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Saumya Aug 2018
It is often when I tend to pause and introspect  on life, my experiences with in in general. It is in such moments, I feel  myself imbibed, yet  so stunned  at the realisation of the fact, that it is so knowingly, yet often most unknowingly that we affect everyone whose life's paths we cross through! It may sure be the case that  we don't mean too much to a person as the other person already does, but then, what we still are mostly unaware of at that moment, is how beautifully, intensely or pathetically does our little acts and attitudes may be already affecting others, and theirs to us. Would our  lives be okay as it is currently, when the same situation is just altered a little by deducting air from it? Would we still be sitting so patiently as we are now, even if everything was same, except the mere deduction of water from our life? The mere absence of shelter and food yet again are the elements, whose mere mention of absolute deductance would be good and great enough to stop the mere throbbing of our heartbeats which might already have slowed or rather started being too swift by now!
It is interesting, how some elements are just a trifle to be valued, before we realise how worse our lives could be
only by their absence, or well departure! Doesn't that same rule applies for us people too? Most don't value  the hardworking yet lowly paid people like a builder or the labourer who builds their House, or mansion, as much as they value their guests and inhabitants that get into it after it's finally finalized. The guest obviously are worth the praise but aren't those
labours?  ask this to yourself for a moment, that what would your house be like if there were no labourers to make that happen! The house that keeps us safe and cosy now, is but many  day and night's struggles of someone who worked hard to make it happen in reality. He, his soul deserves to be praised for making your dream, your dream home come alive! It often makes me smile at some kindered souls whose ultimate profession is working for humanity, it's wellness, It's enrichment, It's improvement, and it's best progress, therefore I can't help but smile wide, when I come across a truly  honest teacher, doctor, mentor, poets or writers ever. They have a spark that's so  refreshing, inspiring and contagioud! They indeed are those eminent souls who nurture and enrich the souls of others so piously and profoundly, and it is often that they are just  so unaware of this preciousness and the greatness they so majestically possess!They pour in us, the true essence of the goodness our world is made up of, and make us feel a like a viable part of it. They brighten our days. it's a blessed blessing to be in the company of such gems, truly!

Afterall, us humans are so alike the state of matter called 'liquid', that is known for its 'adaptability' .It hardens and softens with  the change in temperature. sometimes hardened by our outer world's that haunts us often, yet are very eagerly  inter-convertible. And it is hence, when  the truest, and enlightening essence of  eminent souls touch us, embrace us, we transform in their moulds, sometimes and little and sometimes a lot. Sometimes very finely, and sometimes too coarsely, built in a confined type with the advent of time, and it is then, years after years, we become a person and then a personality that we let time , and the people that tread through it, in our lives transform us into. Every little to large element affects us, in ways we often don't know of. Everything teaches and tells us of life it's stories, it comes with lessons, and our hearts, out consciousness perceives them too, from time to time. We  shape mysteriously, yet so mysteriously   in and into the vessel of life eventually, that we interestingly don't realise the intensity of the change until someone else remarks us of it, and makes us realise it. These changes are just this mystical and inevitable! And change is the law of time.
From my ongoing book, "The Philosophical Lessons Life Taught".(The other chapters have been posted on page too .
Check them out if you wish to)
All your comments, feedbacks, suggestions etc. Are most welcome :)

Thank-you so much for stopping by, and going through the chapter (s) :)

And indeedst, thou mourneth once more
When th' lover who is to thine become
Returneth not, in thy own brevities-of love and hate,
As t'is chiding ruthlessness might not be
thy just fate.

Cleopatra, Cleopatra
Shalt thy soul ever weepest for me?
Weep for t'ese chains of guilt and yet, adorable clarity
T'at within my heart are obstreperously burning
I thy secret lover; shrieks railing at my heart
Whenever thou lurchest forwards
and tearest t'is strumming passion apart.

And t'ere is one single convenience not
As I shalt sit more by northern winds; and whose gales
upon a pale, moonlit shore.
Cleopatra, play me a song at t'at hour
Before bedtime with thy violin once more
And let us look through th' vacant glasses;
at clouds t'at swirl and swear in dark blue masses.

Ah, my queen, t'ese lips are softly creaking
and swearing silently; emitting words
of which I presume thou wouldst not hear.
On my lonely days I sat dreamily
upon t'at hard-hearted wooden bench,
and wrote poems of thee
behind th' greedy palm trees;
They mocked me and swore
t'at my love for thee was a tragedy;
and my poem a menial elegy
For a soldier I was, whom thy wealth
and kingdom foundeth precisely intolerable.
How I hate-t'ose sickly words of 'em!
Ah, t'ose unknowing, cynical creatures!
I, who fell in love with thee
Amongst th' giggling bushes,
stomping merrily amongst each other
and shoving their heads prettily on my shoulder
As I walked pass 'em;
I strapped their doom to death,
and cursed their piously insatiable wrath
Until no more grief was left attached
To th' parable summer air; and rendered thou as plainly
as thou had been,
but bleak not; and ceremoniously unheeded
Only by thy most picturesque features, and breaths.
Thou who loved to wander behind th' red-coated shed,
and beautiful green pastures ahead
With tulips and white roses on thy hand,
And with floods of laughter thou wouldst dart ahead
like a summer nightingale;
'fore stretching thy body effortlessly
amongst th' chirping grass
Ah, Cleopatra, thou looketh but so lovely-
oh, indeedst thou did; but too lovely-too lovely to me!
A figure of a princess so comely,
thou wouldst but be th' one
who bringst th' light,
and fool all t'ose evils, and morbid abysses;
Thou shalt fill our future days with hopes,
and colourful promises.

And slithered I, like a naive snake
Throughout th' bushes; to swing myself into thee
Even only through thy shadow,
I didst, I didst-my love, procured my satisfaction
By seeing thee breathe, and thrive, and bloom.
I loveth her not, t'is village's outrageous,
but sweet-spirited maiden;
a dutiful soldier as I am,
my love for thee is still bountiful,
ah, even more plentiful t'an t'is cordial one
I may hath for my poor lover. Not t'at I despise
her poorness, but in my mind, thou art forever my baroness;
Thou art th' purest queen, amongst all th' virgins
Ah, Cleopatra!
To me, if rejection is indeedst misery,
thine is but a glorious mystery;
for whose preciousness, which is now vague,
by thy hand might come clear,
for within my sight of thee
All t'ese objections are still ingenious,
within thy perilous smile,
t'at oftentimes caresses me
With relief, whenst I am mad,
and corrupts my conscience-
whenst I am sad;
Even only for a second; and even only
for a while.
But if thy smile were all it seemeth,
and thy perfection all t'at I dreameth,
Then a nightmare could be mirth,
and a bitter smile could be so sweet.
Just like everything my eyes hath seen;
if thy innocence was what I needest,
and thy gentleness th' one I seekest,
then I'd needst just and ought, worry not;
for all thy lips couldst be so meek
and thy glistening cheeks
wouldst be so sleek.

Oh, sweet, sweet-like thee, Cleopatra!
Sweet mournful songs are trampling along my ears,
but again, t'ey project me into no harmony-
I curse t'em and corrupt t'em,
I gnaw at t'em and elbow t'em-
I stomp on t'em and jostle t'em-
th' one sung by my insidious lover,
I feel like a ghost as I perch myself beside her.
Whilst thou-thou art away from me!
Thou, thou for whom my breath shalt choke
with insanity,
thou who wert there and merrily laughed with me-
just like last Monday,
By yon purple prairie and amber oak trees
By my newest words and dearly loving poetry.
Oh, my poetry-t'at I hath always crafted so willingly,
o, so willingly, for thee!
For thee, for thee only, my love!
Ah, Cleopatra, as we rolled down th' hoarse alley t'at day,
and th' silky banks by rueful warm water-
I hoped t'at thou wouldst forever stay with me,
like th' green bushes and t'eir immortal thorns,
Thou wouldst lull me to sleep at nights,
and kiss me firmly every dewy morn.

Cleopatra, Cleopatra
Ah, and with thy cherry-like lips
Thou shalt again invite me into thy living gardens,
With thy childish jokes and ramblings and adventures
To th' dying sunflowers, thou wert a cure;
and thy crown is even brighter t'an their foliage,
For it is a resemblance of thy heart, but
thy vanity not;
Thou art th' song t'at t'ey shalt sing,
thou art th' joy t'at no other greatness canst bring.

Ah, Cleopatra, look-and t'is sun is shining on thee,
but not my bride;
My bride who is so impatiently to withdraw
her rights; her fatal rights-o, I insist!
And so t'is time I shall but despise her
for her gluttony and rebellious viciousness.
T'at savage, unholy greed of hers!
How unadmirable-and blind I was,
for I deemed all t'ose indecipherable!
How I shalt forever deprecate myself,
for which!
Ah, but whenst I see thee!
As how I shall twist my finger into hers,
(Oh! T'is precocious little harlot!)
Thou art th' one who is, in my mind, to become my lover,
and amongst tonight's all prudence and marriage mercy
I shall dreameth not of my wife but thee;
Whilst my wife is like a cloaked rain doll beneath,
and her ******* shall be rigid and awkward to me-
unlike thee, so indolent but warm and generous
with unhesitant integrity;
Ah, I wish she could die, die, and be dead-by my hands,
But no anger and fury could I wreak,
for she hath been, for all t'ese years,
my single best friend.
Or she was, at least.
Oh Cleopatra, thou art my girl;
please dance, dance again-dance for me in thy best pink frock,
and wear thy most desirous, fastidious perfume;
I shall turn thee once more, into a delicious nymphet,
and I standing on a rock, a writer-soldier husband to thee-
Loving thee from afar, but a nearest heart,
my soul shalt become tender; but passionately aggravated
With such blows of poetic genuinity in my hands-
by t'ese of thee-so powerful, and intuitive sonnets.

