my love
thy hair is one kingdom
  the king whereof is darkness
thy forehead is a flight of flowers

thy head is a quick forest
  filled with sleeping birds
thy ******* are swarms of white bees
  upon the bough of thy body
thy body to me is April
in whose armpits is the approach of spring

thy thighs are white horses yoked to a chariot
  of kings
they are the striking of a good minstrel
between them is always a pleasant song

my love
thy head is a casket
  of the cool jewel of thy mind
the hair of thy head is one warrior
  innocent of defeat
thy hair upon thy shoulders is an army
  with victory and with trumpets

thy legs are the trees of dreaming
whose fruit is the very eatage of forgetfulness

thy lips are satraps in scarlet
  in whose kiss is the combinings of kings
thy wrists
are holy
  which are the keepers of the keys of thy blood
thy feet upon thy ankles are flowers in vases
  of silver

in thy beauty is the dilemma of flutes

  thy eyes are the betrayal
of bells comprehended through incense

the flesh covers the bone
and they put a mind
in there and
sometimes a soul,
and the women break
vases against the walls
and the men drink too
much
and nobody finds the
one
but keep
looking
crawling in and out
of beds.
flesh covers
the bone and the
flesh searches
for more than
flesh.

there's no chance
at all:
we are all trapped
by a singular
fate.

nobody ever finds
the one.

the city dumps fill
the junkyards fill
the madhouses fill
the hospitals fill
the graveyards fill

nothing else
fills.

There's a room full of vases
And each one is different.
Some have cracks,
Others, fractures;
Some have crumbled,
Others, shattered;
Some have different colours
In a patchwork pattern.
Some look whole and well
But only from a distance;
Others' cracks are so fine
Only the vase can tell it's broken.
But each vase is beautiful.
Each vase can be useful,
Be patched up and hold something.
This room full of vases
Appears sad to some,
But it is also
Brimming with life.

Happy belated birthday Mom,
I'm sorry it's two days late,
but I've been a bad daughter
and an even worse person.
You always told me not to go to your grave or put flowers on your headstone;
"I won't be under that ground," you'd say,
"and don't waste your money on flowers, I'll have no use for them where I'm going."
I still visit sometimes, and I do still bring flowers, but not nearly enough.
I know if I had been the one buried, you'd wear the grass down with your feet and then have the courtesy to plant some seeds.

Almost eight years later I still think about you everyday
and not a minute goes by where I don't miss you terribly.
What a cruel thing it is, to live a life where you're always missing someone.
To have so many things to say and receive no reply.

You would've been fifty seven this year.
I wonder how you would look as you got older, and sometimes, rarely, I forget what you looked and sounded like when you were here.
That's probably the worst part of it.

The first time I visited your grave was about a month or so after you had been buried,
the graveyard drowning in so much snow I actually visited the wrong headstone.
I'm sure Mr.Brown enjoyed the talk, though.
It was only after digging my bare hands through ten inches of snow and ice that I realized I was four spots down.
I then recognized your grave from the moonlight reflecting off the glass vases of yellow roses we had placed there during your funeral,
wedged in place with the snow hugging them tightly;
the roses frozen in time,
it was both beautiful and aggravating.
Good things funerals cost so much,
they should be able to have someone clean up the plot after the service.
I threw the roses out and gently tried to remove the vases:
the one with "wife" shattered in my hands and my frostbitten fingers picked each shard out from the snow.
I still carry a scar from that vase.
The one with "mother" on it remained in tact, I was just as gentle with it but it did not shatter.
You told me near the end that nothing in this world, nothing was powerful enough to ever have you taken away from me.
That vase sits on my dining room table to this day, nursing a reluctantly dying plant just as you'd want.
I don't think I'll ever have the green thumb like you did.

But I have everything else from you,
you always told me Kate was raised by your sister and that she was too much when you were so young,
"But you, Emily, you're MY daughter."
You said I was a godsend of a baby, never crying, content just to sleep,
and that I carried an old soul.
You laughed at how I always excelled at being alone as a child,
and you were so intrigued by my sense of imagination and creativity.
You always said you were the same when you were a kid.

So tell me, now that I'm older and I feel so alone all the time,
am I still you?
Were you this isolated and alien at my age now?
Did you carry the empathy to cry at little things you saw on the street or in a commercial,
so much so that you believe this world to be lost?
That you saw life as one big slap in the face?

