"tens" poems
*erstwhile a halcyon extant universe incessantly ceaseless
cradled itself in hues of violet phosphorescence
laced with cobalt shimmering stars
perpetually whole it nonetheless
sought to know itself
encompassing all that is bubbling over in effervescent ebullience
intertwined with indescribable catastrophic splendor
it shattered into tens of millions of splinters
of eloquent efflorescent light
shining in the night
each splinter heretofore imbued with sempiternal felicity
began to conjure sumptuous dulcet elixirs
furtively seeking out savory emollients
to mollify the pique of separation
plummeting they fell
into monstrous competition seeking demesne they lost the purpose
of gaining awareness and intelligent consciousness
surreptitious estrangement overflowed
deluging them in excruciating agony
thus an epiphany was born
the carving of the beleaguered fragments inked with tremendous pain
created a transfiguration of splinters to crystals
hence enlightenment commenced as the gems
magnetized together constructing a world
where omnipotence shines
the ineffable beauty formed by the reintegration of crystals
far exceeds the original as they dazzle with universal light
bursting from diamonds etched in deep wisdom
flooding the firmament with kaleidoscopic
rainbow strobes cascading the sky
©2016janetaylor
May 1, 2016
May 1, 2016 at 1:23 PM UTC
The Cross, the Cross
Goes deeper in than we know,
Deeper into life;
Right into the marrow
And through the bone.
Along the back of the baby tortoise
The scales are locked in an arch like a bridge,
Scale-lapping, like a lobster's sections
Or a bee's.
Then crossways down his sides
Tiger-stripes and wasp-bands.
Five, and five again, and five again,
And round the edges twenty-five little ones,
The sections of the baby tortoise shell.
Four, and a keystone;
Four, and a keystone;
Four, and a keystone;
Then twenty-four, and a tiny little keystone.
It needed Pythagoras to see life playing with counters on the living back
Of the baby tortoise;
Life establishing the first eternal mathematical tablet,
Not in stone, like the Judean Lord, or bronze, but in life-clouded, life-rosy tortoise shell.
The first little mathematical gentleman
Stepping, wee mite, in his loose trousers
Under all the eternal dome of mathematical law.
Fives, and tens,
Threes and fours and twelves,
All the volte face of decimals,
The whirligig of dozens and the pinnacle of seven.
Turn him on his back,
The kicking little beetle,
And there again, on his shell-tender, earth-touching belly,
The long cleavage of division, upright of the eternal cross
And on either side count five,
On each side, two above, on each side, two below
The dark bar horizontal.
The Cross!
It goes right through him, the sprottling insect,
Through his cross-wise cloven psyche,
Through his five-fold complex-nature.
So turn him over on his toes again;
Four pin-point toes, and a problematical thumb-piece,
Four rowing limbs, and one wedge-balancing head,
Four and one makes five, which is the clue to all mathematics.
The Lord wrote it all down on the little slate
Of the baby tortoise.
Outward and visible indication of the plan within,
The complex, manifold involvedness of an individual creature
Plotted out
On this small bird, this rudiment,
This little dome, this pediment
Of all creation,
This slow one.
11.7k
he would sit in his room
and draw space ships
that could only be described
as something from star wars
or star trek
and he'd do geometry on the floor
his school books scattered
and punk music
would be playing on his
boom box
game informers stacked high
in tens and twenties
all over his bookcase
cozy against star wars
and hardy boys
the wood frame bed
simple and pure
until tainted by a name
of his first love
scratched in with passion
and heartbreak
he lied quite often
and was a sore loser
his mood usually consisted of
being short fused
and even more short fused
and then he moved
left for good
not visiting for another three years
and then three more after that
each time
he gets older
and less of the thirteen year old
i had known
when he lived
at home
Oct 30, 2012
Oct 30, 2012 at 6:53 PM UTC
Teetering on her baby legs
A newborn with a Solo cup
bombastic red with a few
undulating ribs
Held firmly in her hand
Is this her first or her third?
Somnambulant yet eager
And just a little out of place
In a foreign territory
On newly contested lands
She stumbles through a raucous crowd
Or was it just white noise?
