"frieze" poems
~
*O Painter
with thy own eye
would thee
paint me in mine own natural hue
prithee paint me as i am,
imperfections
and blemishes true
Load thy brush
with colors sundry
to maketh yond first pure sweep
across the ****** frieze,
fill'd with pangs of hunger.
paint me as i standeth
bethought, in deep
With mine own love and mine own desire,
blurring the edges unclean
with mine own regrets
and mine own mental gyre,
in mine own natural age,
of deep forest green
O Painter
Paint me sinister turquoise,
in lavender and maroon,
combine the amethyst and amber
blend the iceberg
and the indigo moon.
Paint me as i standeth,
prithee see with thy eye
a mistress in yond lady plight
Prithee paint me all i am
i cullionly
a mistress in all yond lady might
Paint me in the optimistic
silv'r of dawn,
but don’t miss the purple
to shade the bruise
of the bygone.
paint me in the sky blue journal
O Painter
Paint me as a unique template
smudge black white and grizzled
merging all the colors of thy palette.
col'r me a rainbow
in a rainy drizzle
Paint me tall so yond i standeth
loftier than any mountain
Paint me as a dram bird, delicate
with soft feathers silken
Paint me harmony, as a violin
so yond i can sing thy solitary tune
paint me as thy poetry
with song and melody
wrapp'd in a cocoon
O Painter
paint me as a dream yond rises
in did saturate colors
with a steady upbeat flight awry
tint, a fluttering
of a quite quaint butterfly
Portray me with endurance
imbue so bold and bright
doth not hesitate
to depict mine own mind
in profound fuchsia and white.
Useth the colors yond thee would borrow
Thy palette not yet exsufflicate
Paint mine own loss and mine own sorrow
in search of a shade so ******
Adorn mine own heart in glowing garnet
at which hour thee paint mine own love
add a true broken blue shade
of the cloud and the rain above;
Study mine own dry sorrow
in mine own soul
useth any shade thee plaited
soften the edges of control
in a tinge of xanthene.
O Painter
Prithee paint me
Mine own passion and mine own spirit
shall has't a crimson r'd hint
mine own remorse and mine own regret
shall reflect an ink stain print
Paint me in mine own eye so true
O Painter
but add a dash of courage too*
~
Dec 17, 2017
Dec 17, 2017 at 10:52 AM UTC
They are always with us, the thin people
Meager of dimension as the gray people
On a movie-screen. They
Are unreal, we say:
It was only in a movie, it was only
In a war making evil headlines when we
Were small that they famished and
Grew so lean and would not round
Out their stalky limbs again though peace
Plumped the bellies of the mice
Under the meanest table.
It was during the long hunger-battle
They found their talent to persevere
In thinness, to come, later,
Into our bad dreams, their menace
Not guns, not abuses,
But a thin silence.
Wrapped in flea-ridded donkey skins,
Empty of complaint, forever
Drinking vinegar from tin cups: they wore
The insufferable nimbus of the lot-drawn
Scapegoat. But so thin,
So weedy a race could not remain in dreams,
Could not remain outlandish victims
In the contracted country of the head
Any more than the old woman in her mud hut could
Keep from cutting fat meat
Out of the side of the generous moon when it
Set foot nightly in her yard
Until her knife had pared
The moon to a rind of little light.
Now the thin people do not obliterate
Themselves as the dawn
Grayness blues, reddens, and the outline
Of the world comes clear and fills with color.
They persist in the sunlit room: the wallpaper
Frieze of cabbage-roses and cornflowers pales
Under their thin-lipped smiles,
Their withering kingship.
How they prop each other up!
We own no wilderness rich and deep enough
For stronghold against their stiff
Battalions. See, how the tree boles flatten
And lose their good browns
If the thin people simply stand in the forest,
Making the world go thin as a wasp's nest
And grayer; not even moving their bones.
23.6k
~ ⚘ ⚪ ⚘ ~
After days of long studies comes the
days of rest. My violet dreams were
slumber-soft filled with lucent lilies
of curling flames born of ever colour
known and unknown. And I stood
in awe of them as my fears fall back
and cower in the shades of my mind.
~ ⚘ ⚪ ⚘ ~
I muse at how quickly my body
relaxed. Due to my marjoram'd
pillows and sheets of pure silk
and eiderdown? Or due to the
sips of the lavender tea in my in
my teacup decorated with a
butterfly motif?