Oh, my dear! T'is is a ruin, ruin, and but a ruin to me-
A castle of utmost devastation and damage and fear,
for as I looketh into her eyes behindeth me,
and thine upon thy throne-
so elegant and fuller of joy and permanent delight
Than hers t'at are fraught with pernicious questions,
and flocks of virginal fright,
I am afraid, once more-t'at I am torn,
before thy eyes t'at pierce and stun me like a stone,
an unknown stone, made of graveyard gems, and gold
Thou smell like death, just as dead as I am
On my loveless marriage day
And as I gaze into th' dubious priest
And thee beside him, my master-o, but my dream woman!
Oh, sadly my only dream woman!
Th' stars of love are once more
encompassing thine eyes,
and with wonder-oh Cleopatra, thou art seemingly tainted
with sacrifice, but delightfully, lies-
As I stareth at thee once more,
I knoweth t'at I loveth thee even more
just like how thou hath loved me since ever before
And thy passion and lust rooted in mine
Strangling me like selfish stars;
and th' moon and saturated rainbows
hanging up t'ere in troubled, ye' peaceful skies, tonight.

I want her not, as thou hath always fiercely,
and truthfully known,
so t'at I wriggle free,
ignoring my bride's wise screams
and cries and sobs uttered heartbreakingly-
onto th' gravel-and gravely chiseled pavement outside,
'fore eventually I slippeth myself out of my brownish
soldier's uniforms.
Thou standeth in surprise, I taketh, as I riseth
from my seat-my fictitious seat, in my mind,
for all t'is, pertaining to my unreal love for her,
shalt never be, in any way, real-
All are but th' phantom and ghost
of my own stories; trivial stories
Skulking about me with unpardonable sorries
Which I hate, I hate out of my life, most!
As to anyone else aside from thee
I should and shalt not ever be-married,
and as I set my doleful eyes on thee once more,
curtained by sorrow and unanswered longings,
but sincere feelings-I canst, for th' first time,
admire thy silent, lipped confession
Which is so remarkably
painted and inked throughout
thy lavish; ye' decently translucent face;
t'at thou needst me and wouldst stick by me
in soul, though not in flesh;
but in heaven, in our dear heaven,
whenst I and thou art free,
from all t'ese ungodly barriers and misery,
to welcome th' fierceness of our fate,
and taste th' merriment of our delayed date.
Oh, my love!
My Cleopatra! My very own, my own,
and mine only-Cleopatra!
My dear secret lover, and wife; for whom
my crying soul was gently born, and cherished,
and nurtured; for whose grief my heart shall be ripped,
and only for whose pride-for whose pride only,
I shall allow mine to be disgraced.
Cleopatra! But in death we shall be reunited,
amongst th' birds t'at flow above and under,
To th' sparkling heavens we shall be invited,
above th' vividly sweet rainbows; about th' precious
rainy thunder.
Chris Voss Nov 2012
This one's for me
and I'm gonna watch it burn.
Watch it flicker and pop and crackle and spit.
Gonna take lessons on how to dance with the draft,
also hoping she doesn't ******* out.
I'll make poems out of smoke and shadows
and fading, lonesome, sepia-tone summer photographs.
I want to make dusty picture frames feel like well-loved tuxedos.
I'm gonna see if candlelight can be all the company I need to keep.
Gonna sweep this floor clean,
like it's not what we say, it's what we mean
between the lines of
one too-polished table setting:
one knife,
one spoon,
but two forks for wishful thinking.
I'm gonna eat my fill
and fill my cup again and again,
to the point that I begin to make conversation
with my reflection in the bathroom mirror.
I'll tell that *******, "My friend, you are drunk."
and he'll tell me, "Kid, look who's talking."
Then it'll be back to a glass
that treats its brim like a suggestion.
Gonna have whisky and black lager and champagne
'til my toes and thumbs tingle.
Thin blooded and numbed;
Steeled by my father's novocain.
Come morning, this house couldn't get more hollow.

In these hallowed halls where I wallow in the way that
I only seem to appreciate the preciousness of days
Once they've passed,
here's what I'm gonna do:
I'm gonna write questions on one side of the wooden window blinds,
and write punchlines to completely unrelated jokes on the other.
I don't know why. Maybe just to **** with people.

I'm gonna reminisce with full streets of ghosts
That glow like kerosene lamp posts
all the while, stomping my feet, just to prove that I can.
Gonna make toasts to the isolated;
to the quarantined and the misanthropes.
I'll boast that lovers are not unlike poachers,
but I'm not gonna mention that in every other under-cover dream
I seem to swoon like ivory elephant tusks.
I'm gonna gamble on Dusk
because I think it's got a little less honesty,
but a little more promise than its
attention-*******, good-for-nothing, go-getter big sister Dawn does.
That flirtations *****.
Gonna give Christian names to half drawn caricatures
of people who only ever existed when the lights died out
and the snow fell heavy.

I'm gonna let the levies break.
I'll go insane, just ******* lose it--
do the Boot-Scoot-'n'-Boogie in a onesie
with the hind flap flying free and the Greek Theatre masks of
Comedy and Tragedy painted on my *** cheeks,
(because no one should ever take their art too seriously)
And I'm even not gonna even care who sees,
partially because there's no one around to watch anyway,
but mostly because I want,
more than anything, to just be me.
Or at least I want to want that.
See, I read somewhere that,
"You should always be yourself…
unless you can be a unicorn,
then always be a unicorn."
And that really struck home for me because,
even though I've never really ached to be
the ******* love child of a Narwhal and Zebra
(In my imagination, unicorns are
striped and impecable swimmers)
I truly believe that Men will always dream of being Titans
and Titans will always dream of being Gods
and Gods want nothing more than to be Wind--
to twist with lit candle sticks
and teach the lonesome how to dance.

A one-step waltz tip-toed to distract.

But the fact is, I'm bound to take a few back steps.
I'm gonna think about her.
Gonna harbor hard feelings towards back bedroom dealings
that I have no right knowing about.
Gonna pray like a desperate atheist
that they keep their knees locked in a one night stand.
I might break down.
Only once, just long enough to regain my strength.
Then I'll tame the earthquakes in my hands, like I always do.
Gonna find what it takes to move on.
Not just regenerate, but to grow stronger than I ever was before.
So I'm gonna meticulously straighten these place settings:
One knife.
One spoon.
A healthy dose of wishful thinking.
Gonna try my hand again at dancing with the back draft;
I heard she's been aching for a duet,
and with all the life of candlelight
I'm gonna ignite the coal shafts beneath my eyes.
Gonna finally see me as the man I am,
not the titan I wish to be,
because I heard somewhere that,
"You should always be yourself…
Especially when all you've known
all you've ever shown
is some mythology."
So raise your glass because this one?
This one's for me.
Nigel Morgan Nov 2012
Smooth, smooth, fringed by yellow smudged, hard plastic
smooth, left to right then a painterly inconclusive running
out, the stroke all 60” expires into the yellow, then a firm
vertical orange stripe, a bookend, a hot surface elevated
upon a warm yellow bed, exotic, turmeric, heated from
below, as though from another world, a future planet found
in Manga, gum wrappers, belonging to the wedding
wardrobes of older women, and those with impossible
shoes, maybe a scarf, definitely lipstick and small Japanese
cars, decorative paper, a can’t-miss logo, as when I close
my eyes in the act of love, holding your kneeling body to
me I lose myself in a pattern of flashes, the bright play of
light and colour, a sensual play of pigment, blue and red
wavelengths, fuchsine, electric, electric, and the aura of
artists, such latent energy, hidden passion, rich in ******
fragrance, edged with desire.

The path of the brush now right to left yellow exposes a
yellow bookend at the left hand edge, there is a roughness
here in its covering of yellow, as though applied in haste or
in a single gesture with a large brush, it is thick, thick and
rough, but the yellow is almost present, a hint, a reflection,
as in the petals of the Bellis Perennis, you open your mouth
breathing, breathing your lips frame such perfect teeth as
day arrives,

Left to right, the paint thick then thinning to a broken
tailpiece revealing yellow on magenta, again, again, again, again,
how little I yet understand your body, the innerness,
the sheltered regions of your desire, I am afraid to harm this
preciousness, be disrespectful of the tapering valley where
love’s caress and kiss meet, are multi-dimensional, the
rectangle is not charcoal, but deflected, hesitant, to the left
the darkness of chocolate, to the right a greyness, a *****
grey, a dusty dark dog, loamed, a depth then play of
shadow, dark, textural as your maidenhair under the covers
above my right hand as it spreads my fingers across its
darkness into deeper darkness, a flat stone, its left end
washed by the cold tide, olived, clothed in mourning, there
is unpleasantness, some distaste, a little fear, the unknown,
the unknowable.

Daisy petals, opening in the morning light, the clapperboard
house on the Block Island beachside fresh-painted every
spring, immediately weathered, porcelained sea shell
textured, turned, tumbled, a dawn sky after rain,
ceramicised fungi, plain flour, acidic, taut, the moment
when the heart and breath seem to pause as we join each
other’s flesh as though this cannot be cannot really be.