I still try my best everyday to make you proud,
It breaks my heart constantly to think I didn't when you were here.
But life is cruel like that, and I was young and stupid and arrogant.
I know if you see my daily life,
you know I'm not 100% better,
and I know I probably never will be.
But I work hard, and I always say my "please" and "thank you"'s,
and I live by your example of always trying to help anyone in need.
It might not make up for the demons that I struggle with,
but atleast I still fight them, right?
I lost some years there where I should've died, and sometimes I wish I had,
but I didn't. I'm still here. I'm still trying.
And to be honest, it's not for me, or for my family, for love or sunsets, or dogs or any of the things that bring me up to a solid "content."

It's for you, because you taught me that's what you do in life.
You fight. You fight until your last breath.

I've thought this a million times in my head, but I'll say it now,
you were always right about everything.
As teenage girls, we challenge our mothers at every turn and decision,
convinced we are mature and capable of making decisions,
and then we say hurtful things when we don't get our way.
So you deserve to hear it, you were always right.

I wish I could tell you face to face.
I would tell you how much I miss you, more than either of us could've ever predicted.
I would tell you how blessed I feel to have had such an amazing mother.
I would apologize for judging you for the drinking,
I would tell you it took me forever to realize, but eventually I accepted my mother was human just like everyone else,
and just like everyone else, myself included, you made mistakes.
Above all else, I would tell you that I love you more than you'll ever know.

I'll be turning twenty-nine next month,
which means I have one year left of smoking.
I didn't forget my promise to you, I'll quit on my thirtieth birthday.
I'll continue looking out for my sister to the best of my abilities,
even though she can be impulsive and brash on occasion.
I'll continue to show empathy and kindness to as many people as possible, just like you would've wanted.
And finally, one day I hope to keep the promise I made to you so many years ago:
I promise to try and be happy.

Aimons toujours ! Aimons encore !
Quand l'amour s'en va, l'espoir fuit.
L'amour, c'est le cri de l'aurore,
L'amour c'est l'hymne de la nuit.

Ce que le flot dit aux rivages,
Ce que le vent dit aux vieux monts,
Ce que l'astre dit aux nuages,
C'est le mot ineffable : Aimons !

L'amour fait songer, vivre et croire.
Il a pour réchauffer le coeur,
Un rayon de plus que la gloire,
Et ce rayon c'est le bonheur !

Aime ! qu'on les loue ou les blâme,
Toujours les grand coeurs aimeront :
Joins cette jeunesse de l'âme
A la jeunesse de ton front !

Aime, afin de charmer tes heures !
Afin qu'on voie en tes beaux yeux
Des voluptés intérieures
Le sourire mystérieux !

Aimons-nous toujours davantage !
Unissons-nous mieux chaque jour.
Les arbres croissent en feuillage ;
Que notre âme croisse en amour !

Soyons le miroir et l'image !
Soyons la fleur et le parfum !
Les amants, qui, seuls sous l'ombrage,
Se sentent deux et ne sont qu'un !

Les poètes cherchent les belles.
La femme, ange aux chastes faveurs,
Aime à rafraîchir sous ses ailes
Ces grand fronts brûlants et réveurs.

Venez à nous, beautés touchantes !
Viens à moi, toi, mon bien, ma loi !
Ange ! viens à moi quand tu chantes,
Et, quand tu pleures, viens à moi !

Nous seuls comprenons vos extases.
Car notre esprit n'est point moqueur ;
Car les poètes sont les vases
Où les femmes versent leur cœurs.

Moi qui ne cherche dans ce monde
Que la seule réalité,
Moi qui laisse fuir comme l'onde
Tout ce qui n'est que vanité,

Je préfère aux biens dont s'enivre
L'orgueil du soldat ou du roi,
L'ombre que tu fais sur mon livre
Quand ton front se penche sur moi.

Toute ambition allumée
Dans notre esprit, brasier subtil,
Tombe en cendre ou vole en fumée,
Et l'on se dit : " Qu'en reste-t-il ? "

Tout plaisir, fleur à peine éclose
Dans notre avril sombre et terni,
S'effeuille et meurt, lis, myrte ou rose,
Et l'on se dit : " C'est donc fini ! "

L'amour seul reste. O noble femme
Si tu veux dans ce vil séjour,
Garder ta foi, garder ton âme,
Garder ton Dieu, garde l'amour !

