Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Bouazizi’s heavy eyelids parted as the Muezzin recited the final call for the first Adhan of the day.

“As-salatu Khayrun Minan-nawm”
Prayer is better than sleep

Rising from the torment of another restless night, Bouazizi wiped the sleep from his droopy eyes as his feet touched the cold stone floor.

Throughout the frigid night, the devilish jinn did their work, eagerly jabbing away at Bouazizi with pointed sticks, tormenting his troubled conscience with the worry of his nagging indebtedness. All night the face of the man Bouazizi owed money to haunted him. Bouazizi could see the man’s greasy lips and brown teeth jawing away, inches from his face. He imagined chubby caffeine stained fingers reaching toward him to grab some dinars from Bouazizi’s money box.

Bouazizi turned all night like he was sleeping on a board of spikes. His prayers for a restful night again went unanswered. The pall of a blue fatigue would shadow Bouazizi for most of the day.

Bouazizi’s weariness was compounded by a gnawing hunger. By force of habit, he grudgingly opened the food cupboard with the foreknowledge that it was almost bare. Bouazizi’s premonition proved correct as he surveyed a meager handful of chickpeas, some eggs and a few sparse loaves. It was just enough to feed his dependant family; younger brothers and sisters, cousins and a terminally disabled uncle. That left nothing for Bouazizi but a quick jab to his empty gut. He would start this day without breakfast.

Bouazizi made a living as a street vendor. He hustles to survive. Bouazizi’s father died in a construction accident in Libya when he was three. Since the age of 10, Bouazizi had pushed a cart through the streets of Sidi Bouzid; selling fruit at the public market just a few blocks from the home that he has lived in for almost his entire life.

At 27 years of age, Bouazizi has wrestled the beast of deprivation since his birth. To date, he has bravely fought it to a standstill; but day after day the multi-headed hydra of life has snapped at him. He has squarely met the eyes of the beast with fortitude and resolve; but the sharp fangs of a hardscrabble life has sunken deep into Bouazizi’s spleen. The unjust rules of society are powerful claws that slash away at his flesh, bleeding him dry: while the spiked tendrils of poverty wrap Bouazizi’s neck, seeking to strangle him.

Bouazizi is a workingman hero; a skilled warrior in the fight for daily bread. He is accustomed to living a life of scarcity. His daily deliverance is the grace of another day of labor and the blessed wages of subsistence.

Though Allah has blessed this man with fortitude the acuteness of terminal want and the constant struggle to survive has its limits for any man; even for strong champions like Bouazizi.

This morning as Bouazizi washed he peered into a mirror, closely examining new wrinkles on his stubble strewn face. He fingered his deep black curls dashed with growing streaks of gray. He studied them through the gaze of heavy bloodshot eyes. He looked upward as if to implore Allah to salve the bruises of daily life.

Bouazizi braced himself with the splash of a cold water slap to his face. He wiped his cheeks clean with the tail of his shirt. He dipped his toothbrush into a box of baking powder and scoured an aching back molar in need of a root canal. Bouazizi should see a dentist but it is a luxury he cannot afford so he packed an aspirin on top of the infected tooth. The dissolving aspirin invaded his mouth coating his tongue with a bitter effervescence.

Bouazizi liked the taste and was grateful for the expectation of a dulled pain. He smiled into the mirror to check his chipped front tooth while pinching a cigarette **** from an ashtray. The roach had one hit left in it. He lit it with a long hard drag that consumed a good part of the filter. Bouazizi’s first smoke of the day was more filter then tobacco but it shocked his lungs into the coughing flow of another day.

Bouazizi put on his jacket, slipped into his knockoff NB sneakers and reached for a green apple on a nearby table. He took a big bite and began to chew away the pain of his toothache.

Bouazizi stepped into the street to catch the sun rising over the rooftops. He believed that seeing the sunrise was a good omen that augured well for that day’s business. A sunbeam braking over a far distant wall bathed Bouazizi in a golden light and illumined the alley where he parked his cart holding his remaining stock of week old apples. He lifted the handles and backed his cart out into the street being extra mindful of the cracks in the cobblestone road. Bouazizi sprained his ankle a week ago and it was still tender. Bouazizi had to be careful not to aggravate it with a careless step. Having successfully navigated his cart into the road, Bouazizi made a skillful U Turn and headed up the street limping toward the market.

A winter chill gripped Bouazizi prompting him to zip his jacket up to his neck. The zipper pinched his Adam’s Apple and a few droplets of blood stained his green corduroy jacket. Though it was cold, Bouazizi sensed that spring would arrive early this year triggering a replay of a recurring daydream. Bouazizi imagined himself behind the wheel of a new van on his way to the market. Fresh air and sunshine pouring through the open windows with the cargo space overflowing with fresh vegetables and fruits.

It was a lifelong ambition of Bouazizi to own a van. He dreamed of buying a six cylinder Dodge Caravan. It would be painted red and he would call it The Red Flame. The Red Flame would be fast and powerful and sport chrome spinners. The Red Flame would be filled with music from a Blaupunkt sound system with kick *** speakers. Power windows, air conditioning, leather seats, a moonroof and plenty of space in the back for his produce would complete Bouazizi’s ride.

The Red Flame would be the vehicle Bouazizi required to expand his business beyond the market square. Bouazizi would sell his produce out of the back of the van, moving from neighborhood to neighborhood. No longer would he have to wait for customers to come to his stand in the market. Bouazizi would go to his customers. Bouazizi and the Red Flame would be known in all the neighborhoods throughout the district. Bouazizi shook his head and smiled thinking about all the girls who would like to take rides in the Red Flame. Bouazizi and his Red Flame would be a sight to be noticed and a force to be reckoned with.

“EEEEEYOWWW” a Mercedes horn angrily honked; jarring Bouazizi from the reverie of his daydream. A guy whipping around the corner like a silver streak stuck his head out the window blasting with music yelling, “Hey Mnayek, watch where you push that *******.”

The music faded as the Mercedes roared away. “Barra nikk okhtek” Bouazizi yelled, raising his ******* in the direction of the vanished car. “The big guys in the fancy cars think the road belongs to them”, Bouazizi mumbled to himself.

The insult ****** Bouazizi off, but he was accustomed to them and as he limped along pushing his cart he distracted himself with the amusement of the ascending sun chasing the fleeting shadows of the night, sending them scurrying down narrow alleyways.

Bouazizi imaged himself a character from his favorite movie. He was a giant Transformer, chasing the black shadows of evil away from the city into the desert. After battling evil and conquering the bad guys, he would transform himself back into the regular Bouazizi; selling his produce to the people as he patrolled the highways of Tunisia in the Red Flame, the music blasting out the windows, the chrome spinners flashing in the sunlight. Bouazizi would remain vigilant, always ready to transform the Red Flame to fight the evil doers.

The bumps and potholes in the road jostled Bouazizi’s load of apples. A few fell out of the wooden baskets and were rolling around in the open spaces of the cart. Bouazizi didn’t want to risk bruising them. Damaged merchandise can’t be sold so he was careful to secure his goods and arrange his cart to appeal to women customers. He made sure to display his prized electronic scale in the corner of the cart for all to see.

Bouazizi had a reputation as a fair and generous dealer who always gave good value to his customers. Bouazizi was also known for his kindness. He would give apples to hungry children and families who could not pay. Bouazizi knew the pain of hunger and it brought him great satisfaction to be able to alleviate it in others.

As a man who valued fairness, Bouazizi was particularly proud of his electronic scale. Bouazizi was certain the new measuring device assured all customers that Bouazizi sold just and correct portions. The electronic scale was Bouazizi’s shining lamp. He trusted it. He hung it from the corner post of his cart like it was the beacon of a lighthouse guiding shoppers through the treachery of an unscrupulous market. It would attract all customers who valued fairness to the safe harbor of Bouazizi’s cart.

The electronic scale is Bouazizi’s assurance to his customers that the weights and measures of electronic calculation layed beyond any cloud of doubt. It is a fair, impartial and objective arbiter for any dispute.

Bouazizi believed that the fairness of his scale would distinguish his stand from other produce vendors. Though its purchase put Bouazizi into deep debt, the scale was a source of pride for Bouazizi who believed that it would help his profits to increase and help him to achieve his goal of buying the Red Flame.

As Bouazizi pushed his cart toward the market, he mulled his plan over in his mind for the millionth time. He wasn't great in math but he was able to calculate his financial situation with a degree of precision. His estimations triggered worries that his growing debt to money lenders may be difficult to payoff.

Indebtedness pressed down on Bouazizi’s chest like a mounting pile of stones. It was the source of an ever present fear coercing Bouazizi to live in a constant state of anxiety. His business needed to grow for Bouazizi to get a measure of relief and ultimately prosper from all his hard work. Bouazizi was driven by urgency.

The morning roil of the street was coming alive. Bouazizi quickened his step to secure a good location for his cart at the market. Car horns, the spewing diesel from clunking trucks, the flatulent roar of accelerating buses mixed with the laughs and shrieks of children heading to school composed the rising crescendo of the city square.

As he pushed through the market, Bouazizi inhaled the aromatic eddies of roasting coffee floating on the air. It was a pleasantry Bouazizi looked forward to each morning. The delicious wafts of coffee mingling with the crisp aroma of baking bread instigated a growl from Bouazizi’s empty stomach. He needed to get something to eat. After he got money from his first sale he would by a coffee and some fried dough.

Activity in the market was vigorous, punctuated by the usual arguments of petty territorial disputes between vendors. The disagreements were always amicably resolved, burned away in rising billows of roasting meats and vegetables, the exchange of cigarettes and the plumes of tobacco smoke rising as emanations of peace.

Bouazizi skillfully maneuvered his cart through the market commotion. He slid into his usual space between Aaban and Aameen. His good friend Aaban sold candles, incense, oils and sometimes his wife would make cakes to sell. Aameen was the markets most notorious jokester. He sold hardware and just about anything else he could get his hands on.

Aaban was already burning a few sticks of jasmine incense. It helped to attract customers. The aroma defined the immediate space with the pleasant bouquet of a spring garden. Bouazizi liked the smell and appreciated the increased traffic it brought to his apple cart.

“Hey Basboosa#, do you have any cigarettes?“, Aameen asked as he pulled out a lighter. Bouazizi shook the tip of a Kent from an almost empty pack. Aameen grabbed the cigarette with his lips.

“That's three cartons of Kents you owe me, you cheap *******.” Bouazizi answered half jokingly. Aameen mumbled a laugh through a grin tightly gripping the **** as he exhaled smoke from his nose like a fire breathing dragon. Bouazizi also took out a cigarette for himself.

“Aameem, give me a light”, Bouazizi asked.

Aameen tossed him the lighter.

“Keep it Basboosa. I got others.” Aameen smiled as he showed off a newly opened box of disposable lighters to sell on his stand.

“Made in China, Basboosa. They make everything cheap and colorful. I can make some money with these.”

