"inscription" poems - Hello Poetry

"inscription" poems

Die into me, Every kiss is a prayer As I whisper a prophesy To your body. The night will keep us As we constellate our passion. I die into you, I await you on the other side, There open my soul And read the inscription: He died a thousand times, Reborn inside her, The Sacrificial Lover.

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Apr 4, 2016

Apr 4, 2016 at 9:23 PM UTC

Die into me, Every kiss is a prayer As I whisper a prophesy To your body. The night will keep us As we constellate our passion. I die into you, I await you on the other side, There open my soul And read the inscription: He died a thousand times, Reborn inside her, The Sacrificial Lover.

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Perhaps, We have a worldview, that has turned a bit myopic. Perhaps, We need a checkup from a doctor for Our optics, Perhaps, We need for them to write Us out a new prescription, then Perhaps, We'd see the truth in life that's written in inscription, Perhaps, the Earth is weeping somberly, but We don't care to listen, Perhaps, it warns us of Our doom when global profits are our mission Perhaps, the World is run by men, whose only drive is for themselves Perhaps, the few will **** the many, just for monetary wealth, Perhaps, We're all too blind to understand the implications, Perhaps, a future fraught with poverty and war is what We're facing Perhaps, a different train of thought, is faintly running by adjacent, Perhaps, it's one that wrests its life from the stagnation of complacence Perhaps, We're living forms of life that have been cast inside a mold Perhaps, estrangement from each other causes Our Hearts to grow cold Perhaps, all concentrated power's an illusion, We behold, Perhaps, We all could take it back, if We'd stop doing what We're told Perhaps, Our Being is unique, and isn't something predefined, Perhaps, Our priorities in life should they themselves be redefined, Perhaps, Our voices are of import, and should not be undermined, Perhaps, We all should organize, and build a world of new design Perhaps, it is the Media that keeps Us all divided, Perhaps, We should act neighborly and strive to be united, Perhaps, in living as a People, We would find Ourselves delighted, and Perhaps, We'd change the status quo, if We would only try to fight it.

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May 13, 2015

May 13, 2015 at 5:01 AM UTC

iliveinyourhead

Perhaps, We have a worldview, that has turned a bit myopic. Perhaps, We need a checkup from a doctor for Our optics, Perhaps, We need for them to write Us out a new prescription, then Perhaps, We'd see the truth in life that's written in inscription, Perhaps, the Earth is weeping somberly, but We don't care to listen, Perhaps, it warns us of Our doom when global profits are our mission Perhaps, the World is run by men, whose only drive is for themselves Perhaps, the few will **** the many, just for monetary wealth, Perhaps, We're all too blind to understand the implications, Perhaps, a future fraught with poverty and war is what We're facing Perhaps, a different train of thought, is faintly running by adjacent, Perhaps, it's one that wrests its life from the stagnation of complacence Perhaps, We're living forms of life that have been cast inside a mold Perhaps, estrangement from each other causes Our Hearts to grow cold Perhaps, all concentrated power's an illusion, We behold, Perhaps, We all could take it back, if We'd stop doing what We're told Perhaps, Our Being is unique, and isn't something predefined, Perhaps, Our priorities in life should they themselves be redefined, Perhaps, Our voices are of import, and should not be undermined, Perhaps, We all should organize, and build a world of new design Perhaps, it is the Media that keeps Us all divided, Perhaps, We should act neighborly and strive to be united, Perhaps, in living as a People, We would find Ourselves delighted, and Perhaps, We'd change the status quo, if We would only try to fight it.

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The farthest man made object in space, Voyager 1, is over 20 billion km away from Earth. On board is a phonograph record, brilliant gold, containing sounds and images of what life is like on earth, A message to whoever is able to listen, a literal shot in the dark. On it is an inscription that is perhaps the most beautiful sentence I have ever read TO THE MAKERS OF MUSIC ALL TIMES ALL WORLDS a time capsule, a gift, from us To anywhere and everywhere A hundred years from now or a thousand Our belief that no matter what time Or world you belong to, melody and harmony and rhythm, can bring us together, can communicate. On the cover Are figures, explaining how to operate this record Hieroglyphics from what by then Would be ancient history Messages in binary, the 1s and 0s Our position in the universe marked by our distances from gigantic pulsars, the star map to our home, the creators of this message There's beauty in this marriage of math and art Code and music As a way to communicate with the universe. Some of the images on the record are the most beautifully simple ones, Of us, humans, drinking and eating, laughing, of animals, nature, food and architecture. Then there are images of our scientific observations, mathematical calculations, our discoveries, Like a child showing off Look, look what I can do! Black and white and in colour, Pictures, proof that we, indeed have lived and achieved. The music, classical, our very best from Bach and Mozart to Blind Willie Johnson's Dark was the Night. But all of this can only matter, can come to fruition if someone exists to receive it, and is evolved enough to comprehend what it means. But that's the thing, everybody knows, That's there's a slim chance of this record ever being heard, and it's much more possible that the Voyager will simply end up as floating debris in the cosmos, but it doesn't matter! We just want someone to know that there was a species of bipedal, intelligent animals on this blue planet, no different than finding graffiti in alleys that read I WAS HERE. WE WERE HERE, WE EXISTED. And it's all about that hope, the hope that someone will see us, our pictures, listen to our languages, our greetings, our music, and remember us, even after we're long gone. Or perhaps we will one day be interstellar space faring people as well, following the path of the Voyager, doing what we do best, Explore.

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Jan 2, 2016

Jan 2, 2016 at 9:32 AM UTC

The farthest man made object in space, Voyager 1, is over 20 billion km away from Earth. On board is a phonograph record, brilliant gold, containing sounds and images of what life is like on earth, A message to whoever is able to listen, a literal shot in the dark. On it is an inscription that is perhaps the most beautiful sentence I have ever read TO THE MAKERS OF MUSIC ALL TIMES ALL WORLDS a time capsule, a gift, from us To anywhere and everywhere A hundred years from now or a thousand Our belief that no matter what time Or world you belong to, melody and harmony and rhythm, can bring us together, can communicate. On the cover Are figures, explaining how to operate this record Hieroglyphics from what by then Would be ancient history Messages in binary, the 1s and 0s Our position in the universe marked by our distances from gigantic pulsars, the star map to our home, the creators of this message There's beauty in this marriage of math and art Code and music As a way to communicate with the universe. Some of the images on the record are the most beautifully simple ones, Of us, humans, drinking and eating, laughing, of animals, nature, food and architecture. Then there are images of our scientific observations, mathematical calculations, our discoveries, Like a child showing off Look, look what I can do! Black and white and in colour, Pictures, proof that we, indeed have lived and achieved. The music, classical, our very best from Bach and Mozart to Blind Willie Johnson's Dark was the Night. But all of this can only matter, can come to fruition if someone exists to receive it, and is evolved enough to comprehend what it means. But that's the thing, everybody knows, That's there's a slim chance of this record ever being heard, and it's much more possible that the Voyager will simply end up as floating debris in the cosmos, but it doesn't matter! We just want someone to know that there was a species of bipedal, intelligent animals on this blue planet, no different than finding graffiti in alleys that read I WAS HERE. WE WERE HERE, WE EXISTED. And it's all about that hope, the hope that someone will see us, our pictures, listen to our languages, our greetings, our music, and remember us, even after we're long gone. Or perhaps we will one day be interstellar space faring people as well, following the path of the Voyager, doing what we do best, Explore.