Conserve en ton coeur,
sans rien craindre,
Dusses-tu pleurer et souffrir,
La flamme qui ne peut s'éteindre.

In English :

Let us love always! Let love endure!
When love goes, hope flies.
Love, that is the cry of the dawn,
Love, that is the hymn of the night.

How does the wave tell the shores,
How does the wind tell the old mountains,
How does the star tell the clouds,
It is with that ineffable phrase: "Let us love"!

Love dreams, lives and believes.
It is to nourish the heart.
A beam greater than glory
And this beam is happiness!

Love! That one may praise them or blame them,
Always, great hearts will love:
Join this youth of the soul
To the youth of your brow!

Love, in order to charm your hours!
In order that one can look into your beautiful eyes
With those voluptuous interiors
Of mysterious smiles!

Let us love always and more!
Let us unite better each day,
Trees grow their foliage;
That our souls should grow in love.

Let us be the mirror and image!
Let us be the flower and the perfume!
Lovers, who are alone beneath the shade,
Feel as two and are but one!

Poets search for beauties.
Woman, angel of pure tastes,
Loves to refresh beneath its wings
These large blazing and dreaming brows.

Come to us, touching beauties!
Come to me, to you, my own, my law!
Angel, come to me when you sing,
And, when you cry, come to me!

We alone understand your ecstasies,
For our spirit does not mock;
For poets are the vases
Where ladies send their hearts.

I, who has not found in the world
That single reality,
I, who lets flee like the wave
All that is only vanity.

I prefer rather than that which enervates
The arrogance of the soldier or the king,
The shadow that you place upon my life
When your brow inclines to me.

All ambition kindled
In our spirit, that subtle brazier,
Crumbles to ashes or flies in smoke,
And one says: "What will remain"?

All pleasure, a flower hardly in blossom
In our dark and tarnished April,
Sheds it's leaves and dies, lily, myrtle or rose,
And one says to oneself: "It is finished"!

Only love remains. O noble lady,
If you want to remain in this base state
Guard your faith, guard your soul,
Guard your God, guard love!

Conserve in your heart, without fearing anything,
If you should cry and suffer,
The flame that cannot be extinguished

And the flower that cannot die!

Two clay vases sit by my fireplace
recently discovered in their post move-in places
and relocated there.

One is small,
easily fitting into the palm,
and is covered with smokey brown lines
left by hair, lost during chemo,
placed on the vase while still hot from the kiln.

The other, large
filled with artificial roses
where once real ones burst from it's rim
and watched as people sat in wooden rows
remembering.

Both remind me of a lost one
someone who is no longer around
and yet, through fired pottery
is.

As I stand here, outside my work building
stealing a smoke break
I wonder about God and the universe
and how much happier it makes me feel
to believe in other things

That the sun was a running man
chasing the stars in that endless black
run man
run fast
run free
but freedom only gets you
slipping and sliding in circular leaps
around our earth, almost like
a clumsy mouse in a stationary wheel
and these sneaky stars
always one step ahead at sunrise
or at his heels in sunset

My mom’s a Catholic woman
she won’t believe in the running man
her stars are not stars, no
her stars are rosaries in purses and
priest’s words
taught words
holy words
but holy words are also
human words, are they not?
It never made sense to me
that a person could live their whole life
repenting it

But then again,
my dad used to have me work in our yard,
picking the weeds outside
and he let me treasure them in a vase
he never called them weeds,
they were always
dandy-flowers
wishing flowers
wildflowers
but wild only gets you
believing in the sun and
keeping shrubs in vases
All of which suit me, because

In the lonely nights of endless black,
I have the company of my own stars
and when holy words of weeds fall back
I remember that—
wild humans are only wildflowers

stars and stardust fall to freedom
from the press corpse,
from the incessant demand of chemical crises.
crowds ache for love or a substitute
and false amore is what they have.
love is folie a deux-
[the shared madness of two.]
attachment is an affliction,
infatuation is disease leaping from remission,
with deadly symptoms.
red roses lead to black coffin doors,
roses dropped on floors
from vases shattered,
and life is the water spilling from the stems.

golden hair won't keep me docile-
blue eyes and a smile
are weapons of mass destruction-
cities sunk and flags risen
from the depths of inhumanity.
it's all for you, Helen, and humankind will never
perceive its aftereffects,
its hangover headache
sprawled over the world on a bad day.
little city partylights and shiny beer bottles
broken upon the concrete
covering the grass.
reflections of insanity upon the glass.