Bouazizi lit his next to last cigarette. He inhaled deeply. The smoke chased away the cool air in Bouazizi’s lungs with a shot of a hot nicotine rush.

“Merci Aameen” Bouazizi answered. He put the lighter into the almost empty cigarette pack and put it into his hip pocket. The lighter would protect his last cigarette from being crushed.

The laughter and shouts of the bazaar, the harangue of radio voices shouting anxious verses of Imam’s exhorting the masses to submit and the piecing ramble of nondescript AM music flinging piercing unintelligible static surrounded Bouazizi and his cart as he waited for his first customers of the day.

Bouazizi sensed a nervous commotion rise along the line of vendors. A crowd of tourists and locals milling about parted as if to avoid a slithering asp making its way through their midst. The hoots of vendors and the cackle of the crowd made its way to Bouazizi’s knowing ear. He knew what was coming. It was nothing more then another shakedown by city officials acting as bagmen for petty municipal bureaucrats. They claim to be checking vendor licences but they’re just making the rounds collecting protection money from the vendors. Pocketing bribes and payoffs is the municipal authorities idea of good government. They are skilled at using the power of their office to extort tribute from the working poor.

Bouazizi made the mistake of making eye contact with Madame Hamdi. As the municipal authority in charge of vendors and taxis Madame Hamdi held sway over the lives of the street vendors. She relished the power she had over the men who make a meager living selling goods in the square; and this morning she was moving through the market like a bloodhound hot on the trail of an escaped convict. Two burly henchmen lead the way before her. Bouazizi knew Madame Hamdi’s hounds were coming for him.

Bouazizi knew he was ******. Having just made a payment to his money lender, Bouazizi had no extra dinars to grease the palm of Madame Hamdi. He grabbed the handle bars of his cart to make an escape; but Madame Hamdi cut him off and got right into into Bouazizi’s face.

“Ah little Basboosa where are you going? she asked with the tone of playful contempt.

“I suppose you still have no license to sell, ah Basboosa?” Madame Hamdi questioned with the air of a soulless inquisitor.

“You know Madame Hamdi, cart vendors do not need a license.” Bouazizi feebly protested, not daring to look into her eyes.

“Basboosa, you know we can overlook your violations with a small fine for your laxity” a dismissive Madame Hamdi offered.

Bouazizi’s sense of guilt would not permit him to lift his eyes. His head remained bowed. Bouazizi stood convicted of being one of the impoverished.

“I have no spare dinars to offer Madame Hamdi, My pockets are empty, full of holes. My money falls into everyone’s palm but my own. I’m sorry Madame Hamdi. I’ll take my cart home”. He lifted the handlebars in an attempt to escape. One of Madame Hamdi’s henchmen stepped in front of his cart while the other pushed Bouazizi away from it.

“Either you pay me a vendor tax for a license or I will confiscate your goods Basboosa”, Madame Hamdi warned as she lifted Bouazizi’s scale off its hook.

“This will be the first to go”, she said grinning as she examined the scale. “We’ll just keep this.”
Like a mother lion protecting a defenseless cub from the snapping jaws of a pack of ravenous hyenas, Bouazizi lunged to retrieve his prized scale from the clutches of Madame Hamdi. Reaching for it, he touched the scale with his fingertips just as Madame Hamdi delivered a vicious slap to Bouazizi’s cheek. It halted him like a thunderbolt from Zeus.

A henchman overturned Bouazizi’s cart, scatter
Three years ago today Muhammad Bouazizi set himself on fire igniting the Jasmine Revolution in Tunisia sparking the Arab Spring Uprisings of 2011.
Nigel Morgan Dec 2013
A Tale for the Mid-Winter Season after the Mural by Carl Larrson

On the shortest day I wake before our maids from the surrounding farms have converged on Sundborn. Greta lives with us so she will be asleep in that deep slumber only girls of her age seem to own. Her tiny room has barely more than a bed and a chest for her clothes. There is my first painting of her on the wall, little more a sketch, but she was entranced, at seeing herself so. To the household she is a maid who looks after me and my studio,  though she is a literate, intelligent girl, city-bred from Gamla Stan but from a poor home, a widowed mother, her late father a drunkard.  These were my roots, my beginning, exactly. But her eyes already see a world beyond Sundborn. She covets postcards from my distant friends: in Paris, London, Jean in South America, and will arrange them on my writing desk, sometimes take them to her room at night to dream in the candlelight. I think this summer I shall paint her, at my desk, reading my cards, or perhaps writing her own. The window will be open and a morning breeze will make the flowers on the desk tremble.

Karin sleeps too, a desperate sleep born of too much work and thought and interruption. These days before Christmas put a strain on her usually calm disposition. The responsibilities of our home, our life, the constant visitors, they weigh upon her, and dispel her private time. Time in her studio seems impossible. I often catch her poised to disappear from a family coming-together. She is here, and then gone, as if by magic. With the older children home from their distant schools, and Suzanne arrived from England just yesterday morning, they all cannot do without lengthy conferences. They know better than disturb me. Why do you think there is a window set into my studio door? So, if I am at my easel there should be no knock to disturb. There is another reason, but that is between Karin and I.

This was once a summer-only house, but over the years we have made it our whole-year home. There was much attention given to making it snug and warm. My architect replaced all the windows and all the doors and there is this straw insulation between the walls. Now, as I open the curtains around my bed, I can see my breath float out into the cool air. When, later, I descend to my studio, the stove, damped down against the night, when opened and raddled will soon warm the space. I shall draw back the heavy drapes and open the wooden shutters onto the dark land outside. Only then I will stand before my current painting: *Brita and the Sleigh
.

Current!? I have been working on this painting intermittently for five years, and Brita is no longer the Brita of this picture, though I remember her then as yesterday. It is a picture of a winter journey for a six-year-old, only that journey is just across the yard to the washhouse. Snow, frost, birds gathered in the leafless trees, a sun dog in the sky, Brita pushing her empty sledge, wearing fur boots, Lisbeth’s old coat, and that black knitted hat made by old Anna. It is the nearest I have come to suggesting the outer landscape of this place. I bring it out every year at this time so I can check the light and the shadows against what I see now, not what I remember seeing then. But there will be a more pressing concern for me today, this shortest day.

Since my first thoughts for the final mural in my cycle for the Nationalmuseum I have always put this day aside, whatever I might be doing, wherever I may be. I pull out my first sketches, that book of imaginary tableaux filled in a day and a night in my tiny garden studio in Grez, thinking of home, of snow, the mid-winter, feeling the extraordinary power and shake of Adam of Bremen’s description of 10th C pre-Christian Uppsala, written to describe how barbaric and immoral were the practices and religion of the pagans, to defend the fragile position of the Christian church in Sweden at the time. But as I gaze at these rough beginnings made during those strange winter days in my rooms at the Hotel Chevilon, I feel myself that twenty-five year old discovering my artistic vision, abandoning oils for the flow and smudge of watercolour, and then, of course, Karin. We were part of the Swedish colony at Grez-sur-Loing. Karin lived with the ladies in Pension Laurent, but was every minute beside me until we found our own place, to be alone and be together, in a cupboard of a house by the river, in Marlotte.

Everyone who painted en-plein-air, writers, composers, they all flocked to Grez just south of Fontainebleau, to visit, sometimes to stay. I recall Strindberg writing to Karin after his first visit: It was as if there were no pronounced shadows, no hard lines, the air with its violet complexion is almost always misty; and I painting constantly, and against the style and medium of the time. How the French scoffed at my watercolours, but my work sold immediately in Stockholm. . . and Karin, tall, slim, Karin, my muse, my lover, my model, her boy-like figure lying naked (but for a hat) in the long grass outside my studio. We learned each other there, the technique of bodies in intimate closeness, the way of no words, the sharing of silent thoughts, together on those soft, damp winter days when our thoughts were of home, of Karin’s childhood home at Sundborn. I had no childhood thoughts I wanted to return to, but Karin, yes. That is why we are here now.

In Grez-sur-Loing, on a sullen December day, mist lying on the river, our garden dead to winter, we received a visitor, a Swedish writer and journalist travelling with a very young Italian, Mariano Fortuny, a painter living in Paris, and his mentor the Spaniard Egusquiza. There was a woman too who Karin took away, a Parisienne seamstress I think, Fortuny’s lover. Bayreuth and Wagner, Wagner, Wagner was all they could talk about. Of course Sweden has its own Nordic Mythology I ventured. But where is it? What is it? they cried, and there was laughter and more mulled wine, and then talk again of Wagner.

When the party left I realized there was something deep in my soul that had been woken by talk of the grandeur and scale of Wagner’s cocktail of German and Scandinavian myths and folk tales. For a day and night I sketched relentlessly, ransacking my memory for those old tales, drawing strong men and stalwart, flaxen-haired women in Nordic dress and ornament. But as a new day presented itself I closed my sketch book and let the matter drop until, years later, in a Stockholm bookshop I chanced upon a volume in Latin by Adam of Bremen, his Gesta Hammaburgensis Ecclesiae Pontificum, the most famous source to pagan ritual practice in Sweden. That cold winter afternoon in Grez returned to me and I felt, as I had then, something stir within me, something missing from my comfortable world of images of home and farm, family and the country life.

Back in Sundborn this little volume printed in the 18th C lay on my desk like a question mark without a sentence. My Latin was only sufficient to get a gist, but the gist was enough. Here was the story of the palace of Uppsala, the great centre of the pre-Christian pagan cults that brought us Odin and Freyr. I sought out our village priest Dag Sandahl, a good Lutheran but who regularly tagged Latin in his sermons. Yes, he knew the book, and from his study bookshelf brought down an even earlier copy than my own. And there and then we sat down together and read. After an hour I was impatient to be back in my studio and draw, draw these extraordinary images this text brought to life unbidden in my imagination. But I did not leave until I had persuaded Pastor Sandahl to agree to translate the Uppsala section of the Adam of Bremen’s book, and just before Christmas that year, on the day before the Shortest Day, he delivered his translation to my studio. He would not stay, but said I should read the passages about King Domalde and his sacrifice at the Winter Solstice. And so, on the day of the Winter Solstice, I did.

This people have a widely renowned sanctuary called Uppsala.

By this temple is a very large tree with extending branches. It is always green, both in winter and in summer. No one knows what kind of tree this is. There is also a spring there, where the heathens usually perform their sacrificial rites. They throw a live human being into the spring. If he does not resurface, the wishes of the people will come true.

The Temple is girdled by a chain of gold that hangs above the roof of the building and shines from afar, so that people may see it from a distance when they approach there. The sanctuary itself is situated on a plain, surrounded by mountains, so that the form a theatre.