Unrhymable this flower shade hued pigment deep saffron
vibrant, phoned, not quite of the fruit, a different tang,
sharper without sheen, magenta beneath its smoothed
surface up to left and right edge, (but for the yellow
frill beneath), lip covering, silk-scarfed, not autumnal yet, but oh
those Californian poppies, those desert landscapes as the
sun sets,

a single uneven gesture thrown left to right, an island
in silhouette with a rocky foreshore spreads into distance,

a bed of sylvan jade, an oasis, this an aerial view of tree
tops modulating to grassy pasture, a down-stroke western
boundary, an edge of surf on its northern border, perhaps
the brush formerly coloured has left its trace,

the main body of this Australian desert seen from the air,
Sidney Nolan’s bush, aboriginal earth, coloured mud,
unguent, the sense of liquid in your kiss, its warmth, the
very tip and corner of your lips, the brush of hair as you
move your head to my chest, the rubbing of hair on hair,
under your arms this play of sensation through the lips’
touch, then the shore, the sand no sand though, only in the
brochures, daffodilled perhaps, unsmudged, fresh,
vigorously golden, well-watered.
Loser Dec 2018
I wore my fathers shoes to a funeral today.

It took me sixteen years to get to a point where I could walk in them and truly say that they were a perfect fit.

It took me sixteen years to get to a point where I finally understood the senselessness  of death and the preciousness of life

It took me sixteen years to feel the gravity of death wrapping around my blissful yet ignorant heart, pulling me down to the knowledge of reality.

It took me sixteen years to not just know, but comprehend the fact that my time will pass me.

It took me sixteen years to learn all of these lessons, and now that I have I can start to live a life.
Mike T Minehan Nov 2012
Today, I’m sharpening arrows
to aim them at
politicians with snouts in the trough,
clerics who preach peace for themselves
but hatred about others,
academics who promote freedom of speech
but run a Gulag Archipelago
for those who don’t follow their own ideas
or buy their textbooks,
hypocrites everywhere,
celebrities in general,
people who don’t smile,
people who aren’t nice,
(why are they here?)
fanatics, tyrants and power mongers,
(there are a humungous lot of these)
boring people,
(they wouldn’t be boring
if they could just try to engage a little more)
and those who block supermarket isles
with their trolleys while they stop and gossip.
I’d really like to put a few arrows in their butts
to puncture their pretensions and hear
the subsequent hiss of preciousness
unless they sincerely promise
to be more considerate
and try to love a whole lot more.
Now. I don't insist they have to love prodigiously,
but I reckon they could lighten the **** up
just a little, and try to laugh more frequently.
That's all.

Mike T Minehan
Jessica Golich Nov 2014
Maelstrom of emotion emboldening an eye opening betokening of an attitude full of alluring arousal
Walking thesaurus as fluid as a notable chorus playing in accordance with an authentic Baroque performance; silver-tongued eloquent deliveries enthusing an amusing musing
Roaring reassurance of being on the prospect of procuring central evidence - the preciousness within choosing a gained conscientiousness approach promotes an unadulterated antidote
Introspection of one’s predilections stirred the modern, robust direction toward the recollection of a pristine, internal haven nurturing relaxation and crystallization.
Brandon Barnett Nov 2012
walking out the door to score the first pour
or headed to the store to buy more, more, more
alcohol slides over my lips and burns my gums
look out depression because here I come
unforgivable and dumb
my decision in choosing again to succumb
to filling my throat with hateful *** just to go numb

unbelievable the cost of the lines I’ve crossed
the hours and days I've lost
the vicious shifting of minutes across
the abacus rods to the side of loss
the moments of my life I accost

my happy endings sent marching to their deaths
an insult to the true preciousness
of every one of life’s next breaths

I stop and think of all the terrible acts and hate crimes
that I've committed since the addiction in my lifetime
my steady, self inflicted decline
and the horrors that have come from my anebriated mind
the sickness embodied in drinking, thinking it’s not filth and grime

one of life's few real truths
is that we have so little of it in our youth
we have so little of it to define ourselves
it doesn’t halt, it doesn’t pause it can’t be contained or stored on shelves
it will never refrain from moving along
with or without your happiness time moves on

writing this down in sobriety now
or reading this later aloud
drunk and probably too loud
for a crowd of one person not proud
I’ll wonder how
how I do this to myself again and bow down
to a voluntary disease that only brings storm clouds

I've been taught better than this
I've been treated better than this
I've been shown and really seen clearly my life’s gifts
so why do my actions always need forgiveness

how is it I burn the pages of my own plans
how is my touch capable of the murders of a killers hands
I don’t know how an able body like mine can
refuse to stand up like a man

I’m dragging myself to an inevitable end
with every sip I take and every bar dollar I spend
and every gushing wound I refuse to mend
everytime I choose ***** over the company of a friend

i can put the vitamins back in my body
and pretend my ledger isn’t red it’s just a little spotty
and that I wasn’t that bad I was just a little naughty
and say that I make everyone laugh when I’m *****

but those rows of abacus beads on the wrong side that I tossed
tell a different story of a war fought and lost
and a power that remains with the victor unchanged
and a coward carrying a bottle like a cross

and every day there is a line drawn, and then right now is gone
with or without my happiness, time moves on
jeffrey robin Aug 2014
)      ::::O::::    (
///  • ||

(  •  )  (  •  )


The road to the hills

We follow

The sun is bright

The reasons are so
Immaculately clear


We have preserved

The purity of Sight

We have guarded well

Our children and the Life


We have seen

The earth itself destroyed

Only one Road remains



The hills will not be there for long

They too ----- betrayed

Leave while you still have strength


Take with you all you can

This is the Road of MAN



The reasons are so
Immaculately clear

The purity !

The preciousness of Life !

Take with you all you can

This is the Road of -----man
This is the Road of ------- MAN
judy smith Jun 2015
Jonathan Anderson's collections walk a confounding tightrope between naïveté and decadence. Much of his new menswear looked like clothes for a futuristic, spiritual retreat (Anderson himself said he wanted something "laid-back, Zen-like"), but the buckled patent shoes were purest dancehall *****-tonk. The fitted leather jackets were pretty flashy, too, especially when contrasted with multi-pleated pants in plainest calico or denim.

"He took himself seriously," said the voice-over that launched Michel Gaubert's stirring soundtrack (a journey all in itself), but that felt like Anderson poking a little fun at his own expense—or at least anticipating reactions to his quirky rationale. He insisted his collection was actually like an imaginary world that a child might create for himself, akin to the tree houses he and his brother used to build. The preciousness that such a boy would bestow on things that are essentially valueless was reflected in the ordinary objects—keys, tools—that were transmuted into jewelry, the board game that mutated into a constructivist jacquard, and the calico or denim artfully constructed into the pants that made up the foundation of the collection. Some of the models were carrying a small metal frame on which curious little things were suspended, almost like charms to ward off who knows what.

That subtly occult tinge has become something of an Anderson signature, the way he disturbs the refined with the raw, for instance—a thin strand of bamboo or a bandage of calico nipping the waist, or a crude smear of paint across a tulle top so fine it is barely there, or even a white feather stuck to a shoulder. Such touches feel last-minute spontaneous, but also off-kilter, which is exactly where Anderson wants to keep us. But his work is now so consistent that off-kilter is proving a rather pleasant place to be.Read more |
LJW Jul 2014
The Top Ten Epigrams of All Time

In the depths of winter, I finally learned that within me there lay an invincible summer.—Albert Camus

It is better to light a candle than curse the darkness.—Eleanor Roosevelt

If you can't be a good example, you'll just have to be a horrible warning.—Catherine the Great

If life were fair, Elvis would be alive and his impersonators would be dead.—Johnny Carson

Some cause happiness wherever they go; others whenever they go.—Oscar Wilde

To err is human, but it feels divine.—Mae West

An eye for an eye leaves the whole world blind.—Mohandas Gandhi

For most of history, Anonymous was a woman.—Virginia Woolf

I'm not offended by dumb blonde jokes because I'm not dumb, and also I'm not blonde.—Dolly Parton

He does not believe, who does not live according to his belief.—Sigmund Freud

In April 2014 A Poet’s Glossary by Academy Chancellor Edward Hirsch was published. As Hirsch writes in the preface, “this book—one person’s work, a poet’s glossary—has grown, as if naturally, out of my lifelong interest in poetry, my curiosity about its vocabulary, its forms and genres, its histories and traditions, its classical, romantic, and modern movements, its various outlying groups, its small devices and large mysteries—how it works.” Each week we will feature a term and its definition from Hirsch’s new book.

epigram: From the Greek epigramma, “to write upon.” An epigram is a short, witty poem or pointed saying. Ambrose Bierce defined it in The Devil’s Diction­ary (1881–1911) as “a short, sharp saying in prose and verse.” In Hellenistic Greece (third century B.C.E.), the epigram developed from an inscription carved in a stone monument or onto an object, such as a vase, into a literary genre in its own right. It may have developed out of the proverb. The Greek Anthology (tenth century, fourteenth century) is filled with more than fifteen hundred epigrams of all sorts, including pungent lyrics on the pleasures of wine, women, boys, and song.