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"Alexander son of Philip, and the Greeks except the Lacedaemonians--" We can very well imagine that they were utterly indifferent in Sparta to this inscription. "Except the Lacedaemonians", but naturally. The Spartans were not to be led and ordered about as precious servants. Besides a panhellenic campaign without a Spartan king as a leader would not have appeared very important. O, of course "except the Lacedaemonians." This too is a stand. Understandable. Thus, except the Lacedaemonians at Granicus; and then at Issus; and in the final battle, where the formidable army was swept away that the Persians had massed at Arbela: which had set out from Arbela for victory, and was swept away. And out of the remarkable panhellenic campaign, victorious, brilliant, celebrated, glorious as no other had ever been glorified, the incomparable: we emerged; a great new Greek world. We; the Alexandrians, the Antiocheans, the Seleucians, and the numerous rest of the Greeks of Egypt and Syria, and of Media, and Persia, and the many others. With our extensive territories, with the varied action of thoughtful adaptations. And the Common Greek Language we carried to the heart of Bactria, to the Indians. As if we were to talk of Lacedaemonians now!

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5.2k

Constantine P. Cavafy

"Alexander son of Philip, and the Greeks except the Lacedaemonians--" We can very well imagine that they were utterly indifferent in Sparta to this inscription. "Except the Lacedaemonians", but naturally. The Spartans were not to be led and ordered about as precious servants. Besides a panhellenic campaign without a Spartan king as a leader would not have appeared very important. O, of course "except the Lacedaemonians." This too is a stand. Understandable. Thus, except the Lacedaemonians at Granicus; and then at Issus; and in the final battle, where the formidable army was swept away that the Persians had massed at Arbela: which had set out from Arbela for victory, and was swept away. And out of the remarkable panhellenic campaign, victorious, brilliant, celebrated, glorious as no other had ever been glorified, the incomparable: we emerged; a great new Greek world. We; the Alexandrians, the Antiocheans, the Seleucians, and the numerous rest of the Greeks of Egypt and Syria, and of Media, and Persia, and the many others. With our extensive territories, with the varied action of thoughtful adaptations. And the Common Greek Language we carried to the heart of Bactria, to the Indians. As if we were to talk of Lacedaemonians now!

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When some proud son of man returns to earth, Unknown to glory, but upheld by birth, The sculptor’s art exhausts the pomp of woe And storied urns record who rest below: When all is done, upon the tomb is seen, Not what he was, but what he should have been: But the poor dog, in life the firmest friend, The first to welcome, foremost to defend, Whose honest heart is still his master’s own, Who labours, fights, lives, breathes for him alone, Unhonour’d falls, unnoticed all his worth— Denied in heaven the soul he held on earth: While Man, vain insect! hopes to be forgiven, And claims himself a sole exclusive Heaven. Oh Man! thou feeble tenant of an hour, Debased by slavery, or corrupt by power, Who knows thee well must quit thee with disgust, Degraded mass of animated dust! Thy love is lust, thy friendship all a cheat, Thy smiles hypocrisy, thy words deceit! By nature vile, ennobled but by name, Each kindred brute might bid thee blush for shame. Ye! who perchance behold this simple urn, Pass on—it honours none you wish to mourn: To mark a Friend’s remains these stones arise; I never knew but one,—and here he lies.

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4.4k

Inscription On The Monument Of A Newfoundland Dog

When some proud son of man returns to earth, Unknown to glory, but upheld by birth, The sculptor’s art exhausts the pomp of woe And storied urns record who rest below: When all is done, upon the tomb is seen, Not what he was, but what he should have been: But the poor dog, in life the firmest friend, The first to welcome, foremost to defend, Whose honest heart is still his master’s own, Who labours, fights, lives, breathes for him alone, Unhonour’d falls, unnoticed all his worth— Denied in heaven the soul he held on earth: While Man, vain insect! hopes to be forgiven, And claims himself a sole exclusive Heaven. Oh Man! thou feeble tenant of an hour, Debased by slavery, or corrupt by power, Who knows thee well must quit thee with disgust, Degraded mass of animated dust! Thy love is lust, thy friendship all a cheat, Thy smiles hypocrisy, thy words deceit! By nature vile, ennobled but by name, Each kindred brute might bid thee blush for shame. Ye! who perchance behold this simple urn, Pass on—it honours none you wish to mourn: To mark a Friend’s remains these stones arise; I never knew but one,—and here he lies.

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I slept with her, my rapacious pen, took me in quiet vengeance in full on conjugation raken and taken, me, her overlording me now, her authorship, so long held in my maledom abeyance, a kept imprisonment, unleashing at last, a tongue lashing~leashing, de-spite my un-desirous craven lying supplications, excuses of innocence and accident, coincidence and conflation, ashes, ashes, denials incinerated, all fall down she wrote/stabbed upon my heartless chest, in the cheap crudités colors of a prisoner’s inking, “user of words mine, all mine” gathered up my innards of loose words, speculative notes & titles yet to be, born and kept hid in password protected silent back labor files, now hers, leaving me sputtering, unable to create, a homeless mute citizen, possession-less, helplessly hoping her hovering harlequin might relent, without any shelter, even a glimmering, a single aleph or bet she celebratory cackled and clawed, professed her reclamation ownership of all my poems predecessors, zola j’accusing that I, ripped from her forcibly, with no granted permission, her womanly touché of my scribing, warning of no more global warming for my unprivileged hands, daren’t try for pretenses of stolen legal guardianship, warning of a new, forced caining inscription, a tattooing of “thief” upon my 5 knuckled right ****** “plagiarist” boldly inked in back & blue upon my left palm I, predator, she, victim, of my now self-professed, admitted confess, she, my single victim, of a decade long serializing criminal coverup her parting poem a threatening, herein issued in this very verse, damning all who would falsely credit themselves, to suffer shame and an unimaginable curse, this, the newborn eleventh of ten commandments parting, she kissing my lips, even my emptied apertures, with warning bitings, she knew all my my numerous noms de guerre, no dead scrolls caves to hid in, and to be discovered some future day, and if ever marked as copyrighted, ’twas no tunneling escape, the exposed truth to be over-stamped upon all, upon each, in every language, ”copied right from the tongue of a woman!” and she would be wright...

