddy always looks at my eyes he says they give me away before my mouth does then Im for it and he knows it and Mum gets it also then whether she knows about me or not its a matter of creative truth telling Benny says she looks at him and she frowns whats that? she says well keep in mind something who have said or done and put it in place of something you have done or said which you know you shouldnt have done he says but we have been here she says how can I put anything in its place? we will Benny says where? she asks well go to the church on the way home and you can go in there on your own and pray or something look at the coloured glass windows and flowers and then tell your old man that if he asks where youve been and done they finish their drinks and biscuits and go back to Trafalgar Square and get a bus back to the Elephant and Castle and Benny and Ingrid go to the church at the top of Meadow Row right now you go in on your own and sit and pray and have good look at the things inside like the coloured glass windows and the altar and then if your old man asks you can tell him the truth Benny says Ingrid goes in the church and Benny waits outside and as he does so he spots Ingrids old man go by on the other side of Meadow Row but he doesnt see Benny he just walks down the Row his features grim and Benny thinks of tiny demons following him.
A BOY AND GIRL IN LONDON IN 1958.
Andreas Simic Mar 2022
Here alone
Far from my fellow kind
I stand by myself
But I am not lonely

Long ago I learned
Having more people in my life
Did not equate to
Having more friends

Being busier
Did not mean being more constructive
Or being more successful
That fulfillment comes from within

So now I gaze
Over a landscape filled with memories
Of family, friends and good times
I am alone, but not lonely
Gaining wisdom one lesson at a time
The Man is lying naked.
This filthy pavement is his abode.
The Man is emaciated and famishing.
And he never begs for alms,
Proud and conceited.
The road is busier than ever.
No one takes interest in him.
No one catches a glimpse at him.
And a few feign not having seen him at all.

The time fleets on, the cars move on,
The Man is lying naked.

At the first blush, far from being a beggar
Is the Man.
He is well-complexioned with big glamorous eyes.
His face is sleek and his hair shines against
The lustrous sunbeams.
His eyes are gleeful, but mournful is his heart.
Penniless though, his craving for gold is sheer.
He ogles at the gold brought by the people around.
But he never begs for alms,
Proud and conceited.
Then someone nears him and asks who he is.
After much vacillation, he dismisses his taciturnity.
“Mankind is my name”, he replies.

The time fleets on, the cars move on,
The Man is lying naked.
Irlomak Jul 2018
062617.

One day
ill grow older
ill become busier
to the point where i won't have any time
to update myself about you
and ill be looking back at this very day
amazed and amused
you have served me such happiness
have given so much joy
and motivation in my life
i would look at a picture of you
with a genuine smile on my face
and would knowing nothing
but gratefulness
for all the positivity, motivation and happiness
that you've given me and
will constantly bring into my life
thank you for being there for me
always and forever
you're always in my heart
i will always be thankful
thank you for existing.
I am one,
In a trillion,
Significant enough,
With standoffish movement of air,
Of any velocity.
I will furnish you with an upchucking sensation,
In your solar plexus,
And move your heavy head,
Round and round,
Round and round.
Outdoing the darkness,
Above and beneath,
I will emerge cold-eyed;
I will emerge cold-eyed,
And hit the strong,
And bold,
And black boulders.
And sprinkle moisture droplets on your pale face.
I am one,
In a trillion,
Vying with my facsimiles,
And similar ones,
For reaching the untraced,
Unknown,
And unfrequented coves,
With puissance,
And robbing the possessions,
I will recede.
I will recede,
And submerse everything with me,
And what awaits me,
On my way.
Come,
And dunk yourselves,
Thinking I will wash all your transgresses,
Come,
You puny creatures,
I will,
But wash only your grimy,
And filthy bodies.
Advance farther,
And you will be another meal,
To me.
I am one,
In a trillion,
Significant enough,
Roaring monotonously.
I am a wave,
In a humongous ocean,
Busier than a bee,
Rising and falling,
Forever,
Growing old,
And working harder,
Than ever.
Rhiannon Grace Jul 2015
An early start
Brisk, cold, dark.
Busy train, not for long
Transfer to busier train,
Easy ride followed by half hour walk.
First day of semester,
Lecture one - lifespan, development and communication.
Ten minutes to spare
Crowded room. Enough seats.
No friends.