Ernst Robert Curtius writes in European Literature and the Latin Middle Ages (1953): “No poetic form is so favorable to playing with pointed and sur­prising ideas as epigram—for which reason seventeenth- and eighteenth-century Germany called it ‘Sinngedicht.’ This development of the epigram necessarily resulted after the genre ceased to be bound by its original defi­nition (an inscription for the dead, for sacrificial offerings, etc.).” Curtius relates the interest in epigrams to the development of the “conceit” as an aesthetic concept.

Samuel Taylor Coleridge defined the epigram in epigrammatic form (1802):

What is an epigram? A dwarfish whole;
Its body brevity and wit its soul.

The pithiness, wit, irony, and sometimes harsh tone of the English epigram derive from the Roman poets, especially Martial, known for his caustic short poems, as in 1.32 (85–86 B.C.E.): “Sabinus, I don’t like you. You know why? / Sabinus, I don’t like you. That is why.”

The epigram is brief and pointed. It has no particular form, though it often employs a rhymed couplet or quatrain, which can stand alone or serve as part of a longer work. Here is Alexander Pope’s “Epigram from the French” (1732):

Sir, I admit your general rule,
That every poet is a fool:
But you yourself may serve to show it,
That every fool is not a poet.

Geoffrey Hartman points out that there are two diverging traditions of the epigram. These were classified by J. C. Scaliger as mel and fel (Poetics Libri Septem, 1561), which have been interpreted as sweet and sour, sugar and salt, naïve and pointed. Thus Robert Hayman, echoing Horace’s idea that poetry should be both “dulce et utile,” sweet and useful, writes in Quodlibets (1628):

Short epigrams relish both sweet and sour,
Like fritters of sour apples and sweet flour.

The “vinegar” of the epigram was often contrasted with the “honey” of the sonnet, especially the Petrarchan sonnet, though the Shakespearean sonnet, with its pointed final couplet, also combined the sweet with the sour. “By a natural development,” Hartman writes, “since epigram and sonnet were not all that distinct, the pointed style often became the honeyed style raised to a higher power, to preciousness. A new opposition is frequently found, not between sugared and salty, but between pointed (precious, over­written) and plain.”

The sometimes sweet, sometimes sour, and sometimes sweet-and-sour epigram has been employed by contemporary American formalists, such as Howard Nemerov, X. J. Kennedy, and especially J. V. Cunningham. Here is a two-line poem that Cunningham translated in 1950 from the Welsh epi­grammatist John Owen (1.32, 1606):

Life flows to death as rivers to the sea,
And life is fresh and death is salt to me.

Excerpted from A Poet’s Glossary by Edward Hirsch. Copyright © 2014 by Edward Hirsch. Used by permission of Houghton Mifflin Harcourt Publishing Company. All rights reserved.

collected in
A Poet’s Glossary
Each week we feature a new term from Academy Chancellor Edward Hirsch’...
E C Vadnais Aug 2016
I see them pause to talk and wonder
What could be said between the ages of old and young
Of womanhood in full bloom, womanhood at near end
Except if not by word then by presence speak
Of the preciousness of life begun between their legs.

© 2016
Imagine if it cost your whole days
wages, just to feed on bread;

If external forces made you suffer
The indignity of debt.

Imagine if the war torn middle east
Had a minute's silence for fifty dead;

If Palestine,  Iraq, Afghanistan
Had a minute off for breath

Imagine if a days work came with
a twenty percent chance of death...

Now picture that scene in the Caribbean
Bathing, lounging, plunging, dancing

The preciousness of life it seems
is purely based on address.
A life is a life, do not mourn for the lost,
nor distinguish one over another; instead,
celebrate the time we have around the globe,
not just near but far away from home.
Mitchell Duran May 2012
The knife sharpens itself
By a naked hand
Gripped by the thoughts of home
And happenings
Of Matthew's killings

Since in the own self
Accountings are remembered
Politely thinking that
Everything you've seen so far
Is a game

There is nothing
That is not your own
And Oh My God
There is once a place
That you know now
There is something you are up against
Yet you don't know what it is

Marching roves
Of men with the geeks and their money
Sweat trickles from the
Leather books of their
Leather shredded souls of the ******
And here the stone piles lay
The guts of a revolution
Paid off with nothing
But the blood of the brain washed equipped

The swearing of news
Of lands split apart by differences
Arms themselves with theories
Ways of living
Separation of man to man

And business
Is as loud
And as quick
As the shot
From a gun barrel

We are lead by
So in turn
We are only minions
Of Monsters

Preceding in a
Of an old enemy that
Swears that blood
Would never be
Thicker then their hate

The blasts
As the age of man
Is dressed
In fresh spilt

And there is the check of the
Young solider at his stone hedge fund
We wheeze for the riches
Of the looks of the great scholars
And lepers of the lost celebrities
Going through all
Of the way things are and the way
Things will be and the present step
We all seem to be obsessed with taking

Walk to the gates of the pearly gates
Sounds of bullets and scream to be heard
Our name, our humaneness, dampens
As we flatten on the torn apart dusty stone
Caught with one eye on the ground, their
Ears bent to hear any kind of sound

Excuses let not alone in warmth an hot bullet
Where former life lived now shows but death
We men, hot in our hurry to correct one another
Excuses everything where we should excuse nothing
And in blood He bathes in bullet casings
A former shell of the man after heathen he hath killed

Though pressed on silken angels wings where
We seek refuge for forgiveness after pleasure
Released' are we when the light is shone upon us
Each word to be released is to be sent to heaven
Our brothers, nodding to the likeliness of our worth
Sees their eyes within the pupils of us, our own brothers

Thunder where the proud is not equal
We marked nothing that could not be fought
Good or bad was not the answer we sought
For we only sought justice in the eyes of good men
We know not how to do too little or too much
We only turn our eyes to the home of our good selves

To the hawk the family runs away from its own mother
She tidies as bullets **** by in their boys imagination
To spread your wisdom is to also spread your disease
Seek the seed of of your turmoil, see you spread your knowledge
To the youth you produced you wished could be free of your curse
The night touches the lips of the innocent as the moon eclipses
Temporal breaths form on the authorities that swear their allegiance

Where time cries we see the shallow man weep their **** of time
The hallways echo with their cries of selfish uselessness
Preciousness shows light on His eye whose end is inevitable
The clapping senate, in their circle, their suits, their wives with sherry
Make no conversation to the people for their wounds are too deep
The people - with their lack of voices - show their mouths with no sound
As the greying suits like the bones within the earth clap to their own accomplishments
The laughs, those haunting laughs, are heard faintly over the lapping of forgotten blood

What must we say of custom but that it is boring
We make the throne to it as we see the revolutionaries toss stones at it
They who hold their essence, their truth to it
Sacrifice their children - later in vain - for the cause of it
Dear custom, you are the one who holds the red hot chain of control
Not the Devil or God or Tyrant or Executioner or Law Men
Ney! We must see that custom is the crutch of all Men
Unwilling to step foot on grounds which they know nothing of
Here - on these mysterious grounds - lays a life better than the last
Here lays a life not afraid of time or change of the ill effects of history
Here stands Ahab and his ship sailing for the mighty ****

In place our God's shed only their light on the one's that resemble themselves
Picked out to present the gift they have been sharing for eternity
The lights shine bright on the eye's of the one's of the camera
Lo' the mud is still ***** lined with a sickness that tries not to be forgotten
We wheeze for we are human yet the God's provide no cure
We die only to be tossed back into their pool of games
They who plays by the rules is imprisoned in a losing game
Rules, a shackle and chain, all presented by the creator of the frame

Prepare for the soft spoken telling of the charging of the army
Our men, sword to sword, relishes their hate in the blade
How deep can a man hate when they **** every innocent soul around them?
We pass through sheds of shifting christian childish light that cries
Time pleases of the Shakespearian wears that hold a truth who shouts "Not now, not now!"
Soothing ourselves with the honored number of the royalty that swears
To be mixed with the minnows of the common man to be a unholy injustice
Man turns to God and man turns man into the dirt with which they march on

And in the breath of a love of mankind
An innocence whose mess could bring you tears
And a thankfulness that only bears the strength to show Her fear
We are made of the same blood, the same muscle, the same skin
Yet we fight to the death just to see who will turn up on top and win
Can the hill of our ego's ever be conquered?
Where is our peaceful hill that many wish to live and wander?
Bloodshed is apart of mankind
But there is another side
One that is washed in the ***** pebbles of a forgotten city
And the waves of a mysterious endless ocean
There we will find our answer but I'm going back to
A place I've never been before
Where the piano player plays whatever He wishes
And the midnight wind grants me
A couple of moonlit kisses

Oh the politics of theatre
No, my mistake!
The theatre of politics!
We ask to say this when the cue lands
And the mass of man claps or
Boo's, swearing that with either
There is nothing to lose
We are the mob of the Roman empire
With ipads, ipods, the internet and smart phones
Technology tells us who we think we are
We are still the stinking rats in the stands
Gnawing on the priced bronze haunches of pig
Chewing dirt with flesh and flesh with dirt
Imaginations as wide as the forehand can stretch
Thinking that a glass based GPS system sets us apart
(They did it with paper and parchment)
Spiraling towards a repetitious existence