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May 23, 2019

May 23, 2019 at 10:10 AM UTC

slept with my rapacious pen (she, full on conjugation)

I slept with her, my rapacious pen, took me in quiet vengeance in full on conjugation raken and taken, me, her overlording me now, her authorship, so long held in my maledom abeyance, a kept imprisonment, unleashing at last, a tongue lashing~leashing, de-spite my un-desirous craven lying supplications, excuses of innocence and accident, coincidence and conflation, ashes, ashes, denials incinerated, all fall down she wrote/stabbed upon my heartless chest, in the cheap crudités colors of a prisoner’s inking, “user of words mine, all mine” gathered up my innards of loose words, speculative notes & titles yet to be, born and kept hid in password protected silent back labor files, now hers, leaving me sputtering, unable to create, a homeless mute citizen, possession-less, helplessly hoping her hovering harlequin might relent, without any shelter, even a glimmering, a single aleph or bet she celebratory cackled and clawed, professed her reclamation ownership of all my poems predecessors, zola j’accusing that I, ripped from her forcibly, with no granted permission, her womanly touché of my scribing, warning of no more global warming for my unprivileged hands, daren’t try for pretenses of stolen legal guardianship, warning of a new, forced caining inscription, a tattooing of “thief” upon my 5 knuckled right ****** “plagiarist” boldly inked in back & blue upon my left palm I, predator, she, victim, of my now self-professed, admitted confess, she, my single victim, of a decade long serializing criminal coverup her parting poem a threatening, herein issued in this very verse, damning all who would falsely credit themselves, to suffer shame and an unimaginable curse, this, the newborn eleventh of ten commandments parting, she kissing my lips, even my emptied apertures, with warning bitings, she knew all my my numerous noms de guerre, no dead scrolls caves to hid in, and to be discovered some future day, and if ever marked as copyrighted, ’twas no tunneling escape, the exposed truth to be over-stamped upon all, upon each, in every language, ”copied right from the tongue of a woman!” and she would be wright...

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. *Tumbling stones rumble unheard, a slide that sends gravity shifting, starting a new path through time, the butterfly effect begins shifting.* i. The ancient track is solid beneath her feet, though she has walked between the stars. She knows not the place but has been there before, And the trail wends its way through forest dense and dark to a hags tooth mound and the Tomb of Travellers, upon the stone door an inscription, a warning. 'Prepare to go everywhere. Prepare to go nowhere' ii. *“Let time take me wither it will, be it fluid or be it still”.* iii. The slow grating of stone on stone as the door swings open, light penetrating the gloom, and the Tomb reveals its treasures. She enters with reverence and moves to a vacant plinth, a marbled seat warm and empty, her place for the connection ritual. iv. A mix of herbs into a secret potion, preparing herself to swim Time's ocean, clear cool water to bathe her skin, awaiting the pendulum of life to swing. The symbols in her third eye complete, she eases so gently into her travel seat, bringing the brew to her expectant lips, a bitter taste as over her tongue it slips. v. Oh gently rock her mind to sleep, just one last barrier for her to leap, through Times gate to other places, as the drug through her mind races. vi. A small squat figure emerges in a midnight blue hooded robe, Grimly the Guardian of the Gate, carrying careful an ancient globe. And her eyes glow with wonder as she receives the Seers Sphere, cloudy with the hue of pearl, its significance is so crystal clear. vii. She places it in a depression in the arm of the marbled chair, settles herself and closes her eyes, letting her mind drift on the air. The connection ritual reaching ****** acceptance or rejection time is near. Will the bond form betwixt them? She places her hand on the Seers Sphere … © Pagan Paul (30/09/18)

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Oct 3, 2018

Oct 3, 2018 at 6:04 AM UTC

Judderwitch 4 (Time Traveller Pt1)

. *Tumbling stones rumble unheard, a slide that sends gravity shifting, starting a new path through time, the butterfly effect begins shifting.* i. The ancient track is solid beneath her feet, though she has walked between the stars. She knows not the place but has been there before, And the trail wends its way through forest dense and dark to a hags tooth mound and the Tomb of Travellers, upon the stone door an inscription, a warning. 'Prepare to go everywhere. Prepare to go nowhere' ii. *“Let time take me wither it will, be it fluid or be it still”.* iii. The slow grating of stone on stone as the door swings open, light penetrating the gloom, and the Tomb reveals its treasures. She enters with reverence and moves to a vacant plinth, a marbled seat warm and empty, her place for the connection ritual. iv. A mix of herbs into a secret potion, preparing herself to swim Time's ocean, clear cool water to bathe her skin, awaiting the pendulum of life to swing. The symbols in her third eye complete, she eases so gently into her travel seat, bringing the brew to her expectant lips, a bitter taste as over her tongue it slips. v. Oh gently rock her mind to sleep, just one last barrier for her to leap, through Times gate to other places, as the drug through her mind races. vi. A small squat figure emerges in a midnight blue hooded robe, Grimly the Guardian of the Gate, carrying careful an ancient globe. And her eyes glow with wonder as she receives the Seers Sphere, cloudy with the hue of pearl, its significance is so crystal clear. vii. She places it in a depression in the arm of the marbled chair, settles herself and closes her eyes, letting her mind drift on the air. The connection ritual reaching ****** acceptance or rejection time is near. Will the bond form betwixt them? She places her hand on the Seers Sphere … © Pagan Paul (30/09/18)

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Are you, are you Coming to the tree Where I place flowers by her grave That I wish she could see I remember her laugh Her smile And her scream Have dreams of her death That place the blame on me Under the Willow now Weeping with the tree I'll stay here By my sister's feet The funeral is done The rain is pouring down Everyone is gone No one remains but me I read the inscription on her grave The one chosen be me: Your life is what you gave To help set Panem free I wish I was dead It should have been me He should have ran She should have tried to flee It cannot be changed Not even by me So I take a breath And bury her ashes Underneath the tree

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Mar 19, 2015

Mar 19, 2015 at 4:04 PM UTC

Primrose Everdeen's funeral

Are you, are you Coming to the tree Where I place flowers by her grave That I wish she could see I remember her laugh Her smile And her scream Have dreams of her death That place the blame on me Under the Willow now Weeping with the tree I'll stay here By my sister's feet The funeral is done The rain is pouring down Everyone is gone No one remains but me I read the inscription on her grave The one chosen be me: Your life is what you gave To help set Panem free I wish I was dead It should have been me He should have ran She should have tried to flee It cannot be changed Not even by me So I take a breath And bury her ashes Underneath the tree