She’s lost her companions
Somewhere
Although they could very well be close at hand
In the distance she can make out
Laughing faces
Bodies moving to and fro
Spilling forward, little messes
Throwing back cheap libation
She passes through a room and out the door
Into the out-of-doors
Someone following her unbeknownst
Watching her cautious, curious steps
And when she turns and sees the blur standing
She greets it
“Hail Fellow!”
Bouncing from variable to variable
Frequency to frequency
Confident and in command
Of a seemingly controlled chaos
He approaches smiling and holds out his hand
Anonymous
Having drawn her attention from the stars
That she could not find above
Leaning against the garage’s eastern wall
She takes it awkwardly
Tentative she smiles back reassured
Wobbling she returns standing alongside him
Or was she in front?
Purposeful and en route
Emboldened by his presence
And how the way was parted before her
Just by his being there.
By being so close.
She felt vaguely special
it showed in her half-smile
Cloaked in bangs
She held her head just a little bit higher
The co-conspiratorial glances
Met by boys eyes
And shes
Went unseen by the girl with the
Solo cup
One of tens upon tens upon tens
A coven would have known
It’s better not to
However.
She was shown a seat to rest
And her cup refilled
She takes a sip and smiles again
She takes another and then a gulp
That spills
He takes the cup away
And places it on the low table
Suggests she go to the restroom upstairs and get herself
Sorted
Embarrassed she is relieved for direction
Someone knows what’s going on
And his caring
Taking the time
His kind eyes
She’s usually alone
She waddles up the stairs to find
a toilet and a mirror
God she thinks
I look a mess
She tries to fix it
The hair
The eyes
The lips
The dress
The stomach
The *******
The thighs
She shrugs her shoulders at her reflection
Exhales and steps out again
To find him standing there
waiting for more.
She wants another cup.
She’s missing her cup.
I’ll get you the cup he says
In just a second.
Come.
Sep 30, 2018
Sep 30, 2018 at 3:53 PM UTC
Software job
80k salary
Potbelly
An apartment plot
with 20 years of loan
Yo yo sounds
Yea, you're a hero
Many a parent claim
Your hand in marriage
For their daughters
And for your parents?
You're a model child
Deviate from it?
Yes you are the parasite :D
Oct 9, 2014
Oct 9, 2014 at 12:55 AM UTC
How beautiful is the
Rose flower of my heart,
She is more beautiful
Than the flowers in Aburi,
How beautiful is the
Mother of my heart,
She is a blessing to her family,
How beautiful is her
Dusky looking bark,
Her brave stands for justice
Like Yaa Asantewaa,
How beautiful are my lover’s lips,
Just like that of Frimpomaa,
How beautiful is the lady
Whose beauty Brightens
My heart like her words,
She flourishes like
Koforidua flowers,
How beautiful is the lady whose
Love can control my queer destiny,
She is like unto Nyarkowaa,
How beautiful is the convex hips of the
Lady who can make me go crazy,
She is like unto Adwoba,
How beautiful is the lady who can
Make me disobey my creator,
She is like unto Makeda,
How beautiful is the lady who has
The power to make me loose hope,
She is like unto Daehafi,
How beautiful is my blessed lover,
She is highly favoured like unto Sekina,
How beautiful is the queen of my heart,
She is reliable like unto Cleopatra,
How beautiful is my lover who causes
The will of the Gods to come to pass,
She is like unto the Timbuktu woman,
How beautiful is my lover,
She has faith like unto seed,
How beautiful is my butterfly,
Her love is stronger than tens
Of thousands of chariot
Descending from mountain Afajato,
How beautiful is the
Keeper of my heart,
She has the power to
Break my heart like Nefertiti,
How beautiful is the
Keeper of my love,
She is a mother of all
Generation like Ma’at,
How beautiful is my lover,
She is faithful like the air,
How beautiful my lover is,
She tastes like salt in my mouth,
How beautiful is my lover,
Her face turns me
On like a ripe mango,
How beautiful is my lover,
She has the power to make
Me do things against my will
Just like the seasonal rainfall,
How beautiful is my lover,
The secret to her love
And affection is still unknown,
How beautiful is my lover,
Her desires are subject to her lover’s
Whims and caprices,
How beautiful is my lover,
She sees her lover as
The head of the house,
How beautiful is my lover,
How glories are her
Feet upon my lap,
How beautiful is my lover,
She is as clean as the cat,
How beautiful is my lover,
She is as important
To me as myself,
How beautiful my lover is,
She is the pride of my life,
How beautiful is my lover,
She is as wise as the aunt,
How beautiful is my lover,
She is the guardian of my love,
How beautiful is my lover,
She has honour and respect like Isis,
How beautiful is Kabutuwaa,
She is all that I can boast of,
How beautiful and
Sweet is Obaahemaa,
She is the only lady
I was born to love,
For she is my
Koforidua flowers indeed.