I wish not to be human
I am cursed
To be so

To be apart of
What I will be

Forces me

To favor the good
Within myself

All of us
lynnia hans Mar 2016
I want to cry tears of blood
That floods rivers and overflow the lands of time
My stricken heart tears apart with the beat of its
Shivering in gasps & agonizing pain that i feel will never go away
Mourn & lament at the precious droplets of age as the stinging tears run down my face
Bruised Orange Feb 2013
All the roads, footpaths, and roughened trails of my beginnings
Lead me to the map of your heart, that long buried treasure.
I will trace words and phrases along the contours of your lips,
And glide cautiously across the footbridge of your wanting.
You will be stilled by the weight of my breath upon your brow,
And you will know love at a pace that awakens you to your own preciousness.
Hal Loyd Denton Jan 2013
Where are you headed the road and the future will tell there was truly promise in the air what a
Harvest was indicated the raw frontier lay behind some thirty to forty years an era was casting
Its first tender endearing images onto the landscape radio was the rage but it would be
Supplanted by vision stories would flow into living rooms dreamlike worlds would be presented
On demand the Congo and its fever pitch would be told through savage drums big city and
Small Time America would vive for time and all would be the portent of a country coming of age
And its greatest strength was its innocents love songs would mold our thoughts the older
Generation Seemed to stand with their arms spread out saying take us the rest of the way the
Boogie was Made more marvelous by a faster beat and the content was vamped up by the
Yearning Fulfillment of young love the age was a grooving sound that collectively had glory
Rolled up into Blue suede shoes and a whole lot of shaking going on it was the past and future
At an Intersection like no other the theme was ease hard mean living bowed in gentle dales it
Was the sloping a falling into pleasure that held magical aspects like strolling hand in hand
Down main street with the glowing shop lights greeting you with the feel of what wondrous
Times these are everyone was in this sensational drift a mood that was all consuming it was a
Purring hum that spoke in intimate detail of a way of life that was for a brief time the capture of
Quaintness the streets were filled with chrome and gleaming lines on cars that were spectacles
Of grace and beauty and everyone was caught up in the sensation and was youthful enough to
Exploit it fully without reserve laughter was a marvel that was uncommon it was a time just
Before wealth would rise as a tide but little was like a sacred deed and trust you never behaved
Badly thankfulness way the key in that time it’s funny now with everything no one is thankful
But are really more hateful more distracted distant the problem things have been placed above
Human worth there isn’t love or its accompanying payoff you have a society with so much but
The grand and beautiful is missing while people only get sadder and more lonely we took our
Hearts on a treacherous detour from the high ground to the low estate of rancor because we
Stopped believing in the preciousness of others and sought it in things what deadness that has
Donna May 2019
Don’t let grief make you
angry and bitter , find a
way to love yourself
Be happy not angry makes u miss out on life and life is very precious indeed **
I know a few angry people and i just cannot be like them you have to move on , it’s not easy but it positivity can be done!
Alan McClure Oct 2016
Put past
The pretence of protection.
her preciousness
is prohibited -
for *******.
Parents paw
the pretty pretty
Pa approves the partner
partner plucks the petals,
‘She pleases me,
pleases me not’ -
matters not one jot.
Pet and preen
her perilous perfection
a prophylactic
in place
of progression,
professional appreciation.
Proud paternalistic patter
Presidents pronounce
on *****,
parroted by ******
and pissheads.
Petty, pathetic
and petrified
of power,
placing people
in parentheses
in playground politics.

I’m sick
that this
Past to present,
passed down
passed over
passed off
as perfectly
practical, natural,
a place for everyone
in place.

Parade our pride
in pyrotechnic protest
in partnership perpetual,
productive, progressive
as people
as people,

and equal.
Lyra Brown Nov 2012
I’ve become more aware lately

Of the preciousness

Of time

The way my little brother smiles when I walk in the door

The wasp that kept circling around my Grandma and I today,

When we were sitting outside eating lunch.

The way the streetlight looked through the trees

My silhouette on the pavement,

Reminding me

How much I’ve been wounded and yet

I’m still here.

The little girl that stood in the middle of a puddle,

Stomping and laughing

In her pink rainboots.

“Gotta have fun on a rainy day somehow!” Her mother said to me

As I stood there smiling,

Noticing the beauty

In the simplicity of that moment.

Time is precious and life

Is a gift

And it’s completely irrelevant

If anyone would disagree.
Daniel Jul 2014
I wonder if my image still lingers in the back of your mind
I bet it's just me who's thinking about you
You were my favourite actor
No matter how hard I tried to burn you from my memory,
I could never forget you
I hated that

School was more than the abundance of textbooks and lectures
The brightest minds graced the hallway with their uniforms
The word PREFECT drew lines to separate students as if **** shouldn't be bothered with
In this prison, beautiful angels walked like gods
Some were drenched in poison and some were never tainted
But always stayed beautiful
And at the end of the hallway, my existence was non-existent
A girl who hid in plain sight
The simple-minded entertainment to the student body

Homework was always torn apart as if dogs were surrounding her
Laughter was the fearful form of oncoming judgement
Yet her reactions kept feeding the zombies brainwashed by insecurity
And when she sat behind him...
That was when the apocalypse had started

A statue that never parted his lips
He always sat in front of a girl with the same seat every day
His stillness amplified how the room was an exhibition
The noise would split through the beauty of the scene
He was too different from someone like a recluse
A wallflower
A freak

For some reason, silence was no longer possible
A game of chess had intrigued our minds
Pawns came and attacked the knights
         A joke that started to hold something in place
Pieces started to disappear
        A smile that melted my ice-cold heart
The game was stopped and losing was not an option
But winning was impossible
Because my heart was suffocating

The anxiety of a dinner-date was like an execution day
I was like the darkness of the night sky
I can never be seen as beautiful because the loveliness of the stars is what people look for
But on that wonderful night,
Chandeliers emanated the way that I felt towards him
The long intense gazes from our lockers had drowned out the chaos of the hallways
The lunch tables where no one dared to go near us,
Created an atmosphere that was impossible to describe
And that place behind the bleachers
It was remembered with a question that I could never forget
And the silence that could actually make me distracted from my most perfect moment

But why were there people...
Sitting on the bleachers, they stared at us
Smiles shot from every person in my peripheral
The same smiles that I got when girls stole my clothes after showers for gym
It was when people saw my hopeless looks
When they knew that everything would go wrong for me
But with his wrist placed on a bent knee
And a box wrapped in velvet
He had that smile too...

I thought back to our first date
The chandeliers were bright
but not as bright as the flashes from cameras
As if a famed figure enlightened the whole restaurant
Sadly, it was just me

Our lockers
The gazes that we shared
I ignored the chaos
I ignored the stabbing words that others would gruesomely spit

The lunch tables where no one went near us
They watched from a distance only to know that I would end up alone and miserable
Knowing this, a blissful question now presents itself

My lips slowly separate
Emerging from the red velvet box is yellow snake
Coiling around my flesh tightly
As it suffocates my finger, the realization that it's a ring calms me down

I feel numb
Daydreams were hard for me to grasp
I try to remember how the word yes escaped from my lips
Nothing could have been there that made me feel like drowning

He drove me home
I look down at the road during the uncomfortable silence
But the last thing I see is his face
An everlasting pain resides in my body
The only casualty hurt from a car crash
My fiance says that it was a tree but I don't recall
seeing one

I don't recall him being mine either
I can't remember the feel of his lips
Hands that I held
Three words that I should have always remembered
But that's because it never happened
The daydream
It was just too strong

I looked at my finger only to see that a snakebite had
replaced my ring
The ring that I thought I saw
The preciousness that made all of my doubt go away

I wasn't hit by a tree from the passenger seat
I was hit by my first love that had to drive a car into me
because the laughter and the poison wasn't enough

The snake's poison didn't hurt as bad as the poison that he
gave me
For he has merely given me the taste of his wine
I don't want to know how well his future will end up
or how well we will graduate
He is an angel that was able to paint over his black wings
A person who can monopolize others for the sake of fame
He is nothing but an actor with no shame
K Balachandran May 2016
An ant repeatedly told
she loved him so much,
he wasn't astonished a bit,
knew life was incredible
it's a pin point of *****
to dull the existential pain,
how would he forget this ant
if not an ancestor,she may become
a descendant, a bond for ages.

"The grain of sugar
you allowed me to take
made me look sweet as I
shared it with my buddies,
though you aren't aware of it"

A cloud told that
she once made him stand
under the umbrella of
her cool shade, and that
experience did transform her.
"So tired you were
your eyes were dreaming;
while being dismembered
by an adamant wind,
inch by inch, I struggled
to hold myself together
till you could find a
new shade, before I am dissolved
by external compulsion.
Those moments I lived for
the love of you, so pure
expecting nothing but
fulfilling my karmic, dictate,
gave me the insight,
to remain a cloud in spirit, ever
though not in my form any more.

Your songs of loneliness
made me overwhelm,
I am essentially water
that flows towards the ocean,
containing meanings dense
the song you have sung
in intense pain, was
an experience; walking through
glowing  embers of coal,
for all who commingled
with my flow to ocean."

The tree had a rare radiance
it told him pleased,"Like me
you too have the crown,
a cloud of dancing thought waves,
that has silver lines,all the time
you sit and contemplate,
Every one has a Buddha
reclining inside,if you care
to think the way out of all miseries
he would be awake and smiling,
the compassion incarnate.
I appreciated what you did
that marked, I thought
the beginning of the light
that drives the ignorance of
darkness out from mind.
I did it by showering flowers
were you aware?"