~ ⚘ ⚪ ⚘ ~
I remember the sips in fours as
I blew the steam from my cup;
The first sip balmed my lips.
The second soothed my throat.
The third lulled my thoughts.
The fourth stilled my soul.
~ ⚘ ⚪ ⚘ ~
Though the tea, the pillow and
sheets were had a hand in my nightly
rest, the real answer is on my brow -
for it was when the night's cool air
blew, and where you placed your
sweet Morphean kiss.
~ ⚘ ⚪ ⚘ ~
With a smile, I wake.
Sat on my golden summer throne
located in my marble gazebo; a
jewel in my private garden. With
thin caryatid pillars, draped in
fine doric chitons encircling me.
Their sculpted limbs hold up the
frieze carved with acanthus
that has a stained glass top of
peacocks and stargazers.
~ ⚘ ⚪ ⚘ ~
The sheer curtains billow when
the eastern winds blow. By me, a
gold side table with a mirrored top
supported by three Greek key legs.
A pewter quill pen with a steel nib
and violet feather rests by its clay
inkpot; both beside a silver sinuous
nouveau vase and a small stack of
poetry books of black leather and
gilt.
~ ⚘ ⚪ ⚘ ~
Aug 4, 2018
Aug 4, 2018 at 7:48 AM UTC
My white gazebo
with thin caryatid columns
and wrought iron top
on a frieze carved with small leaves
The crown jewel of dew-kissed lands
Jul 28, 2018
Jul 28, 2018 at 6:30 PM UTC
1. Sunlight
There was a sunlit absence.
The helmeted pump in the yard
heated its iron,
water honeyed
in the slung bucket
and the sun stood
like a griddle cooling
against the wall
of each long afternoon.
So, her hands scuffled
over the bakeboard,
the reddening stove
sent its plaque of heat
against her where she stood
in a floury apron
by the window.
Now she dusts the board
with a goose's wing,
now sits, broad-lapped,
with whitened nails
and measling shins:
here is a space
again, the scone rising
to the tick of two clocks.
And here is love
like a tinsmith's scoop
sunk past its gleam
in the meal-bin.
2. The Seed Cutters
They seem hundreds of years away. Brueghel,
You'll know them if I can get them true.
They kneel under the hedge in a half-circle
Behind a windbreak wind is breaking through.
They are the seed cutters. The tuck and frill
Of leaf-sprout is on the seed potates
Buried under that straw. With time to ****
They are taking their time. Each sharp knife goes
Lazily halving each root that falls apart
In the palm of the hand: a milky gleam,
And, at the centre, a dark watermark.
Oh, calendar customs! Under the broom
Yellowing over them, compose the frieze
With all of us there, our anonymities.
4.9k
Beethoven choral racing through frozen forests
through rain and frost storms
We are carried on fast horse through winter
against furious Beethoven
Making love on lost sheets of saffron and straw
a frozen speeding vision explodes into your corner
racing fierce on pianoforte
Beethoven one note pure
against humanity
Feb 5, 2012
Feb 5, 2012 at 2:16 AM UTC
Type of the antique Rome! Rich reliquary
Of lofty contemplation left to Time
By buried centuries of pomp and power!
At length—at length—after so many days
Of weary pilgrimage and burning thirst,
(Thirst for the springs of lore that in thee lie,)
I kneel, an altered and an humble man,
Amid thy shadows, and so drink within
My very soul thy grandeur, gloom, and glory!
Vastness! and Age! and Memories of Eld!
Silence! and Desolation! and dim Night!
I feel ye now—I feel ye in your strength—
O spells more sure than e’er Judaean king
Taught in the gardens of Gethsemane!
O charms more potent than the rapt Chaldee
Ever drew down from out the quiet stars!
Here, where a hero fell, a column falls!
Here, where the mimic eagle glared in gold,
A midnight vigil holds the swarthy bat!
Here, where the dames of Rome their gilded hair
Waved to the wind, now wave the reed and thistle!
Here, where on golden throne the monarch lolled,
Glides, spectre-like, unto his marble home,
Lit by the wan light of the horned moon,
The swift and silent lizard of the stones!