It is not far from the town of Sigtuna. This sanctuary is completely covered with golden ornaments. There, people worship the carved idols of three gods: Thor, the most powerful of them, has his throne in the middle of the hall, on either side of him, Odin and Freyr have their seats. They have these functions: “Thor,” they say, “rules the air, he rules thunder and lightning, wind and rain, good weather and harvests. The other, Odin, he who rages, he rules the war and give courage to people in their battle against enemies. The third is Freyr, he offers to mortals lust and peace and happiness.” And his image they make with a very large phallus. Odin they present armed, the way we usually present Mars, while Thor with the scepter seems to resemble Jupiter. As gods they also worship some that have earlier been human. They give them immortality for the sake of their great deeds, as we may read in Vita sancti Ansgarii that they did with King Eirik.

For all these gods have particular persons who are to bring forward the sacrificial gifts of the people. If plague and famine threatens, they offer to the image of Thor, if the matter is about war, they offer to Odin, but if a wedding is to be celebrated, they offer to Freyr. And every ninth year in Uppsala a great religious ceremony is held that is common to people from all parts of Sweden.”
Snorri also relates how human sacrifice began in Uppsala, with the sacrifice of a king.

Domalde took the heritage after his father Visbur, and ruled over the land. As in his time there was great famine and distress, the Swedes made great offerings of sacrifice at Upsal. The first autumn they sacrificed oxen, but the succeeding season was not improved thereby. The following autumn they sacrificed men, but the succeeding year was rather worse. The third autumn, when the offer of sacrifices should begin, a great multitude of Swedes came to Upsal; and now the chiefs held consultations with each other, and all agreed that the times of scarcity were on account of their king Domalde, and they resolved to offer him for good seasons, and to assault and **** him, and sprinkle the stall of the gods with his blood. And they did so.


There it was, at the end of Adam of Bremen’s description of Uppsala, this description of King Domalde upon which my mural would be based. It is not difficult to imagine, or rather the event itself can be richly embroidered, as I have over the years made my painting so. Karin and I have the books of William Morris on our shelves and I see little difference between his fixation on the legends of the Arthur and the Grail. We are on the cusp here between the pagan and the Christian.  What was Christ’s Crucifixion but a self sacrifice: as God in man he could have saved himself but chose to die for Redemption’s sake. His blood was not scattered to the fields as was Domalde’s, but his body and blood remains a continuing symbol in our right of Communion.

I unroll the latest watercolour cartoon of my mural. It is almost the length of this studio. Later I will ask Greta to collect the other easels we have in the house and barn and then I shall view it properly. But for now, as it unrolls, my drama of the Winter Solstice comes alive. It begins on from the right with body of warriors, bronze shields and helmets, long shafted spears, all set against the side of Uppsala Temple and more distant frost-hoared trees. Then we see the King himself, standing on a sled hauled by temple slaves. He is naked as he removes the furs in which he has travelled, a circuit of the temple to display himself to his starving people. In the centre, back to the viewer, a priest-like figure in a red cloak, a dagger held for us to see behind his back. Facing him, in druidic white, a high priest holds above his head a gold pagan monstrance. To his left there are white cloaked players of long, straight horns, blue cloaked players of the curled horns, and guiding the shaft of the sled a grizzled shaman dressed in the skins and furs of animals. The final quarter of my one- day-to-be-a-mural unfolds to show the women of temple and palace writhing in gestures of grief and hysteria whilst their queen kneels prostate on the ground, her head to the earth, her ladies ***** behind her. Above them all stands the forever-green tree whose origin no one knows.

Greta has entered the studio in her practiced, silent way carrying coffee and rolls from the kitchen. She has seen Midvinterblot many times, but I sense her gaze of fascination, yet again, at the figure of the naked king. She remembers the model, the sailor who came to stay at Kartbacken three summers ago. He was like the harpooner Queequeg in Moby ****. A tattooed man who was to be seen swimming in Toftan Lake and walking bare-chested in our woods. A tall, well-muscled, almost silent man, whom I patiently courted to be my model for King Dolmade. I have a book of sketches of him striding purposefully through the trees, the tattooed lines on his shoulders and chest like deep cuts into his body. This striding figure I hid from the children for some time, but from Greta that was impossible. She whispered to me once that when she could not have my substantial chest against her she would imagine the sailor’s, imagine touching and following his tattooed lines. This way, she said, helped her have respite from those stirrings she would so often feel for me. My painting, she knew, had stirred her fellow maids Clara and Solveig. Surely you know this, she had said, in her resolute and direct city manner. I have to remember she is the age of my eldest, who too must hold such thoughts and feelings. Karin dislikes my sailor king and wishes I would not hide the face of his distraught queen.

Today the sunrise is at 9.0, just a half hour away, and it will set before 3.0pm. So, after this coffee I will put on my boots and fur coat, be well scarfed and hatted (as my son Pontus would say) and walk out onto my estate. I will walk east across the fields towards Spardasvvägen. The sky is already waiting for the sun, but waits without colour, hardly even a tinge of red one might expect.

I have given Greta her orders to collect every easel she can find so we can take Midvinterblot off the floor and see it in all its vivid colour and form. In February I shall begin again to persuade the Nationalmuseum to accept this work. We have a moratorium just now. I will not accept their reasoning that there is no historical premise for such a subject, that such a scene has no place in a public gallery. A suggestion has been made that the Historiska museet might house it. But I shall not think of this today.

Karin is here, her face at the studio window beckons entry. My Darling, yes, it is midwinter’s day and I am dressing to greet the solstice. I will dress, she says, to see Edgar who will be here in half an hour to discuss my designs for this new furniture. We will be lunching at noon. Know you are welcome. Suzanne is talking constantly of England, England, and of course Oxford, this place of dreaming spires and good looking boys. We touch hands and kiss. I sense the perfume of sleep, of her bed.

Outside I must walk quickly to be quite alone, quite apart from the house, in the fields, alone. It is on its way: this light that will bathe the snowed-over land and will be my promise of the year’s turn towards new life.

As I walk the drama of Midvinterblot unfolds in a confusion of noise, the weeping of women, the physical exertions of the temple slaves, the priests’ incantations, the riot of horns, and then suddenly, as I stand in this frozen field, there is silence. The sun rises. It stagge
To see images of the world of Sundborn and Carl Larrson (including Mitvinterblot) see http://www.clg.se/encarl.aspx
Duke Thompson Nov 2014
Asking silly questions
About places I no longer live
And people that
Maybe should have stayed friends
Who really burned bridge

Both of us
No innocence here
Who really threw first stone

More questions that don't matter
Naked answers drained of endorphins
Let me be the honey sweet mulled wine
Take me to dinner with your Prada
White girl no *** pearly teeth

Telling me really
'All men are pigs anyways my darling'
Making me her plump little Sunday swine
'Shall I feed at thy trough'
Earns me a red cheek'd slap
A Renee Feb 2011
spread thin enough to erase the moment
univited open ended observations
temporary consequences
of a race against gravity
leave today untouched

a familiar valley of mulled secrets
under a cave-like resentment
in pursuit of imitation
we follow the blue

its most precious possession
wrapped in surrender on a sleeping shore
rain melts a naive confession
into conscious ink

the blur seems in again
and i inhale the dim stillness
its not me
but i jumped in while i could
i cant leave until the paper dances on it's own
now i watch
but only from above
Dear Trusting Nurse-Maid, must we Speculate
The Favours your Leader asked has mulled
Far healing cry a tearful Reprobate
And supposed Cheerful Innocence has dulled
As soon as the Red Tabloid goes to Sin
And whips the Pink Horse we all fantasy
Your Prince suddenly squeezes on a Whim
Which the Next Frustration will testify
I envy you all. Despite Fashion's Change
Like Solemn Dakinis prayed for Support
Cry the Call for War; And within a Range
Mark him a Target then file my Report.
I have lost that War. And the Battle as well
Yours straight to Heaven; Mine a Journey's Hell.
#daleysangels
- Nov 2013
Mulled wine is so divine.
© Natali Veronica 2013.
Rohit Mane Aug 2018
Sitting at my workstation I kept swirling my chair around,
Battling the strenuous drowse that tried to yoke me to the ground,
“How could this happen? This is the first hour of my job,” I wondered,
I chuckled. “How fool of me! It’s Monday today,” I remembered.

I peeked to my left to see an empty chair,
“No-one to talk around; hey, that’s so unfair!”


I cringed viscerally at the thought of spending the day without uttering a word,
I tried to re-task my focus on my computer screen when a soft voice I heard,
Made me turn, and as I did, I veered myself to the source of the euphonic voice,
I felt the dumbfoundedness of a person bewitched by a magical spell, twice.

For some moments I couldn’t decrypt the words that her lips uttered,
As I just kept staring into her graceful eyes, helpless and all cluttered.


She asked with a soft smile, “Is this person absent today?” and  motioned to the workstation on my left,
I felt my dopamine surge at the possibility of what might happen next,
I nodded as soon as I realised my tongue has gone numb,
She ensconced herself and smiled, her cheeks as rotund as a plum.

I swallowed a lump in my throat that I didn’t realise had formed,
I wasn’t hoping for anything like this but I liked what my day had unboxed.


“What is she? Are humans allowed to be this beautiful?” I questioned my mind,
Was she a manifestation of my dreams or an angel in disguise!
It seemed like her eyes possessed a power in them like Midas in his hands,
A sight of innocence that could even force the flying time to land.

I leaned forward a little to catch a glimpse of her pretty brown eyes,
She turned to me with a gaze of a doe and my tongue again got tied.


“Any problem?” She questioned me with a raise of her brow,
“Yes, your eyes. They’re too beautiful,” the response I couldn’t let out,
Instead I shook my head and turned my eyes away from her,
My peripheral could see her blushing; it seemed the bubble has finally burst.

I tried to venture a conversation but failed to remember the morphemes,
The anonymity between us allowed the nervousness to sweep in.


I sighed deeply and turned about to do what I’m paid for,
But her presence beside me made it harder for me to stay calm,
An unexpected “Hello” came from my left and an introduction followed the greet,
Although stunned by the suddenness I tried to smile at her, from cheek to cheek.

We exchanged our names and conversed a little for a while,
Before she got engaged in her work and I in mine.


After hours of punching the keyboard buttons I stretched my arms and yawned,
She giggled at me and I took it as a cue to move my first pawn,
I embarked, “I’m going to the cafeteria to have some tea”,
I hesitated for a moment and resumed, “would you like to come with me?”

She rolled her eyes and I understood she has refused my kind and genuine offer,
I began to walk away. “Wait a minute, let me lock my PC,” and then I saw her got up.


We walked our way to the cafeteria, slower than two people normally would,
My chivalry erupted as I held the door open for her as she entered the room,
We occupied a table for two and  it appeared like a date-night is about to happen,
With she in front of me and  the stories that we shared, it seemed like all the troubles in the world didn’t matter.

I mulled over the thought that I might have a crush on her smile,
But there was an absolute certainty that I had fallen in love with her eyes.