© PRINCE NANA ANIN-AGYEI
Email: [email protected]
Apr 8, 2013
Apr 8, 2013 at 6:36 AM UTC
In the year 480 B.C., King Leonidas of Sparta lead 300 Spartan soldiers to the mountain pass of Thermopylae. They came face to face with over 200,000 Persians under King Xerxes of the great Persian Empire,
whose archers so multiple, their arrows blocked out the sun.
Bravely the Spartans fought, with no thought of surrender.
After three days of brutal fighting, tens of thousands of Persians lay dead,
yet the Spartans still remain. Then a local resident becomes a traitor, revealing to the Persians a mountain path that lead behind Greek lines. Surrounded, Leonidas sends Greek soldiers back to Sparta to tell of a great victory, that he knew would never be. Valiantly the Spartans stand by their king, and fight to the death. So today, even though the Greeks lost the battle, it is better known for the bravery of a Spartan king and his 300 soldiers.
Nov 3, 2015
Nov 3, 2015 at 12:18 PM UTC
The trail rose up
through the sand
and sage covered hills
following the sinews of a land
scoured by fire and flood.
Even the most severe carving
here was nothing
compared to the city below-
its concrete grid
glaring over my shoulder-
sprawled out,
******* on its dingy
comforter of smog-
******* up
the dust of the desert
around it.
The trail led me up.
Up past twisted
juniper bones,
past pale green yuccas
curling
fine white filagree
from their dagger blades,
past sandstone boulders
swirled like confections,
past ancient cooking pits
nested with ash,
and ghost-like hands
outlined on stone-
to a white cliff face
up-thrust
beneath the cloudless sky.
From a lone stump
a pinyon jay squawked
drawing my eyes down.
A sentinel
to its comrades-
who rose up
from the draw to my left
and sailed in twos and threes
sinking down into
the draw on my right.
Right before me,
around me, behind me,
first two- then six,
then tens of metallic blue
wings beating heavily against
the unfamiliar desert air.
They had come down.
Down from the scrubby
forests of pine.
Down from snow
covered slopes.
Hungry,
they searched the green
fingers of the washes-
the winter forcing them
down across the trail
that was drawing me up.
They passed close by,
wing beats feathered my ears,
first up, then down-
the sentinel
keeping an eye .
Listening, suddenly hearing
my breath beat
against the wind-
I stood motionless, perched
beyond starting
and destination-
blue wings lifting
the hunger within.
Tom Spencer © 2017
Jul 5, 2015
Jul 5, 2015 at 8:53 AM UTC
People often refer to me
as a total Jack Ace.
I just tell them that, in fact,
I’m more like a rabid K-9.
Don’t mind the foam in my mouth.
When the king goes a floppin’
don’t even bother knockin’
Numbah nine.
Numbah nine.
Your tens just lost their
perfect shine, I’ll
soak you up just like
Brawny
cleaning wine.
Jul 26, 2014
Jul 26, 2014 at 4:40 PM UTC
139
Soul, Wilt thou toss again?
By just such a hazard
Hundreds have lost indeed—
But tens have won an all—
Angel’s breathless ballot
Lingers to record thee—
Imps in eager Caucus
Raffle for my Soul!