But stay! these walls—these ivy-clad arcades—
These mouldering plinths—these sad and blackened shafts—
These vague entablatures—this crumbling frieze—
These shattered cornices—this wreck—this ruin—
These stones—alas! these gray stones—are they all—
All of the famed, and the colossal left
By the corrosive Hours to Fate and me?
“Not all”—the Echoes answer me—”not all!
Prophetic sounds and loud, arise forever
From us, and from all Ruin, unto the wise,
As melody from Memnon to the Sun.
We rule the hearts of mightiest men—we rule
With a despotic sway all giant minds.
We are not impotent—we pallid stones.
Not all our power is gone—not all our fame—
Not all the magic of our high renown—
Not all the wonder that encircles us—
Not all the mysteries that in us lie—
Not all the memories that hang upon
And cling around about us as a garment,
Clothing us in a robe of more than glory.”
2.5k
foam floral caps, work of wet hydrangea,
or pulse of caucasian lilacs in a sky-relieved frieze.
cambric pennons swag reconsidering
margins of wimpling burn,
wherein the stars…twiring stars,
the declining stars, moon and planets
turned--
purchase light with morning-hands:
green-bedizened;
amber trammeling bud.
absolve qualm suffusing tyre,
violet’s violent leniency--
and feel, o’bask! in velvet
flume of veins,
as beams of conspiracy raise
to post and lintel,
crutching a young god’s legs--
and feel, o’supplicate! bathe in
day’s anatomies,
til greave deposit in lacunary sleeves,
and a genuflecting sun bow eternally--
Jul 25, 2018
Jul 25, 2018 at 6:38 PM UTC
THE CHILD Margaret begins to write numbers on a Saturday morning, the first numbers formed under her wishing child fingers.
All the numbers come well-born, shaped in figures assertive for a frieze in a child's room.
Both 1 and 7 are straightforward, military, filled with lunge and attack, ***** in shoulder-straps.
The 6 and 9 salute as dancing sisters, elder and younger, and 2 is a trapeze actor swinging to handclaps.
All the numbers are well-born, only 3 has a **** on its back and 8 is knock-kneed.
The child Margaret kisses all once and gives two kisses to 3 and 8.
(Each number is a bran-new rag doll ... O in the wishing fingers ... millions of rag dolls, millions and millions of new rag dolls!!)
1.5k
"A life lived for art is never
a life wasted,"
that's what Macklemore
and Ryan Lewis
told us.
Those of us in recovery
need this to be true.
Those of us?
--all of us--
because we are all artists,
placing pieces of our broken
lives into a mosaic,
a cathedral floor frieze,
something we build
to walk on, a
snapshot of past agonies
and beautiful memories
that lifts us out of
the ***** Earth.
A true artist manufactures
their own hope.
Oct 24, 2013
Oct 24, 2013 at 3:20 PM UTC
.
The heat of you,
Bairn in my hands,
I am strung with you,
My song sings out ever
To one unbridled listener,
A lad as wild as gusty seas
And I keen on tighten strings,
Casted about thee, four winds
And am latched with old moon,
My tunes are loudy, unheard of,
Sadder than empty airs in hollow
Bars, bereft of any joy dancers.
Like you I have known love,
In gentle touches that swoon
And take flight up dizzy reels,
I hold you, like fresh newborn,
Child of melody an sleepy dove,
But still, in swells of driest fears,
Unlike you, body of live, heart
Wood, colour of striped tiger,
Regal structure, unchained,
Aged about languid truths,
My fingers unleash you,
Yet they lock, in frieze,
Captive, painting nil
Dreams of brood.
Jul 31, 2016
Jul 31, 2016 at 12:31 AM UTC
#7 from Geo-Bestiary
O that girl, only young men
dare to look at her directly
while I manage the most side-long of glances:
olive-skinned with a Modigliani throat,
lustrous obsidian hair, the narrowest
of waists and high french bottom, ample
******* she tries to hide in a loose blouse.
Though Latino her profile is from a Babylonian
frieze and when she walks with her small white dog
with brown spots she fairly floats along,
looking neither left nor right, meeting no one's
glance as if beauty was a curse. In the grocery
store when I drew close her scent was jacaranda,
the tropical flower that makes no excuses.
The geezer's heart swells stupidly to the dampish
promise. I walk too often in the cold shadow
of the mountain wall up in the arroyo behind the house.
Empty pages are dry ice, numbing the hands and heart.