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I I was walking through the forest of life when I saw in my path a shade whose spectral form blocked my way to the sweet fruits that lay beyond. II “Who are you, shade?” I asked, “Why do I find you now, in my travels?” The shade spoke not but instead pointed down yonder path and grinned a shade’s grin. III Where he pointed I could see through the space between trees a castle as black as night from where it sat brooding on a high hill. Instantly were the fruits forgotten, so great my urge to reach and enter this castle. IV When I looked again, the shade had vanished and I was alone once more. Quickly I continued down the path and towards my goal. V The way was long and as I finally reached the hill upon which the castle sat night had begun to fall. VI As I looked up, my first thought was that the castle had vanished leaving me alone and lost at the end of the path. VII When suddenly I saw a flame burn from one of its high windows. I realized the castle was still there but as deeply black as the darkening sky above. VIII Soon stars were visible and the contrast of the infinite darkness of the castle against them seemed as if a great black hole had opened up, revealing the never ending darkness that lies beyond what is known. IX Up I climbed until I came to its great gate and with beating heart did I gently push it open and enter the courtyard. X In it stood a fountain, now dry, and beyond that the crimson door through which I would gain access to this mysterious keep. XI As I approached the door I could read the inscription written by its large metal knocker: “Behind you lies what is known, ahead lies the unknown. For what is behind this door changes everything.” XII Slowly did I push the door and it quickly gave in. I passed the threshold and my eyes adjusted to the the darkness inside. XIII As my vision cleared I saw what lay in the middle of the room: a pen and a blank piece of paper.

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Aug 3, 2015

Aug 3, 2015 at 4:06 AM UTC

The Black Castle

I I was walking through the forest of life when I saw in my path a shade whose spectral form blocked my way to the sweet fruits that lay beyond. II “Who are you, shade?” I asked, “Why do I find you now, in my travels?” The shade spoke not but instead pointed down yonder path and grinned a shade’s grin. III Where he pointed I could see through the space between trees a castle as black as night from where it sat brooding on a high hill. Instantly were the fruits forgotten, so great my urge to reach and enter this castle. IV When I looked again, the shade had vanished and I was alone once more. Quickly I continued down the path and towards my goal. V The way was long and as I finally reached the hill upon which the castle sat night had begun to fall. VI As I looked up, my first thought was that the castle had vanished leaving me alone and lost at the end of the path. VII When suddenly I saw a flame burn from one of its high windows. I realized the castle was still there but as deeply black as the darkening sky above. VIII Soon stars were visible and the contrast of the infinite darkness of the castle against them seemed as if a great black hole had opened up, revealing the never ending darkness that lies beyond what is known. IX Up I climbed until I came to its great gate and with beating heart did I gently push it open and enter the courtyard. X In it stood a fountain, now dry, and beyond that the crimson door through which I would gain access to this mysterious keep. XI As I approached the door I could read the inscription written by its large metal knocker: “Behind you lies what is known, ahead lies the unknown. For what is behind this door changes everything.” XII Slowly did I push the door and it quickly gave in. I passed the threshold and my eyes adjusted to the the darkness inside. XIII As my vision cleared I saw what lay in the middle of the room: a pen and a blank piece of paper.

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Skinhead super short military hair with a strong jawline jutting out I saw you One random blindingly hot afternoon In a jeep I tried to squeeze in the small space so the two guys could scoot over You’re the guy to my right Reluctant to pass to the driver my exact change You sat upright Your right arm lifted, hand closed on the security rail I could only see your profile Your jawline and Aviators Mouth set in a deadpan line Lean, quietly confident Dressed casually and carefully Odd eggplant-colored shirt over whitewashed jeans You turned slightly, your nose strong chin dignified skin clean, with slight blemishes of stress Pretty eyes That never landed on me Your lips slightly curved as if remembering something You are beautiful Arrogant-looking Bored Worldly You’re not from here Not from common places Not from this wretched community I belong to Then my eyes traveled to the back of your head, An inscription was tattooed at the back of your skull. Your hair growing, beginning to cover up the past? A dangerous past? New life? A mere change of look? Where are you going? Where are you from? Why are you taking this route to and from common places? What is your agenda on this high afternoon? Are you a rockstar? Are you a poet A gangster? Then finally it’s my stop. I got up and wished you were following behind That we have the same destination Just so I could look at you in full view I stepped into the sad, bright afternoon Then I turned around You’re not there You sped away To some place Some life With your Aviators And your principles And it hurt That I never even knew what your tattoo meant

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Oct 21, 2013

Oct 21, 2013 at 3:36 AM UTC

Skinhead super short military hair with a strong jawline jutting out I saw you One random blindingly hot afternoon In a jeep I tried to squeeze in the small space so the two guys could scoot over You’re the guy to my right Reluctant to pass to the driver my exact change You sat upright Your right arm lifted, hand closed on the security rail I could only see your profile Your jawline and Aviators Mouth set in a deadpan line Lean, quietly confident Dressed casually and carefully Odd eggplant-colored shirt over whitewashed jeans You turned slightly, your nose strong chin dignified skin clean, with slight blemishes of stress Pretty eyes That never landed on me Your lips slightly curved as if remembering something You are beautiful Arrogant-looking Bored Worldly You’re not from here Not from common places Not from this wretched community I belong to Then my eyes traveled to the back of your head, An inscription was tattooed at the back of your skull. Your hair growing, beginning to cover up the past? A dangerous past? New life? A mere change of look? Where are you going? Where are you from? Why are you taking this route to and from common places? What is your agenda on this high afternoon? Are you a rockstar? Are you a poet A gangster? Then finally it’s my stop. I got up and wished you were following behind That we have the same destination Just so I could look at you in full view I stepped into the sad, bright afternoon Then I turned around You’re not there You sped away To some place Some life With your Aviators And your principles And it hurt That I never even knew what your tattoo meant

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I stood upside down on the watery side of the sea line and looked at the world I was standing on, the stars blew out and re-appeared like the people walking past the cafe bench. The guy with the newsboy cap, made his rounds around the city, a white-out inscription on brick caught his attention: “You anticipated this time in another place.” The daughter of the woman behind the flower stand draws chalked fish completed with succeeding circles to indicate bubbles, bubbles on the asphalt. She was right: I had learned to breathe underwater and as a litmus test I turned my eyes to the single tree on the island. It shivered like seaweed. I went up to the stand and purchased the ugliest peony, the one with petals that were chiseled like frozen waves. I gave the lady my last quarter and as I turned around I saw the face of the guy with the newsboy cap, only this time it was infinitely larger, peeking over the horizon like the sun when it first rises. And then, a hand coming up, from under, fingers tapping from the other side, taps reverberating through sky, as though there was inside and outside and this whole time I was in an aquarium.