3.5k
There is this friend I have,
with a heart that's full of love
A flower color of a moonlight
Not dull, not bright
An angel with a ready smile,
as if she's always high!
with a sweetness like her own?
you wouldn't want to make her frown
A lady who'll sing you a melody
If needed be, a lullaby
But when she's acting crazy?
She'll define catastrophe
For tens of years, a hundred face
Few have caught my gaze
You'll never find someone like her...
Says her lover, one named Euller.
Though not a princess of a fantasy,
she's beautiful, not just pretty.
At dahil english ko ay paubos na...
To you my friend, I dedicate this poetry.
Dec 17, 2019
Dec 17, 2019 at 9:38 PM UTC
The cluster of ice in my glass
looks like a milky fist.
I shake my cup and ask
about the weather.
He says, 'Hasn't rained in
one thousand or so years.'
I say how that's unfortunate;
he says how **** happens.
This party transitions into
something out of an art-house film;
the Cali-tens are dancing to some
80's song you would vaguely recognize.
They bump into one another
like bees in an electric hive.
A Russian drinking a Russian
asks about drugs.
I say into my drink that I
don't have that many friends.
Looking for a bathroom,
I am bumped by hips and lips
into the former eggshell/cigarette stain wall,
where I find my partial reflection
looking back at me in that familiar
transparent parent way.
I find myself apologizing.
Sep 14, 2017
Sep 14, 2017 at 12:39 AM UTC
our lives are fraught with numbers
so many fractions of a second faster in a race
most wins on record best jury votes
highest flight deepest dive most goals
meters of rising sea levels
millions of refugees and more displaced
tens of thousands honor killings
thousands of deaths with Ebola
millions of Zika virus victims next year
billions of deficit or profit in import/export
or the stock exchange
votes in elections or for beauty queens
polls tweets virtual friends & followers
likes on the social media on hellopoetry
we have been taught to measure our status
our importance and the significance of our lives
in clicks of other peoples’ digital devices
even our time has been reduced to numbers
the digital has long replaced the comprehensive
instead of the round dial that shows 12 hours
suggesting the duration of a normal day
we have a punctual display without the whole
the cyclical has lost against the linear
0101010101010101010101010101010101
we all look forward to our numbered future
no past and very little present
our hands on smart phones homes TVs
pushing a button makes things move
swishing a screen displays the world
over all that we easily forget
that we ourselves have been reduced to numbers
of customers for businesses
of voters for the politicians
of workers for the corporations
of citizens for our nations
digital quantities we have become
and if we take a global view
we are part of the seven billion plus
that currently inhabit our earth
all of which do expect their individuality
be honored and their dignity respected
numbers don’t honor individuality
they simply count the units
items or people are for them the same
it’s left to us to find a way
that leaves the numbers in their place
yet guarantees us dignity
as individual members of the human race
Feb 1, 2016
Feb 1, 2016 at 6:19 PM UTC
—Flash Forward—
A day of reckoning.
A small boat crosses
the Hudson River,
no warning horn.
Destination New Jersey,
of all places.
A. Burr isn’t warned
that Hamilton will not
fire his pistol.
Destiny predetermined.
“Death doesn’t discriminate
Between the sinners and the saints,
It takes and it takes and it takes.
History obliterates.”
—Flashback—
General.
Colonel.
Aide-de-camp.
Immigrant.
“Don’t engage, strike by night.
Remain relentless ‘til their troops take flight.”
“We escort their men out of Yorktown.
They stagger home single file.
Tens of thousands of people flood the streets.”
“Took up a collection just to send him to the
mainland.
‘Get your education. Don’t forget from whence
you came.’”
—Stepfather of the Union—
Treasury secretary, author of the Federalist Papers,
lawyer, speechwriter, confidante, opponent of slavery,
member of the Constitutional Convention.
“History has its eyes on you.”
“I’ve seen injustice in the world and I’ve
corrected it.”
“The Federalist: Addressed to the People
of the State of New York.”
“Goes and proposes his own form
of government.”
—Family and Marriage—
The Schuyler Sisters – Eliza.