"Karuna" she whispered as if to
emphasize it's preciousness
"Compassion" is what the most,
the world now lacks"
It could make the world a garden of love,
That's what reflected on me
when you sat underneath me
and gazed in to the far galactic
turbulence that is a saga continues,
how many moments of gold,
we were gifted one by one!
"Karuna" is the jewel, the Buddha
the enlightened one's words
did sow in us, with the touch
of a transforming thunder."
Karuna  (Sanskrit)--compassion
polka Jan 2018
Everyone tells you this.
And if you haven't heard the phrase yet,
Well, I'm saying it to you now!

But, WHY is life precious?
It's not like life is rare.
Easy to create,
Easy to ***** out.
So why does it hold value?

WHY is life precious?
Well, let me tell you, friend!
Life is what you're experiencing right now.
And I mean more than just your consciousness!

I'm talking about that friend you see every once in a while.
The one who makes you laugh!
I'm talking about that family member who cares deeply
Even if you don't know it!
I'm talking about that stranger who smiles your way as you walk past
Even when you feel sad!
I'm talking about that spiraling, shifting, cloud that is an experience,
Equally complicated for you as it is for everyone else.

Sure, life is easy to begin,
And SUPER easy to end.
But when EACH and EVERY life is so complicated,
THATS where the value comes in.
Because one life is different from another
In just the SLIGHTEST way, enough to make it where you can't get that life anywhere else.

So, life is precious,
because it's just so ****** COMPLICATED.
And when a life is removed from that web of connectivity,
it feels as if an entire balance is thrown off.
So, why would you end it?
You don't know what's going to happen next!
One day you could be down,
The next you meet someone beautiful,
or see something amazing.
You're never gonna know what happens next,
because with life, comes complicatedness,
comes preciousness.
Think of it this way:

YOU are:

Open minded
Unique, and

And there will never be another you!
So, don't take that away from us!
Mike Hauser Nov 2018
I hear my father's voice
Everytime I speak
Left with little choice
That he's a part of me
I hear it in the slang
My Southern nasel twang
In everything I say
As I venture through my day

When I look into the mirror
It's my father's face I see
The older that I get
Looking back at me
I see the many lines
He had in his sly smile
The kindness that he held
When I gazed into his eyes

I also hear his laugh
In the jokes I tell
When the aftermath
Doesn't go so well
Trying to get the crowd
To smile I still try
The way my father did
As he made his way through life

I always feel his love
From beyond the grave
The preciousness in the gifts
That my father gave
Every single piece
Of his memory
That my father placed
With love inside of me
Thanks to CJ for her help with this!
Angela Mary Pope Aug 2013
And we didn't even talk about anything real

And when you kissed me it felt so sad,
and I was difficult to dismiss,
But thought hey at least I'm with him and I have something to feel.

And after we had ***, you fell asleep and I stayed awake watching Ancient Aliens.
And when I looked over at you,
faraway and safe in your own world,

Where you didn't carry the burden
of feeling forced to talk to anyone about anything that is actually real,
not in this outside paradigm but the realest thing you have,

what is lulled in your heart,
that which you hold so close and so coveted and so hidden
and I knew you were gone.

And I saw then that you have been gone for a long time,
that you tucked your heart back into it's secret hiding place a long time ago.
And maybe when I found it back then,

I didn't know the preciousness of what I had,
and maybe you didn't know if you could trust me to possess it
or maybe I never found your heart at all,

way back then your heart was still just where you left it

All I have now is that look in your eyes when you tell me you can't stay
when I reach for your hand and you brush it away
A lesson learned in love, may it never again feel so cold

And if I ever run across that look I found in your eyes again,

I would sooner sell it to the devil then give away my soul
dvalentines Jul 2016
Preciousness in a bite
It is the taste of hope
That I choose to savour
After every bitter tragedy

Sweetness in a breath
It is the scent of hope
That I choose to take in
After every stench of disappointment

Gentleness in a look
It is the sight of hope
That I choose to see
After every soreness in the eye

Bliss in a thought
It is the memory of hope
That I choose to remember
After every pound of headache

Happiness in a soul
It is the feeling of hope
That I choose to feel
After every shattering of the heart
I choose to see good, I choose to believe in hope.
The finest wine to touch my lips
Was not as intoxicating,
Neither could its sweetness eclipse,
The magic that we’re creating.

The finest silk to touch my skin
Was ne’er as tender or as light,
Nor did its comfort draw me in,
As your arms do for me at night.

No melody’s been played so fine
To be the the music to my ears,
Nor notes written to such design,
The way your voice always my fears.

The world can offer jewels and gold
And endless gifts as pure as dew,
But not even wisdom of old
Is as precious to me as you.
Blogging at
Buy “Insights Hurt: Bringing Healing Thoughts To Life” at
Loves sees the bands, colors of a rainbow,
And in their perfect stratification,
Begs to see more, what else there is to know
Between colors’ identification?

Loves sees the spectrum, red to purple hues,
Where seven colors, beautiful enough
Disguise preciousness hid within their views,
Vibrant colors the peak, love sees the trough.

Love sees beyond the discrete colored bands,
To join red and orange, yellow and green,
Blue intertwined to violet like held hands,
Love asks what magic is there in between?

Love sees rainbows, but is not satisfied,
That line between colors intervening,
Spanning the sky, but look deeper inside,
Love asks to see beauty’s inner meaning.
Instagram @insightshurt
Blogging at
Buy “Insights Hurt: Bringing Healing Thoughts To Life” at
Nigel Morgan May 2015
Day opening, the blind’s tug and lift,
there on the counterpane, cards,
a nest of gifts tied with golden thread
serrated to the touch, bowed too
with deft hands, a box when un-papered
reveals a (stone-like shell-like) form
picked from a south-facing beach
and woven round to make
(harp-like warp-like) a loom
to weave the waves play.

Holding in her small hands,
the still-to-be-given gift
(beyond all gifts this bright day)
the stroke, the brush
of fingertips on the harvest field
of a bare arm, she unbows,
pulling preciousness so close
that between themselves
a shared to and fro comes
to the very moment of joy.

To walk out
on the springiest day
closing the door
on house and home,
taking off to a near-
distant hill now glowing
in greens and holding above
itself a tableau of blue and white
and grey clouds bringing
cool wind to bare knees.

Never an intrusion
on nature’s ambience
(our footfall on the path,
the wind breezing
through sun-dapple trees)
your voice’s song
sings out in the crisp air.
Quite under your spell words
turn and fall like the flowers
from a blossomed pear.

Once over the river
and up the glen,
following a stream,
passing self-sheared sheep,
a gradual climb with a
view forming behind us.
Horses relaxed in fields
then galloping furiously.
Cries of curlews now,
chuckles of grouse.

Flop and flap wing
Tumble over bird
In the moorland
Sky turning the
Cold May wind
Over and over
No steady state
In this brisk air

On to the moor
and we stop,
backs to a rock
for a baked brownie treat -
coffee and cake and a vista of valleys.
Alone in the sunshine
we celebrate her success
(with smiles and a kiss)
of this chocolate confection
(a high 9.6 on the outdoor scale).

This empty place
so full of sky,
so rich in views
across and over and
down to folding valleys,
then up to far far-distant hills.
Stopped by a circle  
of twelve standing stones,
cold fingers reach
for a warm hand.

A stanza-ed stone
straddling a stream,
a paragraphed poem
breaking the unbroken thread
where water unbinds
and hangs at the waterfall face.

Pleased to be found
(and after a trek)
this stanza-ed stone
at Backstone Beck.
Aisling O' L Oct 2013
When I'm being weighed down,
by your heavy rain clouds,
I feel our time running out,
Is this our finale?

I feel like I'm chasing a ghost,
Tracing you along the coast,
a preciousness I treasured most,
What are we worth?

I find time evading me,
like a forgotten dream
and I stand frozen in time.

I want to take a train back to Sunday Simplicity,
When I knew right from wrong ,
the distinction was easy.
So I won't circumvent, or pretend
that I want crazy.
but a crazy that's simple
and I know it's what you can't give me.
tranquil Oct 2013
which breaks the faceless crowd
a gush of blissful warmth
soothing as autumn sun
fiery as raging storm

the earthiness of fields
and scent of blooming slopes
the wilderness of sky
a bustling city's soul

she is the riddling key
hint of a dreamy life
window which breathes the sun
blesses my being with shine

a nebula of birth
crucible of synthesis
my sermon on the mount
my fall into abyss

complexity of life
simplicity of smile
the fleetingness of wind
purposelessness of time

a father's solemn wish
a mother's selfless prayer
immortal as the sea
lover's listless despair

patience of dormant seeds
the certainty of death
innocence of a child
preciousness of breath

vapors of firmament
helplessness of loss
a tease of sun and clouds
the curiousness of God

she is the judgment day
a dream of languor warmth
the solace of my pain
cast in a fervid form

for she is all there is
and all there'll ever be
an era of romance
the reason for my being

as tranquil rainbows dim
and stars bestow a treat
my muse forever sought
i yearn the day we'll meet
your sight is the breathing moment of my soul..

  as inseparable as liquidity from water,
   as heat from fire,
    vastness from sky,
     dream from a sleep,
      tranquility from a starry night,
       as love from life.
Chapter X
Etréstles appears from Lepanto

From Lepanto; Greece. He appeared exhausted with his eyes reddened by the gassed atmosphere that greeted them in Battle. Of whose intraterrestrial castes it was the one that was in his iron spirit and floated in his cape as a gesture of his personality. He arrived cracking the ****** soils of Tel Gómel, when he arrived ... he was assaulted by a soldier who asked for mercy to extend his bad fortune.