If I weep I do so in the shower so that no one,
not even I can tell. To see her is to feel
time's cold machete against my grizzled neck,
puzzled that again beauty has found her home in threat.
Apr 16, 2015
Apr 16, 2015 at 7:47 AM UTC
[to the thousands of men, women and children fleeing their war-torn countries.]
Adrift,
this huddle of fear
in the starless night.
Adrift,
this frieze-like
of carved anguish
surging in heavy
striped hearts.
Flimsy shores
draw an old world,
of other lords,
greedy of their pastures.
Plundered, ravaged,
preyed upon,
adrift
- who will see
our human face?
Sep 7, 2015
Sep 7, 2015 at 7:04 PM UTC
home is a memory away,
you are near.
closer than you thought,
maybe even closer than you want.
I want those things
I have never wanted
I want you, forever.
I want to wake up in the mornings to look over
at your scarred face.
I want you to kiss my forehead
Like you always do.
And call me lil' lady.
And smother my body in the morning like you used to.
And you feel like home.
You are the feeling between my toes,
You exist in the fibers of the frieze.
Chattering inside the dish washer,
Humming my name in the shower.
And you are only a memory away.
And I am trying.
I am trying to hold it all together,
but the foundation is cracked.
I am so alone.
And I will give and give and give
to deserve you.
And I will wait.
I will.
Until we find a place.
After a while I had hoped for packing lunches and bingo cards.
Bad timing for now I guess.
But patience is a virtue,
I just hope it will see the sight of this unholy author.
Aug 11, 2012
Aug 11, 2012 at 3:52 AM UTC
Through a garden bedecked in the finest façade
In a natural beauty of eons compiled
An assault to the senses which quickens the pulse
Yet soothing the detail, organically styled
Its borders haphazard yet clearly defined
By a frenzied assortment of pollen clad blooms
Enhancing creation with lust and a craving
With nectar, ambrosia scented perfume
The thickets and bushes, with industry cloaked
A sprawling utopia thriving therein
With bees and with butterflies drinking their fill
And drizzled in webs which the spiderfolk spin
A meandering trail through flourishing life
An encouraging push from the sun to my rear
Entrancing, the chill of the dew underfoot
Yet thrusting itself like an ice laden spear
My sight is attracted by hidden desire
To a door at the crest of a flurry of stairs
And the stone of the flight is as fire to my soles
After languishing still as the midsummer glares
The door is ajar and within comes the sound
Of a single piano, adeptly caressed
Each note sends a shiver rebounding around me
In purity soaked and perfection possessed
I make my way forward and darkness inside
Removes me of sight as my pupils adjust
And the air is intense as a northerly breeze
And shimmers in motes cut of sunlight and dust
My eyes become clear and before me they see
Cascading and dancing a musical frieze
A picture in motion, a fairytale path
In a spectrum of tones and a myriad keys
Inspiration her name and the course she describes
Is a poem in light to beguile the mind
She speaks with her body, a wordless refrain
Of a mystery poets have clamoured to find
A pipe cuts a harmony no one could play
Distilling forever the passage of time
And though such a symphony draws at the tongue
Causality never once utters a rhyme
A pattern of shimmering images form
Behind inspiration and quickening pace
To fade with the music and ever be lost
Lest the pen of a poet can hold them in place
Most fickle of muses and teaser of tongues
To flirt with despair and to promise elation
We chase but remaining just out of out reach
Is the ghost of a girl which we call ‘Inspiration’
Jun 18, 2013
Jun 18, 2013 at 5:06 PM UTC
sensual subtlety or the subtlety of sensuality
(HOW does size matter?)
<•>
*as always the title comes first,
embalming the mind so it may voyage onto unwritten waters,
over boundaries so the provocateur provoked may safely return,
avoiding evoking anti-frieze cannonade fire
some can disable with swinging fist,
a chopping arm on an exposed neck,
a swift kick to the semi-privates
but I can do same, inflicting immobilization
with a single solitary itty bitty
pinky figuring finger
no random boast, no hoax, not chest beating,
just a fact ma’am, nothing but the facts
the sensual subtlety of the delicate
is overpowering and irresistible
making grownups revert
into laughing crying out loud babies
the subtlety of sensuality pink’d exploding exploration,
the intoxicating tiny tingling subtle and without equal,
kingdoms have fallen, paintings and poems, art all kinds,
instigated and in eye sockets permanently inserted,
history redirected
know I will no be telling details,
the whose and where,
the why and surely not the
how, not here anyway
so when you tell me in raw fashion
size matters most definitely
in the matters of the heart
or the physicality
whole heartedly agree
waving my littlest pinky finger
watching you wavering
until you’ve learned the lesson
it’s the how*
not the how big
May 5, 2018
May 5, 2018 at 4:09 PM UTC
Where did I come from?