Maria and James Reynolds – adultery and bribery.
Philip Hamilton – successor son and victim.
Philip Schuyler – father-in-law.
“And if this child
Shares a fraction of your smile
Or a fragment of your mind, look out, world!”
“I know you’re a man of honor,
I’m so sorry to bother you at home.”
“I’m only nineteen but my mind is older,
Gonna be my own man, like my father
but bolder.”
“Grampa just lost his seat in the Senate.”
—Why, How, How long?—
Why not?, biography,
genius, rapid-fire rap,
hip-hop, historical vertigo,
Lin-Manuel Miranda at the White House,
a cast talented beyond measure,
the Great White Way,
2017-18 and forever….
“…13 percent of the population is foreign
born, which is near an all-time high;
that one day soon there will no longer
be majority and minority races, only a
vibrant mix of colors.”
‒Jeremy McCarter, from Chapter I of
Hamilton: The Revolution
*© Lewis Bosworth, 12/2016
With credit to the book:*
Hamilton: The Revolution
Dec 7, 2016
Dec 7, 2016 at 11:35 AM UTC
There are certain things -a spider, a ghost,
The income-tax, gout, an umbrella for three -
That I hate, but the thing that I hate the most
Is a thing they call the SEA.
Pour some salt water over the floor -
Ugly I'm sure you'll allow it to be:
Suppose it extended a mile or more,
That's very like the SEA.
Beat a dog till it howls outright -
Cruel, but all very well for a spree;
Suppose that one did so day and night,
That would be like the SEA.
I had a vision of nursery-maids;
Tens of thousands passed by me -
All leading children with wooden spades,
And this was by the SEA.
Who invented those spades of wood?
Who was it cut them out of the tree?
None, I think, but an idiot could -
Or one that loved the SEA.
It is pleasant and dreamy, no doubt, to float
With 'thoughts as boundless, and souls as free';
But suppose you are very unwell in a boat,
How do you like the SEA.
There is an insect that people avoid
(Whence is derived the verb 'to flee')
Where have you been by it most annoyed?
In lodgings by the SEA.
If you like coffee with sand for dregs,
A decided hint of salt in your tea,
And a fishy taste in the very eggs -
By all means choose the SEA.
And if, with these dainties to drink and eat,
You prefer not a vestige of grass or tree,
And a chronic state of wet in your feet,
Then -I recommend the SEA.
For I have friends who dwell by the coast,
Pleasant friends they are to me!
It is when I'm with them I wonder most
That anyone likes the SEA.
They take me a walk: though tired and stiff,
To climb the heights I madly agree:
And, after a tumble or so from the cliff,
They kindly suggest the SEA.
I try the rocks, and I think it cool
That they laugh with such an excess of glee,
As I heavily slip into every pool,
That skirts the cold, cold SEA.
2.3k
I've experienced the exuberance of youth.
Through endless summer days, of blissful childhood ignorance.
I have drempt the most glorious dreams. The ability to soar with the eagles was mine, most any night. I was to live, forever.
I have know the delirious intoxication, of boyish infatuation.
And to such a degree, I have tasted the bitterness of rejection.
I have lived amid nonconformists. I shared in their ideological beliefs. Old Guard be ******
I have witnessed the gatherings of idealists, who's main purpose
was to spread their premise of the brotherhood of man.
I have seen them chained and gagged. Beaten for their beliefs. Shot down in their youth, by those who's superficial dogmas kept them from the truth.
I have been among the ranks of the tens of thousands, shouting my incensement's against a failing war. And I have been to the "wall" and wept for my fallen brothers.I have seen the rise of iconic performers. Some who would pay the ultimate price for their notoriety.
I have felt the power of their karma and reveled in their idioms'.
I have witnessed the miraculous wonder of birth. I've had the privilege to hold the embodiment of purity, God's ultimate creation, in the hollow of my arms.
I have walked among the Angels. And I have delved into the pit of my own iniquity's.
I have loved the un-loved, and scoffed at those who would be cherished.
I have lived as if, there were no tomorrow. I have learned there is just today.