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Sep 15, 2011

Sep 15, 2011 at 8:45 PM UTC

I stood upside down on the watery side of the sea line and looked at the world I was standing on, the stars blew out and re-appeared like the people walking past the cafe bench. The guy with the newsboy cap, made his rounds around the city, a white-out inscription on brick caught his attention: “You anticipated this time in another place.” The daughter of the woman behind the flower stand draws chalked fish completed with succeeding circles to indicate bubbles, bubbles on the asphalt. She was right: I had learned to breathe underwater and as a litmus test I turned my eyes to the single tree on the island. It shivered like seaweed. I went up to the stand and purchased the ugliest peony, the one with petals that were chiseled like frozen waves. I gave the lady my last quarter and as I turned around I saw the face of the guy with the newsboy cap, only this time it was infinitely larger, peeking over the horizon like the sun when it first rises. And then, a hand coming up, from under, fingers tapping from the other side, taps reverberating through sky, as though there was inside and outside and this whole time I was in an aquarium.

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Bethlehem, so remarkably unimpressive and yet so holy. I long to visit you Small and humble but great and glorious. Hic de Virgine Maria Jesus Christus natus est an inscription reads as I get to a grotto. A fourteen-point silver star embedded into the marble is now indelibly embedded into my memory scorching its way into my heart burning the moment into my brain.

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Dec 11, 2015

Dec 11, 2015 at 4:59 PM UTC

sofia-kioroglou

“Hic de Virgine Maria Jesus Christus natus est “by Sofia Kioroglou

Bethlehem, so remarkably unimpressive and yet so holy. I long to visit you Small and humble but great and glorious. Hic de Virgine Maria Jesus Christus natus est an inscription reads as I get to a grotto. A fourteen-point silver star embedded into the marble is now indelibly embedded into my memory scorching its way into my heart burning the moment into my brain.

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Glad to see you, the ORANGE hatted man said to the YELLOW shirted Person seated in the FULL Reclining Chair, WHICH *By the *way, was ONLY in the Half Back Position. Being in the Half-Back Position allowed the YELLOW shirted Person to respond in Just a Slightly UPLIFTED EYE ANGLE !! And, the ORANGE Hatted man, Peering Down, with Head ***** Gave EACH of them an EQUAL Opposition Eye Angle of 22 Degrees EXACT ! ! Now, to Verify the fact of Equal Opposition, the PROTRACTOR MAN arrived promptly on the scene to Evaluate the Situation.. He (protractor-man) Had , for the Very FIRST-TIME, been especially Called for this HISTORIC Moment . YES,,YES,, For the very "FIRST-TIME" Equal Opposition between an ORANGE hatted man and a YELLOW shirted person, USING the Measurement of "ALL-MEANING", *THAT IS:: "The Protractor of Life"... This Historic moment would forever be Relished by Another Member of THE SOCIETY , BUT it was up to the Assigned Protractor Man to Assure all Interested Parties, That the ANGLE of Exactness was * C O R R E C T ! ! OR....it wouldn't COUNT ! OH DEAR GOD,,"THOUGHT" the assigned Protractor man, Let my Measurements be CORRECT ! ! The ORANGE Hatted man continued to Patiently Peer at the YELLOW shirted person seated in the :HALF-BACK * Position in the Full Reclining Chair.. A Trumpet Blast form a BRONZE Bassoon,, announced the arrival of a SPECIAL LADY ;Fully Gowned in STARTLING PINK AND Glimmering WHITE PEARLS , adorning Her Neck and SUN-KISSED" DIAMONDS flashed from her Fingers. In her Right hand she firmly grasped an envelope. She Careful in her opening ,as if it were a SEVEN-SEALED SCROLL ** Pulled out the PURPLE with GOLD INLAY INSCRIPTION ,"CERTIFICATE OF APPROVAL " FOR THE Magnificent level of ACHIEVEMENT by the ORANGE hatted and YELLOW shirted man ,VERIFIED BY AN "UN-COLORED " PROTRACTOR-MAN" "HEAVENLY" PRAISES AND ACCOLADES FILLED THE AIR** AND A "BOOMING-THUNDERING VOICED" "NOT-EVERYTHING WILL BE IN......."B L A C K & W H I T E " ! !

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Dec 13, 2010

Dec 13, 2010 at 3:26 AM UTC

*" IN FULL COLOR * " (#42)

Glad to see you, the ORANGE hatted man said to the YELLOW shirted Person seated in the FULL Reclining Chair, WHICH *By the *way, was ONLY in the Half Back Position. Being in the Half-Back Position allowed the YELLOW shirted Person to respond in Just a Slightly UPLIFTED EYE ANGLE !! And, the ORANGE Hatted man, Peering Down, with Head ***** Gave EACH of them an EQUAL Opposition Eye Angle of 22 Degrees EXACT ! ! Now, to Verify the fact of Equal Opposition, the PROTRACTOR MAN arrived promptly on the scene to Evaluate the Situation.. He (protractor-man) Had , for the Very FIRST-TIME, been especially Called for this HISTORIC Moment . YES,,YES,, For the very "FIRST-TIME" Equal Opposition between an ORANGE hatted man and a YELLOW shirted person, USING the Measurement of "ALL-MEANING", *THAT IS:: "The Protractor of Life"... This Historic moment would forever be Relished by Another Member of THE SOCIETY , BUT it was up to the Assigned Protractor Man to Assure all Interested Parties, That the ANGLE of Exactness was * C O R R E C T ! ! OR....it wouldn't COUNT ! OH DEAR GOD,,"THOUGHT" the assigned Protractor man, Let my Measurements be CORRECT ! ! The ORANGE Hatted man continued to Patiently Peer at the YELLOW shirted person seated in the :HALF-BACK * Position in the Full Reclining Chair.. A Trumpet Blast form a BRONZE Bassoon,, announced the arrival of a SPECIAL LADY ;Fully Gowned in STARTLING PINK AND Glimmering WHITE PEARLS , adorning Her Neck and SUN-KISSED" DIAMONDS flashed from her Fingers. In her Right hand she firmly grasped an envelope. She Careful in her opening ,as if it were a SEVEN-SEALED SCROLL ** Pulled out the PURPLE with GOLD INLAY INSCRIPTION ,"CERTIFICATE OF APPROVAL " FOR THE Magnificent level of ACHIEVEMENT by the ORANGE hatted and YELLOW shirted man ,VERIFIED BY AN "UN-COLORED " PROTRACTOR-MAN" "HEAVENLY" PRAISES AND ACCOLADES FILLED THE AIR** AND A "BOOMING-THUNDERING VOICED" "NOT-EVERYTHING WILL BE IN......."B L A C K & W H I T E " ! !