She shared some cheerful stories about her childhood and also the moments in her life she remorse,
She had a way of crinkling her nose adorably that made her appear cuter than she was before,
“You may have a body of a woman but you have a sweetness of a child,” I abruptly blurted out,
She smiled deep into my eyes and I could feel the brightest smile I ever had form on my mouth.

“That’s the sweetest thing someone has ever said about me,” she flushed a little while she said this,
It took us a moment to realise that we’re holding hands; the touch of hers was something I couldn’t resist.


We got up as we finished our beverages and sauntered our way back to our daily routine,
I tried to rein my thoughts that our day was  about to end, but my efforts were all just futile,
I just wished this night shall never pass as I wanted to spend more of my time with her,
We logged out of our PC’s as our shift ended but I craved for one last conversation with this girl.

While ambling towards the exit in silence I turned on my heels to look into her beautiful brown eyes,
I sighed as I looked at her and tried to settle down the feeling to hug her that was about to rise,
“I spent this beautiful day with a beautiful girl I wish I could see more of,” I said with truthfulness in my voice,
She smiled at the ground and then looked up, “You will. Tomorrow at 8. Here’s my number. The place is your choice.

========================================================­===
I wrote this poem for a girl I have a crush on (read: hopeless crush!). She works in my organisation only but in a different location than mine so I get to see her only once or twice in months.
When I first saw her it was the last week of March. For some reason she came to the location where I work and sat beside me for the whole day! But I didn’t get to talk to her or even ask her name as she was a complete stranger and also she was immensely busy with her work. (She was working on some important document.) During that day I only got to see glimpses of her beautiful brown eyes and her sweet smile but it was enough to give me butterflies in my stomach.
As fate would have it, after some weeks we ran into each other again!
She visited my office that day for some important work and asked me to help her with the printing machine as I was walking across her while she was having trouble with her prints. I immediately recognised those pretty brown eyes and the beautiful face but she didn’t recognise me. For her I was just a stranger that was helping her but for me she had become my crush.

That night while riding back home a couple of lines sparked in my head:

“I mulled over the thought that I might have a crush on her smile,
But there was an absolute certainty that I had fallen in love with her eyes.”

I instantly had a thought of writing something about her and what I did write is completely in front of you. I never had any intention of giving this poem to her and woo her with my writing abilities. I just used my affection for her as a muse to do something for me that I’d feel proud about. The above poem is the fictionalised version of the day I spent with her when she sat beside me for the first time.

I sincerely hope you guys enjoy the poem. :)
n stiles carmona Dec 2018
Momentary
mourning peace.
Mama pours a glass of mulled wine,
lights a scented candle
                               (- "cherries on snow" -)
and drinks to ol' Joan.

Passed down with the jewellery box,
somewhere in the will, the daughters
receive the annual chore of roasting
the turkey (delicious!) and the veggies
(good job!) and (could you pass the?) breadsauce
for their brothers and husbands huddled
            on a threadbare sofa -- and a younger girl,
            barely there, staring at a laptop screen.

Mama's not festive - always too tired -
barely celebrates, but orchestrates.
Years barely there 'cause she's needed in their kitchen
and someone's gotta cook can she please get a hand? and
one chivalrous male puffs out his chest, takes one for the team, gestures to the girl with no discernible attention span and
half-laughs an "ay, one day this'll be you!
Best get in there while you're young!"

                                                       ­   ((A baritone chorus of laughter.))

"You outdid yourself on the turkey."
"S'great, ain't it? Pass the potatoes."

Sometimes here, sometimes Spain.
We stay over. It's tradition: we're
scattered across the country,
maid duties are the least she can do.
Never our kitchen or living room.
Tiny. Messy. Unwelcoming.
Come Boxing Day, Mama gives
a bear hug goodbye and an
"it's good to see you";
Because it is, she thinks.
Thank you for inviting me
to carry out your labour.
I'm just grateful to be needed.

A month of red 'SALE' tapes
scouring the clearance shelves;
overtime for extra cash
scraped to afford the food she cooks you;
paying half for gifts she'd brainstormed
while Dad buys partial credit on the gift tag.
We vanish from your house
- like elves -
by morning.
happy holidays! if you rub your eyes, it semi-looks like a christmas tree.
Christian Bixler Nov 2014
I sit and hear the desert wind, sand hissing past,
winging by on the deserts breath. The moon hangs
still above the earth, enshrined in vaults of darkest
black, an infinity of stars to frost the sky. I sit here,
on the shifting crest of a tall and windswept dune,
contemplating the majesty of starry sky, and the silence
of the desert winds. My mind empty, wanders, and I
seem to hear, in the howling of the desert wind, the yipping
cries of jackals, and a strain of music, faint and thin, riding, on
the whisper of the desert winds. I look and see, a palace, light
shining from many windows, and colored pennants, whipping
in the desert breeze, spices seeming, rich and dry, waft around
me, caught, in the twisting zephyrs of the deserts breath. I stare, and
slowly, the sounds of the palace reach my ears, women laughing, singing, and the lilting tones of music strange and wonderful, lift me
from the desert sand, and set me forward, stumbling from fatigue and
thirst, towards that place of light and sound, a refuge surely from the
stinging sands, and the whispering voice of the desert, dry in its susurrations, as an empty skull, bleached and hollow, sockets set to the
contemplation of the desert winds, dessicated remnant of mortal man, till wind and sand consign it to the deserts breath. I stumble forwards, eyes locked on that vision held before me, and I, with all remaining strength and speed, run towards that deserts dream, and in my folly, I
strive for speed, even exceeding the desert wind. At last I halt, and in my weariness, stumble against a mighty gate, set with gold and jade and onyx, moonstone high, and amber low. I set my hands to wondrous gate, but lo! the gates are fast and strong. They do not yield to the feeble push of weary traveler, nor to the entreaty of dry and sand parched throat, imploring it to stand aside. I fall at last, defeated, and thought, to die here, before these gates of opulent splendour, would not be so tragic a fate, as the deaths of thousands, lost as I in the immeasurable vastness of the desert sands. But yea! There in the darkness of night as I made my peace with God and his angels and consigned myself to the inevitable fate of eternal rest, that near unnoticed, the gates swung voicelessly open, and through it I inhaled weakly, the scents of anise and cumin and cinnamon and allspice, all mixed with the intoxicating perfume of the daughters of the desert, scented waters and mulled wine. I reeled, dazed by the glory of light and sound and scent. I was lifted then by gentle hands, soft and cool, with the featherlight touch of sweet virginity. I fell, spinning, into the cool dark of grey oblivion. I awaken, rested, in the dark. Birdsong wafts in through arched windows. Below, I can hear the women singing, talking, as their needles clack in unrelenting harmony. And yet, this all seems to fade, to become less real. I listen harder, and yet, I hear instead of the singing harmony of before, the lonely song of the desert wind, faint and yet as if it had ever been, and this all some fantasy, imagined dream more true than life? I open my eyes. I lie there, back pressed to chill stone, jutting up into the heavens. The scents of man dissipate and are gone, replaced by the dry and whispering aura of the lonely desert, faint sage upon the wind. I close my eyes. falling, I slide to the cold sands and lie there, waiting only for death to take me, that I might once more approach that vision of holy beauty that awaits those that live and die in piety, and with the grace of heaven. A hand touches my shoulder. I do not look up. The hand remains, insistent in its immovability. I rise, slowly, turning, so I might see my unknown companion, with me, in the heart of the windsept sands of the great expanse. A man stands there, robed in white, black veil obscuring all save for dark eyes, set deep in his weathered brow, like jewels of onyx, set in a dark and seasoned stone, left to the desert, in years gone by. "Come. It is time" The man whispers through the desert wind. He beckons me, fingers set with jewels and stones, gold thread belts his waist. He turns and walks silently, out, towards the eastern sky. I follow him, seeming vision of guidance, sent to set my feet on the path of life. I follow him and yet, gradually he fades and is gone, vanished, beside a weathered stone, lonely in the great expanse. I fall to my knees, head bowed, strength gone from soul and body. I hear dimly through the haze of weary enervation, even as death enshrouds me, the trickle of falling water. I lift my eyes. water pools before me, gift of life, sent by spirit of guiding thirst. I drink and life within me lifts its head, water streams down wind partched throat, and even as I fall into cool oblivion, knowing that that vison of heaven awaits me, water soothes me, as I fall at last into darkness, and the shining vision of heaven around me, I close my eyes, darkness enshrouding, as I perish beneath the moon and frosted sky.
I am in awe of the infinite possibilities and horizons of the imagination.
Harrison W Sep 2014
I was working at the local McDonald's
In the afternoon and was
Told by my boss that since I disappointed him
On not making the fries salty enough
That he would put me on the midnight shift

So there I am
Taking orders in my little cubicle
Hearing the headphone
BEEP BEEP
"Yes I'd like a whopper, crap wrong place"
*******
I take orders and then work the dishes
Jorge calls out to me whether or not
I took off the pickle in the order by mistake

Night shift comes and the air feels cool
Through the drive-thru window
I feel the night time air caressing
And cooling me
My ******* erecting
Exalting a scent that reminds me of perfume

Afterward I have to take the trash out

As I go out the air hits me
Tackles me as I transfer myself
From inside to outside
I feel the same sensations but yet I hear music
DaDAdadumDAdadumDADADAAAADaDAdum
And I feel the sudden change to fill me with warmth

I go back inside and one of my fellow employees
Comes to me
"You want to see something cool?"
We walk to the back of the store
Where all the fry boxes are kept
And there is a whole in the ground

"I dug this hole and I think I found Mother Earth's ******."
I give him a puzzled look
"Looked, I ****** it earlier man and I've got to tell you.  It's a wild ride."
I begin to walk away
"Look man, these people around here call me The Master man.  I'm your guide through all this.  I'm the closest thing to the Alpha.... Or was it the Omega?....  **** man, I don't know just stick your **** in there."  

I walked away from it
But as I looked at the hole
I felt a certain allure to it
Drawing me in like a Siren calling
Perhaps it could be my Muse
My reason for being
Am I meant to do this?
An attempt at procreating with Earth?
It'd make sense since The Master had made
With love this handcrafted ******

I couldn't resist any longer
Temptation being to strong
I knelt down and inserted myself
Into the hole

At first I felt nothing but a scraping sensation
The sharp rubble of the ground grinding against my flesh
But then it became wet and calm
Almost soothing
I closed my eyes and then I saw her
Earth
Coming toward me and pressing my head against her breast
Calming allowing me to **** the ******
Which let me take in the sensation
Running through me as rapidly as a river
I heard the streams
Calming
The dirt was wet and I could put my feet in it
The wind blew with a lush autumn air
That was when I knew it was almost over
And I soon as the white of winter came
So did I

I removed myself and no longer knew what to think
I went home and slept and mulled over what happened
Over a pancake brunch
With chicken on the side
They go better together than you think
There's a stream,
splashing and gurgling,
sending up in the air a single bead of water,
sun beams giving a lightbulb's twinkle
  and inside lying fragments of it's history,
 I wonder if it has a tomorrow
As I daydream about it's mysteries;

The path down the stream,
taken within the flow
with other waters,
weaves,
in and out of the gills of a baby minnow,
over and through smoothed rocks,
Seeping from a canal
racing through locks,
drifting down straights with no bends
Left from the **** of a stag weekend,
And before that a can of cider,
and before that a tube in a mechanical assembly line,
from a water tap,
that came from a reservoir,
Which fell from clouds above it's perimeter,
and before that splashed from ocean froth,
lifted up in a collision of waves like a table cloth
after being taken on the hull of a speed boat
carrying ******* from a river,
where it had once briefly been on a paddle
from a man fishing to make his living.
And further up the river where it divides into streams and then nothing,
and then famine,
moist ground from tears,
It had been someone suffering.