A country of what?
Big hearts?
That's what the guestbook said,
And the amnesia makes anything else suspect.
Still...
A chipped Greek frieze;
Shade inching over insalata Caprese;
Piazza Cavour from a smudged helicopter window at noon;
Faces in a crowd at LOVE park, rapid fire;
Dusk in an Irish cemetery;
Lakeside heather.
This departure is like rewriting
A book from memory.
How much of me—if any—is there?
Apr 7, 2015
Apr 7, 2015 at 1:24 AM UTC
look into the morning mirror
slow shave and study dull eyes
looking back
a floor full of masks the passed ones may have dropped
he falls onto the ceiling, nose pressed onto the frieze
and she puts on heavy-shoes and has to hook him back downwards
it takes morning starch and bitter coffee to make ceiling dust shy
fashion is thrown out on its cracked sheen
as the carried mode entails only generic style and empirical fall
Let me sniff your armpit
Let me sniff it, please
I'm looking at you stand before my eyes
I see you right here.. before my very eyes
a pigeon on a windowsill
such a lovely unexpect!
it flies inside - harmony beheld
creates a stir
into a pane, stunned.. and life is expectorated
disposal wants to occur too fast and something
breaks inside him
system slave runs forward, grabs its soul
and hurries out slow
gray panels of cement amidst more gray panels
lodged between silvery towers and metal clink
olfactory-core comes nerve alive
( . . . )
he stands before the glass and looks upon her face
whose eyes may show no grief
clothed in vest and heavy foot
he unclips the last vestige
fully cognisant
and off he goes
to shock of passerby
he looks up to see the truest, bluest sky
and looks down to see the small figure
of her
receding.. receding.. receding ..
duty of kissing ceilingdust is in the past and
so is
living in slow-reverse
Oct 23, 2013
Oct 23, 2013 at 8:45 AM UTC
A place in peace
that you can't tease
In the surrounding
you'll find yourself wondering
How great is God?
for He made a marvelous pod
Look up,and you'll see the sky;
and you'll awe,wow! how high!
Look east, you'll see the trees;
swaying back and forth through winds breeze
Substratum of orchids,you'll see through west
colorful petals,joyous to eyes,and be zest
Oh! and see the north, well-trimmed green grasses;
lads playing and beautiful lasses
And as we walk to south , to our standing old house
designed with Corinthian frieze
Holding my hand, my gray-haired spouse
together with me, build a treasury for years
But then I woke up;
And my friend said, wazzup?
Oh?That was just a dream?
I wish it would come true
Impossible may it seem;
But if it happens, I won't rue
May 21, 2013
May 21, 2013 at 1:17 PM UTC
There was a game whereby
we stood against a blank frieze
to catch small orange marbles
thrown by a devil who stood
balanced on a border the
border shook like water it
separated the end of the
world from the beginning
You had to throw back the marble
to disrupt the border
and the devil might fall off
but he always caught it
There was a game ...
Jan 5, 2012
Jan 5, 2012 at 2:13 AM UTC
What sad weary eyes we have
that see, in all the world,
such poverty and pointless pain.
Would not the sunlight bathe upon it
if we simply look again?
For the eye of the beholder
may choose the depth of tint
we see, through a rose coloured lens.
A hint of fanciful forms,
as they filter the rays they sense.
From beneath the haze
of the shimmering sun,
lies beauty, long forgot.
Or is it simply a mirage,
cavorting through rays far too hot?
Skies of deep azure
with clouds of cumulous mass
drifting lazily on the breeze.
Picturesque landscapes of floral palette,
until winters frosty frieze.
Glorious forests of glazed art,
twinkling icicles, like baubles
on the trees of December.
Wondrous days of innocence pure;
of younger days remembered.
Beasts wandering wild and free
in bountiful wooded wonderlands
of willow, beach and pine.