Alone.

Fear of isolation sets in.
Unjustified? Maybe.
Irrational? Emotion mind says "no".

Later on; sitting alone.
Library,
Perfect silence.
Views of clear, empty blue skies.
A water feature, the road, a small bridge.
Serene yet, lonely.

The day is still cold,
The clock; not yet 12
The space around me still empty - alone
An accustomed feeling
Isolation already defining day one.

A day not yet ended.
We humans are erasing existence of humans ..
The killing of animals have shadows of humans..
We are erasing Silk, Cotton, khadi ...
Kids now don't like the taste of natural honey..
Eating of fruits they know not, drinking fruits is what they like.. Home cooked hot food is becoming rare now..
Bringing parcel of food is becoming common now..
TV, Mobile, Computer, FM, takes 16 hours a day now,
Kids getting a digital notebook is becoming common now..
Humans now don't have time to ponder,
Humans are becoming slave of man made things...


To plant trees in empty land is no one's pass time
To visit a zoo or feed an animal does not fit in the 16 hours slavery,
To invite relatives is yearly event..
To have meeting with friends is limited on FB WhatsApp or Instagram..
To walk, to hear birds chirping is just like a dream,
But humans are busier than they were before..

Kids are growing indoors.. And not outdoors..
There hieght is also changing from length to breadth..
0-10 yrs kids have thr brains growing,
What ever they easy, what ever they do they remember for rest of thr lives..
Walking, laughing, thinking, playing, eating, they learn in this age,
Irony is Mother's career and Father s promotion is also at peak in this age of theirs.
Knowingly unknowningly we are stunting the growth of young minds,
In the hands of video games was are cremating future of tomorrow..

We humans are erasing existence of humans..
We humans are erasing existence humans!!!

Sparkle in Wisdom
*(Khadi - a type of fabric wooved in India, made famous by Gandhiji)

Original had fb and email, changed email to WhatsApp and Instagram... Though I think at least email was better.. :)

I wrote this one in 2010.....
But it still holds true even now... I guess more now than before.

*This one is English translated from my original Hindi one.
Brent Kincaid Nov 2016
Once I believed in Santa
And the north pole was real.
The lights on the Christmas  tree
Could change the way I'd feel.
The standard kind of carols
Still make me reminisce
When everyone got friendly
And cheeks were happily kissed.

Sure, as I got to be older
Most of my gifts were clothes
But there were still lovely things
For eyes, and ears and nose;
The smell of turkey baking
And pecan and pumpkin pie.
Christmas music on the radio
Those Christmases gone by.

And later we went caroling
Some friends of me and mine.
We sang in lovely harmony
We all sounded very fine.
Back at home with egg nog
We often played  Monopoly.
We laughed and told jokes
A happy Yuletide family.

As time went on we changed
And some old traditions fell.
We threw out the silver tree
And tinsel went away as well.
We started to add to our growing
Collection of handmade things.
The colorful lights still twinkled
But the angel no longer had wings.

Times have gotten busier
So tempting to avoid the trip
But it’s only this once a year
So we don’t let this visit slip.
We keep these memories going
And talk about them each year
When the family comes back
For the holidays from far and near.
Many days
And the thoughts lay scattered
Never alone, lost, too shy
The words jingle jangle
Sometimes loudly chattered

Many days
Busier than busy
Dizzier than dizzy
Happier than happy
Testing capabilities
Fulfilling Responsibilities

Many days
Work never completely done
Sleep it’s a necessity
And some fun
Walking on the Sun
Haven't posted here on HP, it's been a while and then HP wouldn't let post :))
Glad it's up and working :))
Have been listening to Inna, these days!!
Last line inspired by her song 'Walking on the sun'
Love her music.
LakotaPronych Oct 2013
Captivated by my thoughts
I was lost in a completely different world.
The silence wasn't all that terrible,
but it did keep me busier than i had hoped.
I wasn't prepared for what tomorrow would bring
although I did have to face it eventually.
I wasn't afraid of my future,
just scared of what it may or may not hold within it.
I knew I had to conquer my fears
sooner rather than later but procrastination
always sounded so good.
I knew sleep would bring me closer to it much faster,
so I always held off.
In the morning it didn't seem to matter much though.
I was still going to be caught in tomorrow
no matter how today goes.
All I can do is hope
tomorrow is better than today
because yesterday wasn't okay.
Written on August 7th, 2013.
Aa Harvey May 2018
7 pm wake up call


Today I had the strangest dream.
There was you and I, working side by side,
In a café down the street.
I guess we were on equal pay.
I started work and there you were,
Sat with me until it started to rain.