A million lives
entwined in a drop of water,
each one a coincidence,
coinciding just by chance
the spectrum of it's experience of us is wide,
and with each and every drop the water empathised,


Tears at a wedding,
At a funeral,
Christmas spirit in mulled wine,
A plume of sea water from the belly of a jellyfish,
Pushed forward through it's life,

A trillion drops of water helping to make gravity decide
How high or low to go to make the tide,
Unified in direction
helped by the sun's and the moon's light,
Does it take the love of one direction (not the band)
to be unified?
wren Mar 2019
I.

His words
and tongue
are so warm
and He burns
an altar lit
on fire

His body is perfect
pristine
the blood is lurid
and bittersweet
as
juniper
crude

every feature
even the subtlest
tempered to the grace
of nature’s requiem
made with the sole purpose
of temptation
every contour chiseled
with conviction bold

His sepia eyes
in their vintage
prestige
alight
with a childlike elation
no longer present
in the cadaver
of a life i’m trapped in

His rose-tinted lips
held in a kind of
introspective
optimism

bold, sensual, soft
caress but never kiss
i finger his scars
and quietly nurse them

masochism, he wounds
but i want it
regardless of what
it entails

it’s being euthanized
i dare you to **** this
it’s because of
this sordid waltz
of fate and intention
that He’s never around
most of the time

and it’s worth it
it’s ignorance, oh blissful
it’s the pagan’s humble request
i will have this
some of the time?

His fight and fierceness
are unrivaled
inviting
like the solace of sleep
to those freezing

addiction, dependence, provocation
i’m washed in the tide
of His everlasting rimy breath
for a second
he reached out
and thawed me
hands interlaced
Our -------- embraced

i inhale
His body-
the unleavened
bread
doused with
mulled wine
a redolence
of clove, nutmeg, anise
a steady undertone of black currant
and floral, rich sauvignon
the faintest vestige of bergamot
i inhale it all

i run my fingers
through His silken
sable hair

His existence, however,
holds sentiment
incomparable to His heart
there is only Him

He who hears like
the velvet snowflakes
falling

He who lives like
the dark ink
staining

He who smells like
mulled wine
captivating

sometimes
even the quinine
terribly bitter as it may be
yearns for the saccharine
honey
to drown
it
i’ve been going through a lot and this was my way of processing. ty for stopping by.

dedicated to Alison, Lana, Thien, and Tayden
Mediocrity isn't my favorite flavor
But I make do
Tasting other sensations and qualities as well.
Like candied revenge,
And carmeled success.

But mediocrity is slightly different
It's bitter...
But not enough that it would ever cause me to settle
For something else
That was further from my seated reach.
It's also stale, at times,
As if it were left out on a bar all night,
To be eaten by others looking for, well
Anything.

As I bit down on mediocrity once more
I couldn't help but salivate
At the thought of achievement and drive
Memories of their savory aftertastes overtaking the putty being mulled about my teeth.
And I swallowed the paste.
Mostly to get the taste out of my mouth.

But as my taste buds clear,
And my thoughts drift elsewhere.
The idea that one more hand full of mediocrity
Might not be that bad.
Creeps into the back of my mind.
After all,
It is within reach.
arielle Jul 2018
staying up late just thinking of all the could-beens and should-beens that could and should have been us.

what if we'd tried a little harder? persisted a little longer? held on to each other as tightly as we should have?
would you be by my side then, instead of the empty void staring tauntingly back at me?
would our hands be clasped together, interwoven,
your eyes that once bored right back into the back of mind haunting me wherever i would go,
your touch tattooed into the skin of my palms as they once were?

what if i hadn't let go?
what if i'd learnt fate's cruel lesson that
possessing the trait of fickleness never awarded anything but everything slipping past, earlier?
would you be willing to stay with me then, and forgive me for all the wrongdoings that i would inevitably cause?
would we have ever evolved into more than just an idealized dream drawn from a fragmented memory,
the idea of an irrevocable love that despite having been mulled over for what would've seemed like an eternity,
has never seen the light of reality before?

then again, everything does appear only better when it's all in your head.
when i can still pretend that you are who i expect you to be,
and i may be accepted for who i am truly,
excess baggage of unneeded insecurities and imperfections weighing me down and all.

is it better to be cleanly rejected or to be
torn down bit by bit,
night by night,
spent just staring at a blank screen and waiting,
hovering over imperishably,
pure naive hope fuelling the drive to continue delaying the inexorable?
foolishly believing that crossed fingers and
any lingering feelings that hadn't yet been sieved away by the
jaded culture we exist and drown in today
would perhaps, even if accidentally,
as if out of a fairytale that i starkly don't belong to,
send me a text back?
not entirely sure if i'm doing this right but yeah
NeroameeAlucard Dec 2014
1 am

I spent this hour getting drunk texts from a friend
she's the weepy kinda drunk and her spelling mistakes didn't end
I mean she's a great person but the bottle sees the opposite

2am

Went to get a midnight snack
made myself a sandwich because obviously I don't get any a--
peanut butter and honey
yes it tasted yummy

3am

and I'm still lonely
I've been listening to sade and her voice got me chilled out and *****
Mulled over a **** Sunday addition
started to toss and turn
with alarming rhythm and precision

4am

finally went to sleep
dreamt of my gf laying beside me
me just holding her like a teddy bear in a warm embrace
her loving lips locked with mine in a tender embrace

I was sleepless in Chicago for several hours last night
it might've been the cold I have, but I woke up not feeling too bright
now it's 11 34 and I'm trying to nap
maybe tonight I won't fall into insomnias trap
In case you couldn't tell I got no sleep last night
Sean Yessayan Jun 2012
Sleepless night.
Dashed lines on either side,
one handled wheel in front.

Glaring gales from glassed gasses
add weight to twitching lids.

Close
Open
Close

Open.
Bright light blinding--
beams reaching out--
The fingers of God warm my face.

Eyes adjust as I wake.
I straighten up.
The road stretches on.
What makes a poet ?
That was my thought
I mulled it over and
Came up with these oughts :

Late nights with
coffee , tea or beer
Perhaps harder stuff
Whiskey , smoke or gin clear

And the struggles and pain
as the birth is exclaimed
Blood , sweat and tears
Falling as hard as ice on rain

Confessionals made
As black on white page
Love , death , fears
Even extreme rage

One who struggles
with the a's and the's
Should one even use
The apostrophe

One who's words
Gel by the witching hour
Words full of promise  
Warnings so dour

But perhaps greatest of all
Before even the start
One must have
a true poet's heart
Prabhu Iyer Feb 2016
I am searching past these dunes
and dune song

It was easier then,
easier then.

ghost-like come
echoing in the winds,
drenched in the sands,
wrapped in the folds of time

comeuppances
coming undead
appearances

there go flying past,
those petals, dried,
fragrant still after these years

that with eyes moist,
I cannot say.

few them petals,
uncut rhyme
on the knees

but you know, I know
codwelling

through alleyways of life.

that was all, that was all

Saying, I don't say.
It is all an intention
in percussion.

Feelings
from those wellsprings
we know not
but are aware of.
A Valentine poem - well, a phase delay in bringing these lines out of the well of the spirit :)
The faint smell of mulled spice lingers.
Soft sounds:
     a television on somewhere
     dishes clinking in the kitchen
     footsteps, small and large.
Scattered pillows on the den floor
The occasional pine needle makes an appearance.
Textbooks, pens, paper, notebooks.
               Everywhere.
Little white hairs stick to anything.
Carpet, usually stained, but soft.
Doors and cabinets that don't quite close.
Chipped paint.
Ribbons, ponytail holders in odd places.
Rustling, running, rattling. More running.
Music, and very loud singing.
An air of silliness, slight stress, hurry.
     Sometimes sadness, but not too often.
Laughing, since we laugh at our strangeness.
An odd happiness occupies the space.
betterdays Aug 2014
there are some things,
that just smell so good:
corn freshly shucked, potatoes roasted in campfire coals, carrots fresh from the ground, then washed   and stovetop roasted
basted with butter
and lavender honey.

the nape of my toddlers neck,
that clean fresh hopeful little boy smell.
coffee, straight up, freshly brewed
caramel warming,

passionfruit, strawberries, citrus any type, zested. freshly planed fennel curls, mint crushed for a mojito, roast lamb and rosemary gravy.

the smell of planed wood in the palms of my man's hands as i kiss them. frangipani, coconut tanning oil,
earth newly rained upon. popcorn popping, chocolate melting,
jasmine, orange blossoms,
a grove of pine trees.
warm gingerbread and mulled wine.

salt tang on the morning breeze.
the smell that lingers after the lovin.
garlic and ginger in a hot wok.
salt tang on the evening breeze.
prawns all sea salty and
a crisp cold beer.

sandlewood and citrus aftershave lotion on your smoothed cheek.

nectarines, apricots,
a yellow juicy peach,
freshly bitten.

apple scented shampoo daphne & lilac my nana's smell,
bay *** newspaper print and palmolive soap,
my pop's study.

rose petals crushed.
earl grey tea,
toast just before burning damper and cocky's joy
crisp fresh linen warm from the sun.

so many scents, so many smells...
these are my favourites please feel free to add your's, as long as it's clean
and above board.
damper=camp fire bread similar to soda bread
cocky's joy=goldensyrup.
X A V I E R Sep 2013
bebop, bebop
sway your hips
tap your foot
tap, tap, tap

Cold November Evening
Cambridge, MA
Scarf, Pea coat, Flannel
Hot mulled Cider

Leaves have turned.
Red, orange, yellow.
They clutter the ground.
Wipe your feet.

sing, sing it loud
dance with her
dance with him
one two three four

Body Heat Insulates
472 Massachusetts Ave
Skinny Jeans, Toms Classics
Chilled Brooklyn Lager

Lights on the stage.
Red, orange, yellow.
They warm the atmosphere.
Play one more song.

Don’t let this night end.
Senor Negativo Sep 2012
"It is not strange to me that we are together now,
at this new beginning this, this white sand beach,
These eclipse black rocks, the sea breaking white foam on the shore."