I have lived to be a better man than I was. I live to be a better man than I am.
Nov 9, 2012
Nov 9, 2012 at 5:40 PM UTC
The innocent pig! Slaughtered in the blood stained room.
The man stands over the corpse and laughs.
Slowly
he peels the skin off the pig,
scolding the dead for pig her small imperfections.
For some game, that needs fresh skin.
The surface of her body and soul, in
a grey factory fit over a mold by a
person who has delt with tens of thousands
of innocent pigs and can only see the skin.
A conveyor belt takes thousands of animals,
whose only fault was being too heavy, into a drying room.
The pigs not animals but objects now, slaughtered
for entertainment.
The “vegetarian” football player takes
the skin of the poor mama pig and chucks it to his friend.
The misguided soul! Taught tediously to truly think that
the typical time of the gentle piglet far better spent dead
than to live a hellish life, nor will this soul know the
pig is both dead and lived a hellish life.
A hole in the pigs skin and hollow air rushes free.
Punted away into the woods.
Again and again.
The game starts.
The chubby guys line up and smell each others breath,
both sides scream like monsters and charge at each other,
they don’t punch each other, so it’s civilized.
The skinny guys also line up next to each other,
trying to outrun the other guy, yeah
I say guy because society is sexist but moving on,
so they try to outrun each other, one guy in an attempt
to not allow the person to catch the thin layer of pig skin.
The guy running forward tries to get the quarterback (basically
the star of the team the guy with dreamy hair and a nice body
who is either a cool guy or a ****
to toss him the hollowed out pig skin, so can run and look cool
until another “light” 180 pound guy tackles him to the ground.
The stands, all criminson red, go wild,
Fist bumping, jumping up and down, beer drowning the floor,
at the sight of the guy with the dreamy body
tossing the misshaped ball,
to the guy who just hand the wind
smashed
out of him.
Yes this is all football.
Apr 12, 2015
Apr 12, 2015 at 12:11 PM UTC
The Mendacity of Beauty, Marvels of the Mundane
<1/1/2023 10:38 PM>
commissioned by Pradip^
<>
A special carnet permits the day,
though day itself unremarkable,
permissioning of a thousand,
even, tens of ten thousand
grasping new love poems
all mundane, all marvelous
an aborning of odes re the
vastness of sea, sandy sky,
multifarious penumbras of hewn hues,
vibrantly diverse, still, requiring the
expanse and pretense of “new”
adjectives and metaphoric
in combos recalculating
precisely, it’s the enormity,
of the difficulty of verbal capture
upon tablet of these natural treasures,
once, more, yet again, but in somehow in a new-never
quite-before conceptional~postulation-realization
I sojourn amidst both man made and natural beauty,
provoking, invoking, a steady stream of potable knowledgeables, performing as a hand-written-thank-you-note for the grace, the imagination of their mishmash existences addressed only to
“whom it may truly concern…”
I’m eager to confess that the poetry inherent in the
mundane, requiring not-so-easy mining, a sales taxing
innovation to capture the subtlety of less visible flecks of gold, that present a rarer challenge to the poet’s senses where glory abides in pyrite pebbles strewn and trod upon by most indifferently,
*ah, write of the marvel of the mundane,
**** dare you!*
<>
^Pradip: “writing of the mundane is mandatory for me…”
Aug 12 2022
Jul 1, 2023
Jul 1, 2023 at 11:10 AM UTC
I live inside these walls.
I know no other way.
They are as cold as steel,
And keep the light at bay.
I’m not alone however,
There’s tens of us in here.
Locked in solitude,
But never lost to fear.
Then one day a wall did open,
And we scattered to the winds.
Flapping wings of amber glass.
Free of the walls, but lost of friends.
In that instance I gained such freedom,
But we lost our power.
The world for our togetherness.
Oh look a flower.
Oct 10, 2011
Oct 10, 2011 at 1:28 PM UTC
Revival of a revolutionary spirit
What I represent?