devilish, the temptress,
the succubus, a mistress
sent by Him, to spin doubt into
the spiderwebbed life of family trees
split in two by axes, divorces
to fifty percent, no-
no wedding band-aid will stop this flood.
abandonment.
neglect gets to a child's head-
can't help but wonder if
they were the cause of this.
little anchors,
keeping the heart in one place-
an anchored rubber band that demoness
stretched and snapped.
the relapse gave her whiplash, and
the stepdad whipped the boy's back, and
the boy grew up and
found a girl to take his pain to.
she gave him five stunted children,
with eyes hollow and glazed,
a mechanical response to a command.

lack of emotion only seems cruel
to those on the other side.
lack of flourish means nothing
to those who grew up to grey skies.

chains and handcuffs keep stardust grounded,
remains from a nebula which
birthed a black hole.
straight razors and pinky nails
teach fledglings to reach for the sky
and never fall back down.
glass ceilings never seemed so
breakable- tiptoe upsidedown
and reach the other side
before you fall back down to the real world.

angels have no eyes.
angels have no souls.
angels judge and leave the helpless for below.
cliffsides crumble and clouds dissipate,
and the devil lends a hand-
he is helping sinners make it up to him.
in his face sit eyes gleaming brightly;
there are teeth grinning, off-white-
he is human, though sadistic
and he understands your plight.
the devil is forgiving,
and you understand nothing, because you
are nothing.
you are nothing.

stars and stardust fall to freedom, and the devil takes in all.

With great recollection, there were a few things in life that Ivy Jankauskas would always remember—always.

She would never forget where she was when 9/11 happened; she was in her algebra class, doodling a picture on a piece of notebook paper of her dog, Zoey—bored out of her mind by Mr. Zabbo’s lecture—when she first heard the shocking news. Certainly, she could remember when she first properly fell in love; she was fresh into college when she knew that she loved Trevor Littlefield—the day after they agreed to get back together, right after the day they decided to split up—after she finally realized that she really loved him, much more than she ever, really, consciously thought. She would forever remember when her parents first took her to Disneyland; she was seven and got her picture taken with Snow White and Mickey Mouse, and she instantly decided that she wanted to become a professional Tinkerbelle when she grew up.

And, like it or not, she could remember her very first kiss. She had just turned five, and it was at her birthday party. How could she ever forget those silly paper hats, and all her little playmates wearing them? They were a good sized group of children, mostly from the neighborhood and her kindergarten class, which watched her open present after present. Ivy remembered her cherry cake, with white frosting, and the stain she had when she dropped a piece on her pretty, new dress that her mother had bought her just for the occasion.  

It was later that day, behind her garage, that Gordon Zachary Durand, the Third, a boy her same age, planted one on her. It was a strange sensation, she recalled—icky, wet and sloppy, and Gordon nearly missed her mouth. Not expecting it, Ivy made a face, puckering up her lips—but not for another kiss—as if she had just ****** on a spoiled lemon. Ever since then, it was the beginning of the dislike she had for Gordon Zachary Durand, the Third. She didn’t exactly know why—there was just something about him that bugged her from then on.

There grew to be several reasons why Ivy knew that Gordon was a ****, something she first sensed at her birthday party behind the garage. Since about third grade, children picked on Ivy’s name, teasing her by calling her “Poison Ivy”.  And the one who seemed to be the loudest and most obnoxious of the name callers, chiming in with the other bullies, was Gordon Zachary Durand, the Third.  Ivy was proud of her name up until then, but the taunts made her self conscious. Her mother told her to be proud of her name, for it was unique and different, as she was unique and an individual. Still, Ivy felt uncomfortable with her name for quite a while. Only in adulthood, did she feel somewhat better about it.

A bit of a tomboy back then in school, she would have loved to punch Gordon right in the nose. If only she could get away with it! What a joke! Who would name their child Gordon anyway? She had thought it was far worse than hers.

So to counter his verbal assaults to her name, Ivy called Gordon, “Flash Gordon”, after the science fiction hero from TV and the comics. But Gordon was no hero to her. He was more of a villain, creepy, vile, and just plain mean!

Soon, new name of him caught on, and other kids were joining her. She had a smug sense of satisfaction that Gordon grew furious of the title, for it stuck to him like glue.