You show me how two can be two,
And love as one, without sacrificing either one.
The pathways I couldn't identify.
Misunderstood in your thorny throne.
You showed me us. Racing towards the blazing dawn
The opening scene of a continuous film
The feral demons, and vile ghouls that covet the eyes
Flee in mortal terror, when I sing you lullabies.
All you have shown me.
No scrawled declarations of a madman can convey the depth of my feeling,
For you.
You showed me which laws to break, and I broke them all,
You showed me the pleasure inherent in living,
And I reminded you when you forgot this.
You show me your love.
I will show you woven tapestries from my loom.
In boxes presented with Much fanfare,
And others slipped into your palm in silence.
I will draw you in a thousand poses,
With charcoal, and chalk.
In our demon voices we will howl and curse at the day.
I will give you a spoonful of laughter,
That will coat your lungs, and let you laugh from your core.
I will share the autumn rains with you,
Soggy jewels, of wet boots, and a warming fire,
Mulled wine, and the scent of cinnamon.
I will show you vast fields of blue and red roses,
Mad in bloom, free in swaying harmony.
Uncut, free of *** and vase.
I will show you all of these things,
Come with me outside.
Josh Morter Mar 2013
I’m gonna need a shoulder
to cry on
Gonna need a shoulder
to rely on
I’m gonna need some shelter
to keep me safe and dry
Gonna need that place to lie
the lonely hours away,
For longer than a day
Gonna need a forever love
A love that lasts
A passion, a craft
A person for whom I hunger
A person to fill my greed
That person who I need
I need to mend my heart
A heart you tore apart
A hole that should be filled
A decision that shouldn’t be mulled
Mulled over in the dark
A decision of the heart
I decided it wasn’t you
But I always knew, who
The who that would give me
that shoulder that I need
The passion they could feed
it was obvious in my eyes
My love for you was disguised
behind the eyes of a lie.
That was set deep inside.
I had the one in my mind
I just had to find a way
to release my anguish
and need for my other
My one true...
My Forever Lover.
2010 poem by Josh Morter ©

Another poem from an old book... Written sometime in early to mid 2010.
Fah Jan 2014
when i'm around you
       i feel the slow   paced    bass   line of the universe moving....

i can hear the galaxies turn
      and the atoms cascade as waterfalls in my mind with your electric fingers tracing my spine.



I am lightning without thunder, but you are not thunder nor the rain.

But a swift wind accompaniment to my silent flashes,

Wrapping the electricity with invisible peace .

*Do you know how beautiful it is to have someone that want to work with you? To take you for all you are and still manage to find the beauty in what you dreamt to be your ugliest scars...

showing beauty in the dark....

( yes, it seems  you too are another good one who knows the value of darkness...it seems many of us who seek this path do these days) *

---


We are
     the shimmer of light that reflects in the deep hollows of flute pipes      
echos around the womb like space of cosmos microcosm .

(I've felt love before , but this....this is not love as i used to know it..

This is a slow boiling , stewing and ripening with age mulled wine with toast and Camembert kinda thing )

----

Did you know coincidentally , your name is in the number 2013
and if i recall correctly ,
13 is the year  i met you in.

It's charming how these clever little signals appear when i'm around you -
contemplating you they emerge , another experience.


........

But in my space , i see the purpose here too -

perspective.

Because when i'm with you , it's pretty much just you.

(and whatever room we happen to be in ) - sometimes other things do appear but they are easy to dissolve.
---


we put definition on the imagination , sharing and the quest.... and that's one of the things i enjoy the most.

Peace x
Jennifer Sep 2012
The mulled cider is spoiled
the drunken clown ran out of helium
the roses withered
sapphire's shattered
the paper is burned
your eyes dont shine
they dont sparkle
your arm is now covered
with scars brought on by a lover
write it down in the books
cause boy I've never loved another
the way I once loved you
a place in my heart
for a man of 420
my mistake
would be our fate
oblivious to lies
you then became
part of my game
two timing you
not my intention
took you out of my jar
of hearts past broken
but returned you there after my mistake
close up your scars
and dry your **** eyes
it's over now
don't call me baby
I've done you wrong
move on today
you'll do great
she'll love you like i did
but you'll be her only
spoil her silly
notice her quirks
she'll love you like i did
she'll love your embrace
she'll know your face like i did
she'll love your piercings, your tattoos
and even your car
c'mon kid you'll be fine
show off that smile
and those beautiful eyes
she'll be a **** toker
just like you
you'll laugh together
like we have so many times before
you'll love her as much
as you once lived me
she'll love you like i did
but you'll be her only
OnwardFlame Jan 2016
I guess I was just so disappointed to see you go
Making me sad on Saturday nights seems to be a trend
But I know you are just a man
With an array of your own feelings,
Your own heartbreak.

I bet you are covered in sweat,
Doing your thing
Moving so fast, so quick
Forgetting my face
My name
Anything.

"Consider this over."
"Fine"
You said in reply
Contemplating your response, to give up
Or to persuade me otherwise
But you can't and won't ever do that
Too proud
To be such a little thing.

The past few days we felt pretty good,
Strong, on our way to figuring out whatever this was
I sat at this very same desk
Trying to reassure you on the phone
You were too busy for me
You were too busy for me
You were sorry to be too busy
You are seeing other people "sorta"
You said
You signed us up to continue purgatory

But I abandoned steering my sinking ship.

I jumped, leapt off the ship
I could feel myself heavy with the weight of it all
My first mate, you
You tried what you could
An anchor here, an anchor there
You even poured us glasses of mulled wine
To make the water flooding in feel
More sensual
But it wasn't enough.

At last, after days, weeks, months
Of feeling the water surround me
My toes, my ankles, my calf muscles
Once it hit the tip of my heart
I knew it was too late
As you perhaps wined and dined another
Your phone was on silent
Or turned off
You said this morning
But don't judge your life or your choices
Sending me a long explanation
I read it, skimmed through it
You tried to tag it with some goodness
Perhaps as you threw the last drop of mulled wine my way
The dark clouds and storm surrounding my face
I took one big breath

And I dove off the ship
I flew into the water
Cold splashing echoing and singing
Sharks and fish swimming among me
I started to drown
As you looked down at me from up above, as you continued to sink
You and your date.

At first I thought, this is it
This is the end of me and all my dreams
The things we talked about, wanted together
They are all permanently gone now
I will never see the moon, the sun again
But something within me changed
A fighting resilience, a need to move past this
Painful moment
So I filled my lungs with what air I could
And limb by limb I swam and I struggled
And swam and struggled
And my blonde tendrils and green eyes
Pearly whites, opened and beamed from underneath
The chaotic sea.

As I rose up, I saw the ship was gone
Except for the tiniest glimmer of a flag
It was white and shined into the moonlight
As if to surrender
And you were gone.

I swam back to the shore, it took me
Buzzing hours, ticking clocks, repeating minutes
As I saw your plaid shirt in the museum
Your white tennis shoes at the foot of my bed
You leaning me down onto comforting blankets
Penetrating me with all you've got as you said:
"You like that baby?"
All of it, all of it, all of the images flooding and circulating
Hitting and smacking my mind like all of the hundred times
You disappointed me.

But as I washed ashore
My hair enveloped in long mermaid braids
My lips freshly pink from sea salt
My long legs shiny from octopus ink
My ******* perky from sharks nibbling
And lastly my nearly flooded heart beating
And pulsing from escaping
The story of our love, I tried to recreate.

I rewrote it, hand held a camera to it
I inked it into your skin
Like all the times we could remember when
You kissed me like there never was
Never could be
Never will be
Anyone else, quite like me.

Cinematic, absurd, dramatic, sweet as ****
Amazing. Your favorite word to describe me
I think my heart hurt most of all today
Imagining what you must be feeling
The idea of hurting and wounding you
Crying and sobbing about what I wrote
Nestled in my cocoon
I wash my sheets tonight
Because it is truly, finally time
To ******* start over.

I meant what I wrote in your birthday poem
Every word
Every lick of love, doubt, skepticism
I guess I hoped that would be enough
That after "the emotional journey" we have been on, as you
Yourself put it
That your turn around time, to searching for someone new
Would be more relaxed
But it wasn't.
And thats what hurt me the most
Thats what made me leap off that boat
And shined a light on where your priorities really are.

So yes.
Fine
No period
You are trying to do you
As you type and text my full name
Just yesterday a pet name
You sent me an article about cuddling
I thought we were headed in a good place
But this purgatory hell
Of not knowing, of not fully giving
Of looking around and you feeling like you aren't enough
I've said it time and time again

9 months today.
How much longer will I torture myself
As I print, staple, and sign
The final page of our book
I'm sure some other poetic words will spill out
But I send it out, metaphorically for now
And watch how it develops on a new path
As I laugh, smile
Accept and linger in gratitude
From all I learned from you.
Nick Strong Oct 2013
This is a note,
That I wrote,
With the finest nib.
Then mailed to you.
Which you read,
Then pondered,
And mulled,
Contemplated.
Then wrote
A carefully
Crafted reply.
You paused just,
A second,
Before pressing
SEND.

    ©  Nick Strong 2014
Tommy N Dec 2010
I saw the news in obituary black and
alabaster-chamber white. Women mulled about
in shining dresses, all pinwheel-galaxy black.
The men’s suits: darkness-between-
stalks-late-in-the-cornfield black

The pastor wore a Cosmopolitan’s-table-of-contents
white stock in the non-air-conditioned
church. His sermon dripped on the bereaved
like hardening wax. A portly woman wheezed
in the second row. A first-roadkill-of-summer
red paper fan swayed  idly in her left hand.

The coffin creaked, 4am-grandpa‘s-coffee brown
the procession moved outside slowly. The moment
was like when two trains  are idle and one begins
to drift forward. From inside the other,
it feels as if we are drifting backward.

Backward to days before with the namer in his study.
He has on his 1862-edition-Les-Misérables tan
blazer. His wrists crawl out the undersized sleeves.
Above his roof, the sky milks over
to 4th- grader’s-scratched-locker blue.

A wine glass full of just-waking-up-seeing-steam-
waft-from-under- the-bathroom-door white wine
rests on his particle board desk. I want a 70s B movie villain
to bust through the door yelling, "I’m not sorry" and shoot him
with a chipping-paint-bike-rack-next-to-the-library¬ grey revolver.
I want the namer to be speechless, knock over the wine glass
and die with grandma’s-new-couch red  pooling on his blazer.

The truth is my grandma’s new couch is this ugly
brown-yellow color. I don’t really know how to describe it.
Written 2010 during the MFA program at Columbia College Chicago
Jack Aylward Aug 2015
TILL AIR, TILL BREATH
KISSED THE MARGIN OF MY LIPS.
TILL SOFT, TILL WARM
THE SPICES OF ***-POURRI
CLASHES TILL SOFTENED HANDS
TOUCHING MY FACE, STROKING MY HAIR.