Snowflakes join to form a blanket
of majestic patterns, sublime.
Meandering melt-water streams
flowing, afresh with new life;
untainted and abundant.
A world reborn of marvelous magic,
colours and scents, resplendent.
≈
To look upon a world in pain
and see beneath the silken shrouds
to the beauty lying below.
The scent of love, life and passion
is there for all to bestow.
We need to look from behind
eyes that want to see,
the life that we need, restored.
As a composer, creating the music of life,
is prepared to re-write the score.
*
Written by Darren Scanlon, 15th November 2014.
Revised 27th July 2015.
©2015 Darren Scanlon. All rights reserved.
http://www.darrenscanlon.wordpress.com
Jul 27, 2015
Jul 27, 2015 at 3:03 PM UTC
I held her dying hand in the soft morning light
I studied the shrinking life in her eyes.
The woman I loved would not last out the night
Her groaning breath now fierce sighs.
The weakening flame in the quiet breeze
Matches her dying
Her beautiful face like a fallen goddess in a marble frieze,
Riven with crying.
Her beauty had aged, not gone,
Her white hair falling down like thin ribbons of snow;
Her eyes that once shone
Filled now with a frosty glow.
Soul and body fade away
The mind is a strip of celluloid,
With diminishing returns. Nothing will stay,
But pass infinitely into a void.
In the end, all that lingers is love
Like a stable beacon through time,
No matter how complete, never enough,
In life, verse, prose and rhyme.
Feb 1, 2016
Feb 1, 2016 at 7:36 PM UTC
an average of 2,830 cubic meters
per second of rich silt
forms an alluvial plain
spreads outward in a fan shape
from sedimentary deposit whereby
ancient Egyptian civilizations got built
adorning arid topography invaluable
like aorta pumping blood at the nape
of the neck, yet analogous context
engendered engineering feats without guilt
whereby artisans, craftsmen,
early geographers illustrated in frieze and drape
frozen timeless statuary exhibiting
phenomenal abilities to the hilt
associated from mainspring within
fertile crescent swollen like a plump grape
which longest river often overflows
banks whereby coveted materiel gets spilt
feeding the rift valley and allowing,
enabling and providing peoples to dominate
flooding the history of mankind
with accomplishments that marvel even today
epitomized by innovations -
alphabets, wheelwrights, pyramids, etc lives did create
baffling historians how each mortise and tenon
snug as a bug in a rug mortise and tenon block
construed edifices persons did intricately lay
perfect with near geometric exactitude
ranks as wonder of webbed wide world great
faint hints of daily trials and tribulations
recorded for posterity in clay
or shards of broken pottery pieced together
coupling revelations a mosaic plate
which functional artifacts
provided dietary staples
to pagan spirits populace did pray.
Feb 10, 2018
Feb 10, 2018 at 1:06 AM UTC
Most nights I do not have to suffer the silence of showers in solitude
I am usually blessed with the sensation of the feeling of my fingers catching the puddles of water
drop by drop
that roll off of your torso,
like the hungry in a dumpster
like a lamb and a lion
like an 8 year old trying to grasp the difference between a metaphor and a smilie
like searching for the last dandelion of the season
eager and starving for it
I battle the drops spilling into my eyes to meet your grimace, teeth bared and eyes shut tight, as they win the war on your front, cascading down your lashes and curls and nose and jawline.
Even in this state, you look delicate and beautiful.
I've always said you were a work of art, a painting, a statue.
Like a sculpture on a frieze on the Parthenon. Or at least a roman marble copy.
Or at least you make me look at you that way.
I always slyly look up in hopes that you're returning the gaze when I'm not looking...
That's when I lose the war, with drops cascading down my lashes, and my curls, and my nose and collar bones.
Tonight your chest was bare and maybe you finally conquered the water
But tonight I'm showering with the lights off, under the distortion of the glow of pink lava ebbing and flowing from behind the curtains and I don't care if I'm alone or standing in an army of soldiers
I don't care if I win or lose
I'll let the stream rush over the contours of my face and mold it until it becomes a grimace or agonized or etched into wry
like it once did the very ground I walk upon and I'll let the steam fog the mirrors and leave dew drops on my shoulders until my bare chest turns scarlet and I crawl into the covers forced into silence
Nov 18, 2015
Nov 18, 2015 at 11:34 PM UTC