Falangist: With his helmet in his hands and the Dorus on his cloak on the ground tells him; every single thing I tried the double edge of my sword stained him. The top sheet notified me that my family in Kalidona was in a state of irregularity, since my two older children were called to serve in the militias. And the second edge of my lower Dorus I bow to the meanest preciousness of that of observing with a good spirit to cooperate, now with the callousness of my soul that overcomes it exploiting and dragging my wife as easy spoil. I know that my descendants were buried under the effect of the cataclysm of Pompeii in the future. All will emigrate and then flee when they are devastated and the unwelcome comrades return to reintegrate into the Santa Mary festival. The patron saint who consoled me, but I prepare myself for the resistance of such bad fortune, that one day I would drop with my crops in the culture of peasant angels in fruits and devotions. I sobbed and sobbed rubbing my animals through my empty eyes day and night. They did it next to me, with the singularity of not affecting me, they went to the nearest stream to sob for me so that I would not be affected by the fatal annihilation.

Etréstles, moved by the tribulations of the Infant of the Phalanx, fell to the ground imposing nonexistence, after his words implored Hera for her benevolence to sponsor him as a parasite and reside with her. Thus they would be immune to progressive lives under the influence of the primary and secondary sharp edges of the Phalanx weapons. Hera's eyes sparkled as the Phalangist's soul entered the Goddess. They were not vanities, but for the advent of his vanity on the Acropolis thus reaching him.

Etréstles reacts and says to the Falangist: You will be able to leave earlier, my horse Kanti stretched him out of one of his legs by neighing in proportion, so from the suffix of Hera he took the comparative stelae of a hunter and manifested to the hunter; You are already a Phalangist, ride your steed, Sail to your lands in search of your wife and children and feel magnanimous, before the phalanx officer's frivolous arrogant whistle makes you feel unconsciously smaller.

Etréstles says goodbye and tells the Phalangist to get ready for the logistical combat letter promptly. After all the event, you will be reported back by Hera's command to your lands, to release the grasses by the vertical odes of the belly of the wet, presiding zephyr, and the germination of the warm aromas of your holy land in Kalidona next to your ***** family.

Etréstles de Kalavrita, cheers on the head, both temples and lavishly kisses the Tupe between Kanti's ears. The hyper beautiful sorrel eliminated sinuous vehemence gleaming through its nostrils, it jumped down the cliffs and ravines. They arrive in a rush to Tel Gomel, and appear before Alexander III the Great and Vernarth of the Reign of Sudpichi. They were fiddling with paragraphs of the strategy before meeting with the fifteenth commanders to review the Falangists, and outline a logistics letter.

Adhesion of love Cattle says: "Think of me, ...", stemming from the indefinite discomfort and outbursts of the undecided. The archaic traditions are only for kingdoms to conquer, to sleep like a peaceful dream that sleeps together with us. Do you know how many wars I have had to endure not seeing any gesture of the undaunted muscles of everyone's face and the Whole ..., if they knew?
Replica of Lost love adhesion: from hidden science I will unravel and unravel all my trades to recover what is lost. The magic was lost between my fingers due to its excessive impetuousness, for handling alchemical essences. After this had happened, any mirage or outburst of immortality vanished from all the cardinal points. In the city of Naupacto or Lepanto, it formerly had the best port on the northern coast of the Gulf of Corinth, whose entrance it dominated. The origin of its name is due to the fact that a heracid had obtained a fleet in this place before crossing the Peloponnese, or because it had been a place used to build ships, so Naupacto would have originated from naûs (ship) and pēgnymi (build). “City of Ships, from where Etréstles de Kalavrita came from the aggressive comparisons of the masked love lost and won. Palafrén, that mounts the destinations of the city with his eternal beloved Drestnia.

During the War of the Satagenisis and Deidagenesis, along with the Heosphoros and the Man of Valplacci with their heart Infarcted they continued to prostrate Lucifer., They refluxed with the wars of the Peloponnese, which was the headquarters of the Athenian fleet in western Greece. The Athenian fleet, led by Admiral Phormio, defeated the Lacedaemonians at Naupacto (Koumeterium Messolonghi, Ch. 45 - Palibrio USA).

From here the austere visions of the Charioteer, the genitals of the animal kingdom, and of the exiled human species, flew over all roofs. With his lasciviousness ambushing the females with his ******* pretension, he started towards his senses in his servitude.
When they approached the province of Nafpaktia, the Nome of Aitoloakarnania, the weightless musks that spread and crushed souls, who do not die with breathlessness or halite that extinguishes it submissive. This is how it could provoke some heartbreak and take it to the underworld of Hades. The castes of gods and semi-gods will free him from his chains and the furious Xenon and Lithium gases. Gasifications that will sneak down the drains spaces where no sword my spear will cross the atmosphere of Gaugamela. Only Vernarth out there has to be channeled through the unscathed pavilions of the immaculate back room of his heroic stock. Without any undulating or blatant blade cutting his sanctified and pure muscles acquired in the aforementioned sessions in the Bumodos with the drugs and potions of Medea.

Ellipsis in the Castle of Horcondising:
His mother Luccica were looking out the stained glass window of his main windowed pavilion. Through her she saw how her sons Vernarth and Etréstles met with the great General, to unravel the mysteries of the immaculate and intact pavilions of Vernarth where she commanded and nothing caused her any injury, neither by the edge of manipulated steel points nor by all the hands wrestling with a transfigured fate change.

Luccica says: Dear shoots. The last night of Solstice I couldn't sleep well. The forest of forests woke me up and I couldn't count its fallen leaves. What obedience to my expatriate will, to liquidate them I would gain strength to the intruder fatigue? I know that when I close my eyes I will dream of you. Hold on to the carnival close to the movements that are indescribable but visible. I look at the acacia trees that do not cause injuries to my night eyes, but they cut the necks of themselves like a sieve to admire them in the pantheon of Morpheus.

I will not move my arms to unsettle any vibrations that hinder my fusion with you, except on the vehicles that oscillate from the War to Peace. I move my feeling through my own numb hand of the uncertain living shadow of Luccica, your mother more than yours, forever presence of the dominance of the absence of my desires. All the others who are undaunted, I will mislead them from my national indulgences, which dispossess my ignoble body by weaving and embroidering here in the linen fibers. Evil beyond the stained glass window I saw abstracted, as the swords and spears misguided wielded each other, as if wanting to slice the air to pierce the curtain that divides reality with sub reality. Prisoners of a post-battle that would come to reopen the curtains on the sub reality of the fleeting children of Luccica, of the naive and dying curtains not yet stained with urgent blood in the unpoured vessels.

Son Etréstles Madalena arrived today from Florence; she arrived tired and very sleepy. I think he will sleep until you come back waiting for you! Arrival with some sisters sent by their mother Catarina de Pazzi, directly from the Chiesa di San Giovannino dei Cavalieri. Here long hours she told us without warning the news of her adventure until we reached Sudpichi to the Reign of Horcondising. Undoubtedly I passed the Apennines before crossing the gory viaduct, it has brought you an immolated Cross from right there. Then from Genoa I sail the seas to Valparaíso, brought directly by the merchant ship that came from Helmsman Strigoi, Vlad Tepes himself. On the surface, the float arrived without interruption or ceaselessly, as it had to be appreciated and done in the vicinity of the Mandragora, before arriving at the horcondising.

For you Vernarth, I know that you enjoy the company of Walekiria, who has surrounded you with the divine verb. That of the yellow grasses that walk along the yellow paths, none will be more path than herself. I will be with you very closely, as well as I will see it and you will revive in Gaugamela.

Hades says: with a human conscience I would like to alleviate the weight that breaks the bottom of the ships that invade foreign lands. But my origin sentences the soft abandonment of the labyrinths of thought and reason. For this I leave my punishments to the one who here with reason let his ideological tendency inhale perpetuate itself in Gaugamela without being supervised by my fury, overshadowing my administration of those who should not live or die in the ancient song, who sleep and sleep, but who my Dark prayer does not distract you.