The Motherland of wisdom
BLACK genesis
Check the pyramids
My heredity IS
God-man manifest in the physical,
And astral and mental
Been mastered every plane of existence
Whole civilizations who understood the Science of Living
Tens of thousands of years before any 'westernized thinking'
An enlightened people
Way before colonialism
How you gon bring democracy (now capitalism in disguise),
To Afrika where it was invented?
And dress ya pawns as 'appointed' leaders
Devil oppressors
Erased our culture, history, and identity
Spiritual genocide by 'Willie Lynching'
Karmically tied to these modern times
I gotz to watch my temper
Lost ONE,
Who found refuge in the Buddha to be most skillful
But what happened to my people?
I just wona know
My whole life,
I was ashamed of being BLACK and didn't know it
Guess it was sub-compartmental
But through practice with experience
Of accumulated virtue
I shed dem old ethers
And broke me down
Psychological brick by brick and rebuilt me
Na I'm ready for war
Oct 1, 2020
Oct 1, 2020 at 5:00 PM UTC
If not with those Pennies insure the Prank
And take Profession from his Engineer
Replace his Dowry; His Welcome be Frank
For billowing Youths on his Life-Blown Steer
How unique then, your Generation's greet
Something which the Elders may not hold place
To bribe their Thumbs; Tens-by-Ten-Places meet
And pass his Tickets for your jolly face
But what squabble must this Ritual provide
Save that Ceremony which marks your Friend
To whose Toyish Moments breathe your Confide
By his Years consult your own Testament.
This was your Cue. To come out of your Shell
Free from your Chains; To those Vices be well.
Apr 10, 2013
Apr 10, 2013 at 10:21 AM UTC
THE SNOW piles in dark places are gone.
Pools by the railroad tracks shine clear.
The gravel of all shallow places shines.
A white pigeon reels and somersaults.
Frogs plutter and squdge-and frogs beat the air with a recurring thin steel sliver of melody.
Crows go in fives and tens; they march their black feathers past a blue pool; they celebrate an old festival.
A spider is trying his webs, a pink bug sits on my hand washing his forelegs.
I might ask: Who are these people?
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Filha, filho, Filhos…
Quando me levanto com vontade de ver alguém com seu sorriso, não escolheria mais ninguém senão tu…
No mundo que Deus nos deu não existe puro e imaculado amor igual ao teu.
Depois de tanto tempo de vivências, compromissos, viagens pelo mundo fora sempre tive presente a dádiva de te ver nascer e crescer em sabedoria.
Tu sim tens a magia da lua comprometida com um mundo feito de bem que parece ao mesmo tempo teu e de mais ninguém….
No coração tu tens a doce melodia das harpas de Jacob, nas mãos a gentileza de quem faz tudo com mestria e exatidão. Tantas filhas, filhos nascem pelo simples facto de o homem querer se multiplicar, procriar…
Tu nasceste por um terno amor, por uma vontade que dois seres tiveram em elevar na terra através da matéria o poder da alma.
Neste mundo de injustiças, guerras económicas, sociais, políticas nascem todos os dias filhos, filhas com leveza e amor de dois seres. Tu, hoje fizeste me pensar na abundância que Deus nos dá, nas oportunidades que muitos não têm, nos que sofrem por não terem filhas, filhos…
O ciclo da vida me ajuda a amar, a compreender e a tolerar quem não consegue sentir força
Para caminhar e fazer uma descoberta diária da beleza da vida e da companhia de nossas filhas, filhos….
O meu legado não teria sentido sem ti, o meu ser nunca seria completo em harmonia com o Deus criador. O nosso futuro quer filhas, filhos melhor do que nós pais que tentamos apreender o constante evoluir da sociedade humana.
Não poderia deixar de estar grato a Deus, meus pais e meus antepassados pelo que me deram e continuam a dar. A vida de todos nós seria muito melhor se a nossa preocupação fosse dar sem lembrar e receber nunca esquecendo.
A ti nem sei que dizer… sei que nunca vai haver nada que por ti me faça desfalecer. Por ti se cair vou pedir a Deus que me ajude a erguer…
Victor Marques
Sep 25, 2013
Sep 25, 2013 at 6:24 AM UTC