HER VIOLENT PASSION FOR LOVE
EMPTIED IN THE CANDLELIT ROOM
TRANSPARENT WITH ECLIPSED HEARTS
MANY WITH ROMANTIC FIRES
MANY DEEP AND ELOQUENT;
EACH MATCHING THE COMPLEXION OF HER FACE.

THE COMBINED ATTENTION OF MY HEART
ARTISTICALLY MET WITH HER HAIR
FULL WITH MULLED CHERRIED WINE
LAVENDER, STRAWBERRY, GINGER AND VANILLA
AS THE SCENT
FROM THE CANDLES
ESCAPED THERE.

©Jack Aylward
A Greeting across, Frost the Sweetest Cake,
An Offer for this Sentient to Heal
Dipped in Oil, then Light for your Merry-Make
Another Fresh Candle for Pure Heart's feel
And bring this Bide this Motherly Salute
With Prayers and Chants spring the Brighter Days
From Foregone Moments to Sharper Repute
With her the Daughter of Outstanding Ways
Plus Four more - and the Son of his Endow
Plomb himself your King for his Business fare
Though this Pill swallowed to remove such Doubt
Knowing your Thanks be mulled as I'm aware.
Still on still, Un-Condition pleads me by
Pray this Love I carry refuse to Die.

[HAPPY BIRTHDAY, M'AM LAURA!]
‎#kassidycook1
L T Winter Jan 2015
Sometimes-- I'm illness
-Breeding pores,
And 'yes' I can feel them.

When I cut through skin-
Searching for inner beauty
--as I've lost mine-

These fingers,
Squelch over weaving's and wraps
Inside-
It's warm red here,
Almost mulled wine evenings--

There's suppression on
Your blink-less face
In tearing lips,
Yet--

You smile.

As you feel my hands rummaging,
Through-broken-ribs in
'Hopes' of stroking lungs-
Only--breathless-slow-motion
Memories occur.

And instead I stab
That precious heart with
Unwarranted lonely,
I'm breeding-on-the-mess
I've made--

Staring-at-the-pieces,
I'd been drinking--
A carcass of iridescent beauty.
Frieda P Sep 2013
Your embrace, the sweet taste of hot mulled cider
touching upon my poetic soul like burning embers

Scent of sun's ripplings upon ocean's salted clean air
I hear a soft babbling brook, aside a majestic tower

A rhyme sung out in epical tunes of yesteryear
calling upon idyllic temptation's imagination

Swept away in the grasp of imperfect rapture,
zealous release of poetry's tenderhearted bliss
"He whispers your name in his sleep." she mumbled-hicupped, wiping the back of her hand roughly against cheeks stained with misplaced mascara, ***** sloshing in hand. The bottle was rimmed with most of her lipstick now, the parts that you hadn't kissed off in all your negligence earlier.

"Your name- that's what he whisperes" she hissed across the bathroom floor- laden with her *****.

I had excused myself only moments earlier to to get away from you. I had even looked forward to the unoccupied seat that the toilet lid would inevitably offer up. I had even resolved to endure flipping through the aged magazines that people invariably place in their bathroom- to get away from you, that was my plan.

What I had not bargained for, was her-
your wonderwall,
your idealized teenage fantasy breathed into existence,
your walking *******,
your girlfriend-clutching the edge of the bathtub with a wild drunken determination.

Looking at me instead of through me-
as if to figure out how my name could have lay so heavy, body indented between the two of you the first time you breathed my name at night.
It was more than once, this much I knew -
not because of the way your finger tips had once burned my bare back or the way that some of your clothes still smelt of my perfume or the fact that you'd almost moaned my name against her flesh before slipping into ecstacy,
but by the look on her face,
the determined urgency with which she sought resolution at the bottom of that bottle.

“Why. Huh?! Why?...” she asked herself, more than me before kicking off one of her shoes, I watched it clatter against the wall, the last sound before a heavy silence fell between us, interrupted only by the hum of music which now seemed far away.

Why?...
Why would I have the answer to that question?
How was he, or anyone really- supposed to have an answer to that question.
How, how was he supposed to suppress his souls true desire?  
How was he supposed to mold the shape of her body to fit his arms the way I once had,
how was he supposed to learn a new language of love  of love that no longer answered to my name ?
How was he supposed to forget all the letters I’d written him or the fact that she don’t quite call for him at night,
the fact that he doesn’t find himself choking in a face full of hair at 3AM because your subconscious doesn’t crave his body in your sleep. 
How was he supposed to forget all that?
How was he supposed to forget that in spite of that he never once told me he loved me.

I looked towards you, a women I thought I knew and realised now, only one thing-
you could not be angry at him for breathing the past into existence once more, as his sleeping mind mulled over the way my shoes clicked against the tiles we’d picked out together, roller bag following quickly after or the way I’d choked out his name when I read the messages you'd sent him.
You could not be angry at him for exploring his soul in his sleep, a soul that I’d once fully inhabited- that now somehow seemed hollow.
You had no right to be mad at a man who only managed to say 
‘I love you’
to me in his sleep.
You had no right to be angry because the way he loved you suddenly didn’t feel earth-shattering after you noticed the way his smile faltered when I walked into a room.
You cannot be angry at him for breathing the past into the present because we  both know he still carries me around in his spirit,
still carries around my picture- folded now, in his wallet.
We both know that at least it was only my name that lay between the two
of
you.
Unlike
you.
Your sordid body lay between my freshly ironed sheets when I left the apartment for more than two hours.
We both know the evidence of your existence did not inhabit him, it only inhabited the sheets which did not smell quite like his sweat only.

I looked at you now, reflections of us in the mirror. 
Mine, surprisingly poised and exhaled.
I exhaled all the notions I’d had of you, being more beautiful or funny or perhaps more ****** than me.
I exhaled the way I’d clutched myself crying, desperately trying to pull my life together, wishing I’d never read the text you’d sent him. Wishing I could stomach the thought of his arms around me once more. I exhaled all the memories of him and I.
All the wasted thoughts of the two of you because I realised now that you were now both just living in your brokenness.

I realised now it was not my place to tell you any of this.

"Why?" You slurred, lazily throwing the now empty bottle across the room towards me.

Because he used to whisper yours,
is what I had wanted to say instead:

“Probably just a bad dream.”

I turned, leaving the room knowing  I couldn’t bear witness to her pain in earnest. Not in true communion the way women ought to.
I grabbed your arm, more forcefully than I once had when touching you was habit.
Your eyes widened, studying my now unfamiliar face.

" She's in the bathroom now,she needs you" was all I said.
"Oh, umh thanks, hey I jus-" I could feel you were about to backslide, blurt out those late night whisperings which had so upset your girlfriend.
So I cut you off before it all began.

"Please just love her properly"
I hoped my absence had taught you at least that much.
I've edited this layout like five times idk what I'm doing wrong
ShamusDeyo Oct 2014
( by Elizabeth Squires and SilverSilkenTongue in Collaboration)


In an idle ilk the poet
Did **** precious time
Non pursuant twas he
Of that haunting rhyme

The Tap tap tap of his Thumbs
In pulse to the Anxiety that Comes
Resistant and Hesitant this Choice of Word
Like crows on a wire flitting to and fro
Simply to be Assured who is top Bird

He mulled in thought
On his composition
Yet not acting on it
Due to a stalling disposition

Caught in a Web, of Websters Dictionary
Assonance and Consanace Fundimentaly
He Chews each Syllable to Spit out
The Misconstrued Vowels that he Shouts!

By Elizabeth Squires and Silver Silken Tongue
Special Thanks to Ann who suggested Elizabeth and I should Collaborate
All the Work here is licensed under the Name
®SilverSilkenTongue and the © Property of J.Flack
Megan Hundley Nov 2011
I feel ridiculous
just this mug
with this purple heart and this
yellow background
and do you know what I did?
[here comes the kicker]
clutched that little thing to my chest and
out from my mouth stumbled the most awful sounds
like they were lost in darkness, feeling the air blindly
confused at their mere existence, prodding jabs of exhales,
littering the space with blurbs of mismatch speech
silly as it sounds
I knew if I let myself
I could fill that purple heart with salt water
don't doubt it a bit
shocked about this incident
well
no, truthfully I'm not
as soon as my eyes locked their gaze
I could feel a stir
this buzz of an awakened monster
monster
and one just can't remain calm
with that
oh well, better luck next time
as in I might find a sword or a hero or
I don't know
courage
to look away and not dwell
idle in the same space, loitering
purposefully unintentional
if you can believe that
* side-note
rolled the word "Respect"
around in my head
for awhile
stretched it like taffy in the window, shot it at
faces as though it were a lecture
mulled over the depth of it
r-e-s-p-e-c-t
rreessppeecctt
came to this conclusion:
is it possible to respect "this"
....."this"
yet at the same time secretly
openly?
show that I wanted to hear you say
"yes, that'd be fine"
but it came out as
"thank you for respecting this"



oh.
ok
Mateuš Conrad Jul 2016
some would call it a profanity - from the islands of northern Europe i liked the Scots the most, in my first year at Edinburgh Scottish weather played a joke, i don't remember a single gloomy day - i do remember not sleeping one night, and trekking up Arthur's Seat to watch the sunrise, then climbing down, buying Kellogg's cornflakes and full-fat milk and eating them - that magic moment just between daytime fully sets in - it's so fresh, a reality proof, just before the mundane job applicants get up, you get a sense of what's truly taken for granted in society - it only lasts for a few minutes - before the commuters' nagging sets in, and everything fresh (awaiting the new dawn) becomes custard thick - sticky, sickly honey glue pungent... anyway... i'm making a grand profanity at the moment: tier 1 - whiskey and ice, tier oblivion - whiskey and coca cola... but what i'm drinking is like a virus immune to antibiotics, no amount of citrus barley caramel can mask the smoked salmon with a tinge of variously fruity accents can mask it... Glen Moray, single malt, an Elgin Classic - it is a profanity, i agree - i should drink whiskey like mulled wine - but i'm in a hurry for a mindset, and i'm not bothered that much about passing down aesthetics - my palette says otherwise. yeah, my love for Scotland came from climbing up a ladder in the English hierarchy at school - everyone wanted to be taught by Mr. Thomas Boonce - aged 15 went into B1 (or however they noted the selection process) - aged 16 on top of my game, A1 class - a blazing comet trail of ambition, shared the same desk with my enemy shoulder-to-shoulder, the one who promised me a south american plant would give me grand hallucinations, ****** the mother of my ******* son and wa-lah! elephant trunk pulled from a top hat playing jazz - that Jesus bit about loving your enemies? esp. if they're your childhood friends and are **** crazy? you don't love them, your heart turns to stone and it says skipping on lake: what a shame... so much potential in him wasted on jealousy, the way he trusted a woman that is now on some sort of psychiatric medication... i can't love enemies, what i can do is feel sorry for a waste of human potential... (knock on chest)... yep, this ol' ticker is solid stone... and sooner or later it will be added to a mountain i'm constructing in my mind.