To be continued / under editing
Mateuš Conrad Nov 2016
klatka: or cage -
don't ask me about the etymology.

czesław śpiewa, or: the prodigal son returns from
his hiatus in Denmark - talks accented slavic
and can't mustard the danish either - hello applause
of the mediocre crowd! intelligence? on the *bruk
                  just enough distance
between you and me and a sniff our a cinnamon stick
being sizzled. i'd love to love women like richard
burton -
   but i'd prefer women to liked to
be women loved by richard burton:
if that makes sense -
            the story goes that since wwii
women embraced enough feminism
to drive all the manual labour to china -
and in fluster were cited as shouting:
come back! come back! no to be, honey....
which is why men of a certain age
turn to reenacting the battle of hastings
of 1066... Darwinism has created
a historiology dynamic: rather than a historical
dynamic - oh sure, there's a logic (wording)
behind it, but we're not really writing history
these days, we're writing something
that attributes history of expression,
but is nonetheless merely celeb culture.
i see more body-parts in my cognitive
reflection that in my ****** reflexion -
             the ego is my right hand (since i am
right-handed), and so and so forth.
                   we've moved beyond history
and what sort of environment is needed to
write history: incompetence, sadism,
patriarchy, Versailles, an Ottoman harem -
generally speaking, strife;
the only thing that keeps us thinking of
a merciful god are the elements we're exposed to,
and on water we strive, and by water drowned.
        we haven't got that,
we have d.n.a. augmentation and for those
that are actually creationists in robotics -
de-humanoid: never have we become so
dehumanised by being cultured and educated -
i find more humanity in an unread scaffolder
than i dare to poke and pierce the yoke of
a librarian's gusto -
               apparently a fifth of 10 to 12 year old girls
have never experienced concentrating
         on encoded sounds -
and even more never managed to
               ballerina twirl an R into an Я:
Narcissus kept them barren with wasted hours
in-front of the mirror.
i have absolutely no idea (other than the accent-diversity
argument) why the Anglos never applied
"punctuation" / diacritical marks to the encoding -
but as Darwinism teaches us:
  even the bible doesn't state why snakes
don't have eyelids, let alone limbs:
i think that not having eyelids is more of an agony
that slithering across the platitudes -
mind you: cats are serpents in disguise:
and they a pair of eyelids: hence that nausea of endless
         sroka = magpie. some words really do sound
better in other languages...
                       they really do.
30 years on this earth and i've never bedded an English
or a Polish lass...
       African (tick), Russian (tick), Ukrainian (tick),
                    half-Indian (tick),
                           Thai (tick), Bulagrian (tick)...
****, i'm not picky -
i'll **** anything that moves; oh well, thank-****
that confession is over: or that's how i rationalise
the hot-air of conspiracy theories, and only believe
in things that really scare me;
and yes: you can be a really ******* on paper
after a drink or two, but as Adellè said:
                                       write not a word sober!
i mean, is sober literature even acceptable in that
Venetian banquet of fakery & blossoming?
     it just means you got tired of living
and started to chisel epitaphs on gravestones -
       if i wasn't in some ways impaired to do
what i used to do: i wouldn't have descended into
the Tartarus of Heidegger, and kept myself
afloat in the Hades of Stendhal and Dumas:
reasons all pointing toward posterity and
the love of weekend escapades to Stockholm Paris:
my my... Paris... or of what once was:
                                                          ci­rca 2004,
on the steps of Montemartre: **** you Heraclitus!
  which is the point: as man of individuated
surrounding we're but rivers, elongating and despairing
apart - but once in a century a man comes and
applies a transcendental overthrow of commoners such
me and Heraclitus: where there's no talk of a river
or the flux: instead the sea and the turbulence of
a tsunami, akin to Napoleon, ******, J.C.
all they said was universally true to all of them,
**** it, stampede!
          and it came to such blows of lost conscience and
massed mind virus: i really do care to say
    that such individuals (if we are to embrace
what's become a Cartesian dichotomy rather than
a duality, which is the case) are viruses:
collective manias: a Sydenham's syndrome
                                              (née st. Vitus' dance).
my interests in all of this?
    etymology is the wording of archeology when unearthing
plainer, dumber: etymology = archeology.
sure, there's the fashionable vocabulary,
there's also the standard Oxford vocabulary,
   then there's the cool kid slang something -
and then there's the individuation of vocabulary
toward idiosyncratic endeavours: on the palette:
a character study.
                   most people are familiar with
the archaic, like they're familiar with the magical -
but etymology really is archeology on paper -
     and the clear cut-off points? runes and
the Rosetta stone -
      i even find it believable that they're trying to
make Greek dodo (extinct) - if not for the Cyrillic script
i fear it would be so:
heh, half of infinity (∞) is ascribed to α (alpha):
if one follows less puncture dotting and more orchestral
   waving of a harry pooter wand
and the incantation: abraham **** dabble
(snoop in the b.c.) / abracadabra - case in the law courts
vs. the easter bunny: i'm starting to suspect
  there's a cliche involved with a magician
and a top-hat... the pyramids were feasible,
Auschwitz was ****** feasible:
the hanging gardens of Babylon? insane
(have a building where a garden is above the heavens?!):
oh look, here come the three "wise" (magi) men from the east!
            and all those known deviations from beer:
ale to the west (stale non-carbonated liquid cereal)
while mead (meed) to the east - or miód pitny
          (mew'd p'eat'nee - ee hollowed out) / drinkable honey.
                          or as i once said to her:
you try to bring me down: i'm going to do the trick
of pulling the tablecloth from a table with chandelier-like
preciousness of china or crystal: and fail to pull
that tablecloth neatly off the table: a bull
in a chinashop, me.
  - are we really still trying to sterilise ourselves
with the "sanity" of the sort of language english teachers
taught us in the first place? really?
well... as a poet i can't be considered a "respectable"
citizen... unless i have a rich husband and i'm a woman...
feminism, premature depression, chinese industrialisation,
         i would be accepted as a "respectable" citizen
if i wrote poetry on the side, but primarily
    had my lil' richard made into a patent for a *****
or decided to be a merchant selling all things
excluding the Quran: perhaps toothbrushes or bow-ties?
yep, Judas spilled the salt (whoever thought
that actual white meant we learned to do the Pavlov
trick, and everything tasted better and
no one wanted to snorkel at the great barrier reef
of what would be an acid trip otherwise) -
         i just find the new testament poetics exhausted,
everyone in the west knows this,
which is why all protestant nations decided
to read the nag hammadi library: literally.
well sure - this is the second coming, he's been coming
back since the year of the discovery of the library
(1945 a.d.) -
                          but i'm not buying it...
only because there's that undercurrent in the background,
that requires a little more patience with reading
    (a faux pas these days) and no chastity to be
redeemed when praying, if praying at all.
Lecia Alane May 2015
What will it take to feel again?
Something other than the feel of skin on skin.
This non-emotional mess that I'm living in.
Will I ever feel the kind of love that makes your knees weak,
or the bone deep hatred that makes your soul weep?
Must I be numb to all the things that supposedly make life beautiful?
Grass so green that it brings tears to your eyes, the laughter of a child and the preciousness of their smiles..
What is wrong with me?
I want to know what it's like to feel human.
The only thing I feel is tired, tired of pretending.
My smiles are so fake, a **** star would be impressed.
Kenya83 Jul 2018
Yes, I’m scared. Scared that endings will come too soon or changes will prevent this path to you. That I’ll waste more time, more years never having touched your skin under your clothes, or cupped the palms of my hands around your face, stroking your cheeks with my thumb. Never swept your hair back from your eyes and pushed my fingers through the length, down to your neck where I feel the connect of our skin and breathe you in with deep inhalation and heightened senses, savouring the preciousness of that moment. I fear never getting close enough to feel the energy pull us closer, where breaths get slightly deeper with attractions magnetic draw as I look slightly to the floor, thoughts of that I want you more. Desire bubbles in my chest as I return my view back to you, we seem to have floated a little closer. I hear the thuds in my chest echo through my head. Your face so close to mine, our eyes meet again. I see your lips and my internal voice seems to speak out loud. It feels like slow motion now, as are lips meet, you kiss me. Not feeling this doesn’t feel like an option.
jeffrey robin Jun 2011
THEY are here

oh, yes
mine eyes have seen!

i who have been
to the farthest
"outskirts of town"

and from in between
my fear and my vanity

(the sacred human being!)

THEY appear


maybe too late

but, at least

we all are here


we all are here
Saumya Jul 2018
It is often in our lives, when we stand at a crossroad, of  'What, how, when, and where'.When holding on, and letting go, both  may almost feel the same and  create the same rippulous effects.We are ultimately most hesitant then, and least confident about our very next step, which would actually be the ****** of our days to come. Why think, rethink, and think of it so much then, that we may end up doing nothing? why just not go for what we think, and give it a bright chance?

Life's an adventurous road, and sometimes we  do need to come out of the cocoon that we've been so far, so as to step in to the next, genuinely  miraculous step, instead of being dragged into the dullness of what we've been.Some steps may obviously require a new energy, a new and fresh us, but if somewhere you feel that it's worth giving it a try, bless yourself by going for it!  we certainly do not get a second chance for everything, and if we somewhere believe that taking a risk can fix it all, its worth going for it. We all have fallen, gotten up, and walked again as kids...and it is indeed that zeal, to learn, to stand up, and walk, which made it all happen! But, can you imagine how regrettable your life indeed would've been, if you refused to get up and walk again, once you fell down and got hurt while you  were learning to walk initially?

You certainly know, what is good for you, and what exactly is'nt. Stop compromising and limiting yourself with better, when you already know,that you're worth the best! work for it, take risks, and get it! It might surely take some risks and struggles to get to that pinnacle sometimes, but once you get through it, your very experiences of it will be overwhelming. What worst could happen to you in that journey? You'll fail, or you'll fall! but then, do not forget, that it will stll give you the knowledge and experience for your second run, that can be a disguised golden gateway! Isn't that fascinating?

Sometimes the best and the worst thing you can do for yourself and your precious life, are the same, It's just a decision and certain acts in accordance to it, that causes miracle or disasters.Go for it, and dare not treat it as a second thought, for the regret may last lifelong! Stop limiting yourself, when you know that you're limitless. Stop half smiling, when know that you can smile wide. And stop seeing life as simple, when you already know that each day is worth being celebrated, for the very preciousness it comes up with!  Not everyone is fortunate enough to savour it whole, afterall.
A chapter from book., The Philosophical Lessons Life Taught".

all you comments, feedbacks etc, are most welcome :)
Thank You for reading!

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