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our sky is spectrum there is the peace of a lake’s night-face in our presence, the ratchet of a thousand orbits encircled- wholly intersected through the palms. a collective vibrato. this unmasked, awesome wave of silent happenstance gathers kneading masses to lay deadly beneath oaken inscription, cast about the heavens in splinters of light. our shaken, fevered dance does not separate the halves we are corpus callosum, a passing stab embodied, writhing jazz rhythm untouched from pre-production. so slice us into maps. paste our highwayed bodies in the grinding gloom we will be your compass rose when the pedals are no longer smooth. we will grace the dirt when oceans are no comfort. the palm-lines of healers and street urchins are the same. child, this anthem is your name. if blood runs black, a frame collapsed, will we sing over your grave.

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Mar 1, 2013

Mar 1, 2013 at 10:13 AM UTC

A Letter from The Collective

our sky is spectrum there is the peace of a lake’s night-face in our presence, the ratchet of a thousand orbits encircled- wholly intersected through the palms. a collective vibrato. this unmasked, awesome wave of silent happenstance gathers kneading masses to lay deadly beneath oaken inscription, cast about the heavens in splinters of light. our shaken, fevered dance does not separate the halves we are corpus callosum, a passing stab embodied, writhing jazz rhythm untouched from pre-production. so slice us into maps. paste our highwayed bodies in the grinding gloom we will be your compass rose when the pedals are no longer smooth. we will grace the dirt when oceans are no comfort. the palm-lines of healers and street urchins are the same. child, this anthem is your name. if blood runs black, a frame collapsed, will we sing over your grave.

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A frangipani candle, Sandalwood perfume The shimmer of the shadows, That light up the room A hard covered book With a silver inscription, Warm jasmine tea, Baklava from the kitchen Soft red lipstick And a robe of white silk Dark lash rimmed eyes, A bath of rose petals, floating in milk Sweet drifting music From the balmy outside, The chirping of cicadas And the whisper of the tide Gentle gold jewellery Which can carry you away A feather pillow on the wooden floor, The start To the end Of the day

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Sep 18, 2014

Sep 18, 2014 at 11:31 AM UTC

serenity-elliot

Heavenly Beginnings

A frangipani candle, Sandalwood perfume The shimmer of the shadows, That light up the room A hard covered book With a silver inscription, Warm jasmine tea, Baklava from the kitchen Soft red lipstick And a robe of white silk Dark lash rimmed eyes, A bath of rose petals, floating in milk Sweet drifting music From the balmy outside, The chirping of cicadas And the whisper of the tide Gentle gold jewellery Which can carry you away A feather pillow on the wooden floor, The start To the end Of the day

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For a Statue of Napoleon A conqueror as provident as brave, He robbed the cradle to supply the grave. His reign laid quantities of human dust: He fell upon the just and the unjust.

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2k

Ambrose Gwinett Bierce

For a Statue of Napoleon A conqueror as provident as brave, He robbed the cradle to supply the grave. His reign laid quantities of human dust: He fell upon the just and the unjust.

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*Windy cold morning blowing on loves past a tired tombstone has begun to crack as it begins to shatter so does the surrounding too decay Trapped by the memories which it failed to save broken and forgotten it's inscription weeps in loneliness it stands hugged by the wind never escaping the feeling it's appearance tends hide left to remain cold and grave*

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Feb 26, 2014

Feb 26, 2014 at 7:13 AM UTC

*Windy cold morning blowing on loves past a tired tombstone has begun to crack as it begins to shatter so does the surrounding too decay Trapped by the memories which it failed to save broken and forgotten it's inscription weeps in loneliness it stands hugged by the wind never escaping the feeling it's appearance tends hide left to remain cold and grave*

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Daily dawns another day; I must up, to make my way. Though I dress and drink and eat, Move my fingers and my feet, Learn a little, here and there, Weep and laugh and sweat and swear, Hear a song, or watch a stage, Leave some words upon a page, Claim a foe, or hail a friend-- Bed awaits me at the end. Though I go in pride and strength, I'll come back to bed at length. Though I walk in blinded woe, Back to bed I'm bound to go. High my heart, or bowed my head, All my days but lead to bed. Up, and out, and on; and then Ever back to bed again, Summer, Winter, Spring, and Fall-- I'm a fool to rise at all!

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2k

Inscription For The Ceiling Of A Bedroom

Daily dawns another day; I must up, to make my way. Though I dress and drink and eat, Move my fingers and my feet, Learn a little, here and there, Weep and laugh and sweat and swear, Hear a song, or watch a stage, Leave some words upon a page, Claim a foe, or hail a friend-- Bed awaits me at the end. Though I go in pride and strength, I'll come back to bed at length. Though I walk in blinded woe, Back to bed I'm bound to go. High my heart, or bowed my head, All my days but lead to bed. Up, and out, and on; and then Ever back to bed again, Summer, Winter, Spring, and Fall-- I'm a fool to rise at all!

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there is something beautiful about a memory that reaches from the pit of your stomach latches onto your heart and pulls it under your lungs placing you in a moment that once saturated the marrow of your bones when you close your eyes you can feel, see, and be just as it was with carrots, a park bench, the night sky, a bottle of spanish wine and his arms cradling you against the chilling wind it takes you so deeply into the inscription he carelessly carved across the back of your eyes that when you open them again and exhale you find it fogging the midsummer air releasing the very breaths you took by his side

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May 5, 2014

May 5, 2014 at 12:07 AM UTC

Careless Memory

there is something beautiful about a memory that reaches from the pit of your stomach latches onto your heart and pulls it under your lungs placing you in a moment that once saturated the marrow of your bones when you close your eyes you can feel, see, and be just as it was with carrots, a park bench, the night sky, a bottle of spanish wine and his arms cradling you against the chilling wind it takes you so deeply into the inscription he carelessly carved across the back of your eyes that when you open them again and exhale you find it fogging the midsummer air releasing the very breaths you took by his side

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My grandmother sends me a birthday card, all glitter and for the child in me. The cover shouts, “Happy Birthday to a granddaughter who has a sparkling personality, good looks, and a great sense of humor!” and my sister asks if she has seen me lately. We laugh. The only handwritten inscription within declares “Carson fell again—had to go to hospital this time.” Happy Birthday to me, with love and the unintentional reminder that I’ve not yet reached an age where a simple slip could result in broken hips or worse. I’ll send her a thank you card, detailing my ambition, what I will do with the money, and a big thank you. I suppose the most secrets I keep from anybody, I keep from her. I figure grandmothers don’t need more stress, don’t need to worry about the somewhat-problems of life from a girl who will always seem too young, who will always be glitter and a child within.