I think it might have been in France;
Maybe Paris, maybe right where we are.
We were just talking and having a laugh;
I hadn’t been there long, but lovers find their car.
You knew the café like the back of your hand;
I knew right then and there, that I was becoming your man.
One day I heard you singing a song;
Since then you and I were getting along.


Another round table served, on another day;
We had not yet fallen in love.
There was another room, an outdoor room, beyond the main café.
A place for him and her to sit and talk and find their way.
It had extra tables, with umbrellas
And stacked up chairs against the wall,
For when it was busier than it seemed today.


There was the boss who said “Allo, allo.”
His wife, the owner, I saw here around,
I guess that she would come and go.
Another waitress was cleaning up
And you and I were just talking and falling into love.


You were sitting on a bench
And as we talked, I kept you warm, by holding you next to me.
I think we had always been destined,
Because as I looked at you and we each knew,
You began to lean on in…


I think this could have been our first kiss;
I’m not quite sure I remember it all.
I’m painting pictures as I speak.
I am afraid they will all soon disappear,
So before they do, my one last view,
Of our café will be spoken of here.


You were dressed in black and white.
I was waiting on your words.
We were sober, but we were becoming us;
We were so happy in this moment, so drunk on love.
I was sat smoking a rolled cigarette,
In a wooden wheelbarrow that fitted two.
This wooden statue was our bed;
A feature of the outdoor room.
The wheelbarrow grew in time, as did our love;
By the end of that night, we were true.


It was the middle of the eve;
The moment was right, to say it right,
I think you were made for me.


Then later our boss and his wife they spoke.
He was annoyed at the young couple treating the café like a joke.
“When are they coming back in?
There is work that needs to be done!”
She said “Relax darling, they are having fun
And can’t you see that they are in love?”
And with that, the boss he simply rolled his eyes;
She rolled her eyes too and then they both smiled.
“Oh my love, it has been a while,
Since our old café had a new romance.”


You and I were sat becoming one and the same,
In our oversized wooden wheelbarrow,
Hand in hand in the rain.


(C)2017 Aa Harvey. All Rights Reserved.
amrutha Feb 2014
La la la
La la la
Mmmhmm
La la la
♫ ♪
Dear Heather
I remember the time
When your father came up with your name
That fine saturday morn
The sixth day of May
I remember the time
When you wailed in my arms
You promised with your innocence
That you will never do us wrong
♫ ♪
Today you sleep on my lap
Taller than I am
Busier than I was
Lovelier than I ever could be
. . .
. . .
♫ ♪
La la la
La la la
Mmmhmm
La la la
♫ ♪
Go to sleep my beautiful baby
Remember that I am always here
You are all big and grown
You are now fighting this mighty world.
To me,
you're still that gorgeous infant
I held memorable decades ago. .
♫ ♪
La la la
La la la
Mmmhmm
La la la
♫ ♪.

*kisses good night.
I love you, mother.
Beth Bayliss Jun 2019
by 14, the boy had realised that
home is not a sanctuary
that nothing comes for free
and that some fathers don't know how to love

by 16, he had decided that
even if answers couldn't be found
at the bottom of a bottle
he was **** well going to look there anyway

at 18, he was free;
his life was his own.
now he just had to work out what that meant.

and at 21 he realised that
his life was a little girl
with freckles on her face and stars in her eyes
who picked him flowers to make him smile
and made the chaos of his life a little busier.

she saved that prince
from the dragons
from the fire
and perhaps
from himself.
for b.c. - it will get better with time.

— The End —