thank god for rabbinical literature -
i could pour days over these pages - i literally open a book,
a compilation of entries -
why hasn't anyone noticed the genius of written Hebraic?
i know in the middle east is a wasp nest of harking and
memorable achoo - or quasi (~, literary denotation,
thereabouts, so so, kinda, well, approximate too,
hand gesture in that symbol, good-in-bad-bad-in-good) -
just now i was admiring the fact that Hebraic hides vowels -
truly, they hide them, ingenious buggers -
all the vowels in Hebraic are hidden -
in translation to Latin the Hebrews treat vowels
like post-Latin users of the original S.P.Q.R. alphabet
use diacritical marks - and newspaper Hebraic doesn't
include them in print, only: i suppose in poetry and
rabbinical writings are they exposed -
which stems largely from what is cordoned off -
or rather the fruits of the work of encapsulation -
Latin is slightly biased, no letter is truly encapsulated,
shut-off from another - aye, be, cee, dee, ee, ef, hay'tch (
a distinction), em, en, ***... zed (an exception), ex, you
get the idea - there are no nouns in the post-Latin
alphabet as such - which is why in science Greek letters
were used as constants - these consonant constants
encapsulated not only the phonetic content of a symbol,
but also allowed for an encapsulation of some higher
purpose - e.g. α (angular acceleration) -
β (sound intensity) - γ (gamma rays) - δ (heat in chemistry,
the perfect error, the Laplace operator, etc.) -
ε (set theory, the limit ordinal of the sequence -
    html disapproval to be written as: ω (tier squared ω,
    and one above the squared tier ω, ω root ω double root ω -
    variant alias of this? Hebraic notation of u .
                                                               ­                   .
                                                               ­                      .
     *shurek
) - Θ (Debye notation) - θ (potential temp. in
thermal dynamics) - ι (orbital inclination in celestial mechanics) -
κ (curvature) - Λ (lattice) - λ (decay constant in radioactivity) -
μ (micron, SI prefix, one millionth) - ν (a neutrino) -
ξ (a random variable) - π (too obvious, πr squared) -
ρ (correlation coefficient in statistics) - Σ (summation operator) -
σ (area density) - τ (torque) - φ (the golden ratio, 1.618...) -
ψ (the cat in a box, wave function, quantum mechanics) -
ω (the infinite ordinal);
                                         it's precisely because the Greeks to
encapsulate their phonetic symbols that so much stability
was brought up - look how poverty stricken the Latin variations
are - these are not merely letters, they are actually nouns!
you can recite the whole Greek alphabet a bit like going
to a party and being introduced to people: Jim, Charlie,
George, Rosemarie... obviously there are exceptions for
this observation to be bullet-proof (i.e. μ, ν, ξ, π etc.)
but did the scientists mind not using them? no! they kept to
this interpretation that symbols of sound need to be encapsulated -
held together, stable, each symbol needs to be a balancing act -
an ~equal amount of consonants and vowels need to be
invoked when writing either a or α, b or β, g or γ -
there needs to be an invocation of names to these symbols -
not mere ah be c e ef gee... English for its laziness in omitting
diacritical marks did the unspeakable when digital paper came
about - it turned itself into a quasi encryption tongue,
acronym fuelled and in all honestly - self-conscious of its faults
yet basking in them! but the real genius in encoding signs truly
belongs to the Hebraic school...

you find them so coerced by naked pictures,
that their outer resembles no inner -
you find them bound to an idea that the inner can
somehow compensate - but it can't -
the outer as the inner reveals nothing,
no love, merely a **** - the winged-Hussars die
in Ukrainian fertile land, and with the music,
you can only think of the drudgery of walking
through knee-high mud - you can just picture
the Cossack moustaches wedged behind the ears
like earrings - i too would have eaten my tongue that way
had it been permitted - without permission
i spoke of a stake tartar and my tongue into one -
then the mantra came - kametz, tzeré, chirek, kametz,
tzeré, kametz, kametz, tzeré, tzeré, cholem, kametz, kametz
,
- i will not be treated like some dumb farmer!
      your Yurt empire is fledgling into the sunset!
  and my heart is enshrined into a bitter toil! it will love
as it pleases! not with you saying what there's to love!
tzeré, shurek, kametz, kametz, tzeré, kametz, cholem, tzeré,
chirek, kametz
. what a mantra!
a, e, i, a, e, a, a, e, e, o, a, a, e, u, a, a, e, a, o, e, i, a -
patterns strangre than in a poetic rhyming scheme -
respective incisions into still-life motives of movement -
i.e. if a vowel be my hand, a consonant be a chair i sit on:
kametz of aleph (א), tzeré of bet (ב), chirek of gimel (ג),
kametz of dalet (ד), tzeré of heh (ה), kametz of vav (ו).
kametz of zayin (ז), tzeré of chet (ח), tzeré of tet (ט),
cholem of yod (י), kametz of kaf (ק), kametz of lamed (ל),
tzeré of mem (מ), shurek of nun (נ), kametz of samekh (ס),
kametz of ayin (ע), tzeré of peh (פ), kametz of tzadi (צ),
cholem of kof (ק), tzeré of resh (ר), chirek of shin (ש)... and
finaly the kametz of tav (ת)* - we really like our matchstick
men, don't we? in terms of ancients tongues,
we like our curvatures in modern tongues of Greek
and Latin, don't we?
instilled the names of vowels! kametz (a
                                                 tzeré (e
            chirek (i
                                          cholem (o
                 shurek (u
                                                           pentagon thus far,
    revealed vowels with diacritic interpretation
           kametz, as soured: חָ - tau, vowel as diacritical mark
elsewhere -
                       tzeré - or umlaut below the letter - alternatively:
           וָ qàmetz                   וֵ tzeré
וִ ḥìreq                              וֹ ḥólem                   וּ shùreq
     (c, k, q - make it quick, à, 1st),
                (é - prolong it, to catch a breath, or the first
                      tetragrammaton H),
that's the genius of the encoding though... the omission of
vowels, or vowels as diacritical marks - one shurek (u .
                                                               ­                                   .
                            ­                                                                 ­        .)
among 10 kametz and 7 tzeré - gematria at its purest -
one shurek, 2 chireks and 2 cholems -
a form of encoding deviating from obscure onomatopoeia
and the void and meaninglessness, toward
a sound ushering a word for word, and actions parallel -
but this encapsulation of breath taken and
breath released, as in writing, the speaker does not
suddenly breathe again - but is kept within limit,
a consonant starting point, the zenith of breath or soul
and a return to one body, v A v (e.g.).
but imagines being able to avoid noun insertions -
then Hebrew is very much as modern English -
when modern English ought to utilise diacritical marks
on either vowel or consonant, it does not -
it doesn't have a single sound encoding worthy of a name -
there's no omega, there is only oh -
Hebrews treat their vowels as diacritical marks -
their language is one massive crossword -
how do they even read HBRC? who the hell taught them
when to insert the vowels from following the roots
as stated HBRC toward the tree that's HEBRAIC?
this is ******* bewildering - i don't know how they do it!
what's agonising is their notion that patterns in letters
having numerical values is somehow meaningful,
as if something horrid can be averted - to me 1 + 1 = 2
is enough - i don't need alef / αλεφ / αλεθ (א) + bet / βετ (ב) =
anything but gimel / γιμελ (ג) -
this is the ****-pile of having so many prophets in your society
and not enough philosophers - the Casandra Standard -
Greeks had the philosophers, the Hebrews had their
prophets, both in excess - in the end the cult of prophecy
in Hebraic society turned into a Casandra Standard
borrowed from Greek myth - while Greek philosophers...
i don't actually know what happened to them -
i think most of them became dentists after Aristotle suggested
women had fewer teeth than men.
Dreams of Sepia Sep 2015
There was a time we lived in those museums
mother, do you remember?

seeing everything from Art Nouveau
to German Expressionism or Cubism

There was a time
we walked on Adenauerplatz beneath old Linden trees

There was a time our winters
were full of german gingerbread & mulled wine

& our Spring
spent wandering the Schlosspark

There was a time we spent our summers
watching swallows by the sunny Wannsee lakes

& our autumns in spacious cafes
& international bookshops

we talked the other day again
about the Russian one

how ever since we left home
we'd not seen so many Russian books in one place

it seems the vision of  home never leaves you
just waits dormant in your heart

for something to remind you of it
just as now that Lesser Ury print

reminded me of our Berlin
& days of Love Parades & blissful freedom

I will not regret the journey
you made us take

because it meant
we got to live in heaven

there was a time we lived there
there was a time we lived there
I miss living in Berlin.
Simon Clark Aug 2012
The pine tree scent fills the room,
And the candle smoke softens the mood,
As the turkey is cooking you can taste by its smell,
Christmas is here; it’s easy to tell,
The potatoes are roasting and smelling so nice,
The mulled wine is full of flavour and spice,
The smell of the cold and thunder and rain,
And the smell of snow as it covers the plain,
The scent of the warmth from family and friends,
It’s nice to enjoy Christmas again.
written in 2009
The music must be heard by both to remain enchanted
She told him with the whispering of a smile
The force of attraction is a powerful emotion she added
Then slowly walked away and left him standing in the aisle

He mulled her words over in his head for a bit you see
As confusion and irritation began setting in
He shook his head in wonder trying to figure this one out
Trying to figure out where he went wrong again

Yielding to confusion, bewildered and perplexed
He thought about all the things he had done for her
The jewelry and the cards, all the flowers he had sent
Not to mention the new car and the furs

Yet it never crossed his confounded mind even one single time
That perhaps there were things he might have missed
Such as the giving of his time, the precious gift of self
The warmth of a tender hug, and a gentle kiss

So alone he now stands with her bouquet in his hands
No “I do", will he hear from her sweet smile
A sudden dawning of realization hits him where it hurts
Perhaps he should have been there, once in awhile
Copyright *Neva Flores @2010
www.changefulstorm.blogspot.com
www.stumbleupon.com/stumbler/HerVigil
Aduain Nov 2018
Tree and lights,
Shop window sights,
Frost and chill,
The presents bill!

Wrapping up gifts,
blizzard in drifts,
snow and gritters,
chintz and glitter.

Anticipation,
pupil dilation,
paper in shreds,
curiosity fed.

Turkey and trimmings,
mulled drinks brimming,
family and friends,
latest toy trends.

Hat and scarf,
children’s laugh,
snowman’s nose,
frozen toes.

Christmas Telly,
big full belly,
children tired,
the roaring log fire.


Offspring to bed,
all cosy and fed,
deepest sleep,
Not a sound, not a peep.

Snowflake falling,
Relatives calling,
Music and dance,
Lost in a trance.

The Festive season,
Always good reason,
To meet up and blether,
Whatever the weather
                                                          Aduain

— The End —