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Sep 27, 2012

Sep 27, 2012 at 2:21 AM UTC

My grandmother sends me a birthday card, all glitter and for the child in me. The cover shouts, “Happy Birthday to a granddaughter who has a sparkling personality, good looks, and a great sense of humor!” and my sister asks if she has seen me lately. We laugh. The only handwritten inscription within declares “Carson fell again—had to go to hospital this time.” Happy Birthday to me, with love and the unintentional reminder that I’ve not yet reached an age where a simple slip could result in broken hips or worse. I’ll send her a thank you card, detailing my ambition, what I will do with the money, and a big thank you. I suppose the most secrets I keep from anybody, I keep from her. I figure grandmothers don’t need more stress, don’t need to worry about the somewhat-problems of life from a girl who will always seem too young, who will always be glitter and a child within.

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#ክብረ ነገሥት *Oh Sovereign of wisdom Solomonic, forgive us. The wicked wax demonic. Golden vessels fill with foulness man is bankrupt, sold and soulless Unsettling harbingers loom dystopian. Sheba rises in dreams Ethiopian.* Tested with questions, her spirit once gone, occultic suggestions postponed her dawn. (Six-hundred and sixty-six talents of gold paid Nineveh’s rise as Messiah foretold. Go read it in Matthew, obstinate sinner You think He intends to have Satan the winner?) Her ruins now surveyed by satellite beheld on the screens of the Canaanite: canals to expose, southern deserts to cross, Eritrean legends of Prophet (and loss), the Ark of King Menelik—Kebra Negast, treasures of darkness presented, now past have us checking those texts that worldlings despise as we wait under dread Luciferian skies. Break the sixth seal of the seventh scroll; let the thirteenth angel spill the bowl ! (or smoke it up in the courts of Heaven till ganja’s infinitude totals seven…) Exhume Axum with the ****** of Marib. decode the encryption on Adam’s rib unearthed from some Antediluvian ravine— Blast from the past: she explodes on our scene! Seven oaths shall be sworn on her spectral beauty (our Biblical transcendental duty). The libation is mixed. Are we ready to swill it? Beersheba? She brew ! Let us rise to fulfill it. from sita to Saba fifth columns are ready: Oh Sovereign — render their pillars unsteady. For after explosions there’s mess to clean up, and it’s worse than the horrors inside of her cup.

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Apr 27, 2016

Apr 27, 2016 at 9:47 AM UTC

Sabean Inscription

#ክብረ ነገሥት *Oh Sovereign of wisdom Solomonic, forgive us. The wicked wax demonic. Golden vessels fill with foulness man is bankrupt, sold and soulless Unsettling harbingers loom dystopian. Sheba rises in dreams Ethiopian.* Tested with questions, her spirit once gone, occultic suggestions postponed her dawn. (Six-hundred and sixty-six talents of gold paid Nineveh’s rise as Messiah foretold. Go read it in Matthew, obstinate sinner You think He intends to have Satan the winner?) Her ruins now surveyed by satellite beheld on the screens of the Canaanite: canals to expose, southern deserts to cross, Eritrean legends of Prophet (and loss), the Ark of King Menelik—Kebra Negast, treasures of darkness presented, now past have us checking those texts that worldlings despise as we wait under dread Luciferian skies. Break the sixth seal of the seventh scroll; let the thirteenth angel spill the bowl ! (or smoke it up in the courts of Heaven till ganja’s infinitude totals seven…) Exhume Axum with the ****** of Marib. decode the encryption on Adam’s rib unearthed from some Antediluvian ravine— Blast from the past: she explodes on our scene! Seven oaths shall be sworn on her spectral beauty (our Biblical transcendental duty). The libation is mixed. Are we ready to swill it? Beersheba? She brew ! Let us rise to fulfill it. from sita to Saba fifth columns are ready: Oh Sovereign — render their pillars unsteady. For after explosions there’s mess to clean up, and it’s worse than the horrors inside of her cup.

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The wink of the moon is a forgiving description, The locks of your hair, brittle and worn, Every tomb you forebear has a decaying inscription, Your empty touch can drive even the most stoic to mourn. Unconsidered by nature, but naturally torn, The weight you must bear is never applied, Vengeful at your mention, and your destruction they've sworn, With the strength of cyanide, but your effects shall never subside. You keep your fair distance, Through your eyes you see no favorite, Sickness plagues all at your mere insistence, You're a people watcher, a natural behaviorist. I can't avoid or dismiss you my love, But Death, my fair maiden, there's not an hour you go undreamed of.

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Jan 24, 2017

Jan 24, 2017 at 3:27 PM UTC

The wink of the moon is a forgiving description, The locks of your hair, brittle and worn, Every tomb you forebear has a decaying inscription, Your empty touch can drive even the most stoic to mourn. Unconsidered by nature, but naturally torn, The weight you must bear is never applied, Vengeful at your mention, and your destruction they've sworn, With the strength of cyanide, but your effects shall never subside. You keep your fair distance, Through your eyes you see no favorite, Sickness plagues all at your mere insistence, You're a people watcher, a natural behaviorist. I can't avoid or dismiss you my love, But Death, my fair maiden, there's not an hour you go undreamed of.

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Stranger, if thou hast learned a truth which needs No school of long experience, that the world Is full of guilt and misery, and hast seen Enough of all its sorrows, crimes, and cares, To tire thee of it, enter this wild wood And view the haunts of Nature. The calm shade Shall bring a kindred calm, and the sweet breeze That makes the green leaves dance, shall waft a balm To thy sick heart. Thou wilt find nothing here Of all that pained thee in the haunts of men And made thee loathe thy life. The primal curse Fell, it is true, upon the unsinning earth, But not in vengeance. God hath yoked to guilt Her pale tormentor, misery. Hence, these shades Are still the abodes of gladness; the thick roof Of green and stirring branches is alive And musical with birds, that sing and sport In wantonness of spirit; while below The squirrel, with raised paws and form ***** Chirps merrily. Throngs of insects in the shade Try their thin wings and dance in the warm beam That waked them into life. Even the green trees Partake the deep contentment; as they bend To the soft winds, the sun from the blue sky Looks in and sheds a blessing on the scene. Scarce less the cleft-born wild-flower seems to enjoy Existence, than the winged plunderer That ***** its sweets. The massy rocks themselves, And the old and ponderous trunks of prostrate trees That lead from knoll to knoll a causey rude Or bridge the sunken brook, and their dark roots, With all their earth upon them, twisting high, Breathe fixed tranquillity. The rivulet Sends forth glad sounds, and tripping o'er its bed Of pebbly sands, or leaping down the rocks, Seems, with continuous laughter, to rejoice In its own being. Softly tread the marge, Lest from her midway perch thou scare the wren That dips her bill in water. The cool wind, That stirs the stream in play, shall come to thee, Like one that loves thee nor will let thee pass Ungreeted, and shall give its light embrace.

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1.6k

William Cullen Bryant

Inscription For The Entrance To A Wood

Stranger, if thou hast learned a truth which needs No school of long experience, that the world Is full of guilt and misery, and hast seen Enough of all its sorrows, crimes, and cares, To tire thee of it, enter this wild wood And view the haunts of Nature. The calm shade Shall bring a kindred calm, and the sweet breeze That makes the green leaves dance, shall waft a balm To thy sick heart. Thou wilt find nothing here Of all that pained thee in the haunts of men And made thee loathe thy life. The primal curse Fell, it is true, upon the unsinning earth, But not in vengeance. God hath yoked to guilt Her pale tormentor, misery. Hence, these shades Are still the abodes of gladness; the thick roof Of green and stirring branches is alive And musical with birds, that sing and sport In wantonness of spirit; while below The squirrel, with raised paws and form ***** Chirps merrily. Throngs of insects in the shade Try their thin wings and dance in the warm beam That waked them into life. Even the green trees Partake the deep contentment; as they bend To the soft winds, the sun from the blue sky Looks in and sheds a blessing on the scene. Scarce less the cleft-born wild-flower seems to enjoy Existence, than the winged plunderer That ***** its sweets. The massy rocks themselves, And the old and ponderous trunks of prostrate trees That lead from knoll to knoll a causey rude Or bridge the sunken brook, and their dark roots, With all their earth upon them, twisting high, Breathe fixed tranquillity. The rivulet Sends forth glad sounds, and tripping o'er its bed Of pebbly sands, or leaping down the rocks, Seems, with continuous laughter, to rejoice In its own being. Softly tread the marge, Lest from her midway perch thou scare the wren That dips her bill in water. The cool wind, That stirs the stream in play, shall come to thee, Like one that loves thee nor will let thee pass Ungreeted, and shall give its light embrace.

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In her previous life, my mother must have been an architect. She brought to each family occasion her vision, her love of precision, her stability - ensuring the family structure was sustainable and capable of longer-term development - and we still bear her signature style. In her previous life, I’m sure my mother was a portrait painter - able to take a fresh canvas, such as mine and my sisters’, and add layer upon layer of colour, of texture, to portray what she saw we would become – each proudly bearing her inscription. In her previous life, I expect my mother was a pioneer – not of paths yet travelled, but of more frequented avenues, boldly exploring the details and intersections between friends and neighbours helping us rediscover what we had in common - each fresh bond bearing her seal. In this life, my mother was an endurance athlete, a gifted healer, a 5-star chef, a respected teacher, a talented mediator, a wise counsellor, an innovative financier, a diligent archivist, and our chief story-teller. In this life, she was my mother.

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Jun 19, 2022

Jun 19, 2022 at 3:02 PM UTC

My mother must have been [after Cynthia Miller's 'Dropka']

In her previous life, my mother must have been an architect. She brought to each family occasion her vision, her love of precision, her stability - ensuring the family structure was sustainable and capable of longer-term development - and we still bear her signature style. In her previous life, I’m sure my mother was a portrait painter - able to take a fresh canvas, such as mine and my sisters’, and add layer upon layer of colour, of texture, to portray what she saw we would become – each proudly bearing her inscription. In her previous life, I expect my mother was a pioneer – not of paths yet travelled, but of more frequented avenues, boldly exploring the details and intersections between friends and neighbours helping us rediscover what we had in common - each fresh bond bearing her seal. In this life, my mother was an endurance athlete, a gifted healer, a 5-star chef, a respected teacher, a talented mediator, a wise counsellor, an innovative financier, a diligent archivist, and our chief story-teller. In this life, she was my mother.

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An old, frail woman sits in rocking chair. Rocking slowly, gently, back and forth. The floorboards beneath her creek softly. She is dressed in black. Hair held back with two hair clasps. A pouch dangles from her arm. A drawstring wrapped around her wrinkled wrist. There is a rustle heard nearby. A small girl appears. Dress in white dress, with small imprints of daisies on it. Hair tied into a braid. Timidly she inches over to the woman. The woman unravels the drawstring from her wrist. She opens the pouch, and five small stone fall into her lap. Each stone is unique in its own way. Different sizes, shapes and textures. The little girl is face to face with the woman. She hands her each stone carefully, and with great care. She holds the stone and with each stone she tells her wish for the little girl The first stone with the inscription STRENGHT. My wish is that you have the strength to endure the past, the present, the future. To fight all the evil and conquer it in the name of good. Next comes CREATE My wish is for you to create memories. Some of them good and some of them bad. To even life out. And that each bad memory you create only equals more memories that are good. Then DREAM My wish is that your dreams come true in your life, as well as the people around you. Next MAGIC My wish is that your days been filled with magic, both unreal and real. Both created by you, and created by other people around you. Finally WISH My wish is that these wishes as well as many others to come your way. Also, that each wish is better then the last one. The little girl admires the stones. The woman opens the pouch and picks each stone one at a time, and places them in the pouch. The woman hands the pouch to the little girl and says “For safe keeping” The little girl smiles and runs out the door. Giggles are heard. The woman continues to rock.

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Dec 6, 2012

Dec 6, 2012 at 4:01 PM UTC

An old, frail woman sits in rocking chair. Rocking slowly, gently, back and forth. The floorboards beneath her creek softly. She is dressed in black. Hair held back with two hair clasps. A pouch dangles from her arm. A drawstring wrapped around her wrinkled wrist. There is a rustle heard nearby. A small girl appears. Dress in white dress, with small imprints of daisies on it. Hair tied into a braid. Timidly she inches over to the woman. The woman unravels the drawstring from her wrist. She opens the pouch, and five small stone fall into her lap. Each stone is unique in its own way. Different sizes, shapes and textures. The little girl is face to face with the woman. She hands her each stone carefully, and with great care. She holds the stone and with each stone she tells her wish for the little girl The first stone with the inscription STRENGHT. My wish is that you have the strength to endure the past, the present, the future. To fight all the evil and conquer it in the name of good. Next comes CREATE My wish is for you to create memories. Some of them good and some of them bad. To even life out. And that each bad memory you create only equals more memories that are good. Then DREAM My wish is that your dreams come true in your life, as well as the people around you. Next MAGIC My wish is that your days been filled with magic, both unreal and real. Both created by you, and created by other people around you. Finally WISH My wish is that these wishes as well as many others to come your way. Also, that each wish is better then the last one. The little girl admires the stones. The woman opens the pouch and picks each stone one at a time, and places them in the pouch. The woman hands the pouch to the little girl and says “For safe keeping” The little girl smiles and runs out the door. Giggles are heard. The woman continues to rock.

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