Gordon’s family lived right around the block, just minutes away from where Ivy lived. Ivy’s mom, Gail, and Gordon’s mom, Lucy, both went to the same Lithuanian club, and both encouraged their children to take up Lithuanian folk dancing. Ivy remembered she was eight-years-old when she began dancing. It was three years of Hell, she had thought, wearing those costumes, with long, flowery skirts, frilly blouses, aprons, caps and laced vests, and performing for all the parents and families in attendance. Worst of all, she often had to dance with Gordon, and he was one of only three boys that was dragged into taking up folk dancing by their mothers. Probably all of those boys went into it kicking and screaming, so Ivy had thought.

Many years have came and gone since those days. Ivy was now a lovely, young woman, tall and dark blonde, and with a Master’s degree in sociology, working as a social worker in the prison system. Ivy’s parents would never have imagined that she would work in a field, in such places, but she found it quite rewarding, helping those who often wished for or were in need of redemption.    

When Ivy came over to visit her mom one day, her mother had told her some news. “Gordon Durand’s mother passed away”, Gail announced. It was quite disturbing.

“What? When?” Ivy replied, her face full of shock.

“Well, it must have been a few days ago. I saw the obituary in the paper, and a couple of people from the Lithuanian club called me to tell me. The funeral will be Friday. Why, I didn’t even know she was sick! She must have hid from just about everyone. If only I knew, I would have gone to see her and make sure she know I cared”.

It had been a long time since Ivy saw Gordon, ever since high school. Now, they were both twenty-six-years-old. It never occurred to her to ever think of Gordon, to have him fixed in her mind like a fond memory from the past.

“Could of, would of, should of—don’t beat yourself up, Mom” Ivy told her "I guess I should go pay my respects”. But Ivy was not sure if she really should do it, or really if she wanted to do it. “Mrs. Durand was a nice lady. Sometimes, it is the nice ones that die young. What did she die of anyway?”

Ivy’s mom was pouring herself and her daughter a cup of coffee. “I believe it was leukemia. In the obituary, it asks for donations to be made to the Leukemia Society of America”.

Ivy shook her head in disbelief.  As she was sitting down with her mother at the kitchen table, drinking her coffee, her mom shocked her even more. Gail said, “Only twenty-six, same as you, and now Gordon has no mother or father! How tragic to lose your parents at such a young age! It breaks my heart to think of him without his parents, even though he is a grown up man now!”

“What?!” Ivy shouted in disbelief. “When did Gordon’s dad die?!”

Gail sipped on her coffee mug. “Oh, a few years ago, I believe. Time sure flies, so maybe it was longer than I think”. Gail had a far away look on her face like she was earnestly calculating the time in her mind.

“He died? You never told me that! How come you never told me?”

Under normal circumstances, the thought of Gordon Zachary Durand, the Third, would almost want to make Ivy cringe. But now Ivy was feeling very sad for him.  

“I did!” Gail defended herself. “You just don’t remember, or you weren’t listening. I am sure I told you!”

Gail was a round faced woman, with light, crystal blue eyes that always seemed warm in spite of their icy color. Ivy was quite close to her mother, her parents’ only child. She was grateful that her dad, Max, was still around, too, unlike the thought of Gordon’s dad dying. She felt that she could not have asked for better parents. They loved her and built her up to be who she was, and she felt that they could be proud of how she turned out, not the stereotypically spoiled, only child, not entitled to have everything, but one who was willing to do her share in life.  

“I would have remembered, Mom!” Ivy insisted. “I would remember a thing like that! What happened to him? Did you go to the funeral home?”

“I think he had a heart attack”, Gail replied, tapping her finger on her temple to indicate that she remembered. “I did go…oh, wait a minute. You were in Europe with your friends. It was the year after you graduated from high school, I believe. You couldn’t possibly have gone to the funeral home at that time”.

Since Gail did not want to go to Daytona Beach, in Florida, for her senior trip, her parents saved up the money for her to go to Germany and Italy. Ivy wasn’t into being a bikini clad sun goddess, nor was she thrilled by the rowdy behavior of crowds of *** craved teens—a choice that her parents were quite grateful that she chose, level headed as she was.

Since she was a little girl, Ivy dreamed of going to Europe. Her parents, both grandchildren of Lithuanian immigrants, would have loved for her to go to Lithuania, but Ivy and two of her friends had found a safe, escorted trip to go elsewhere,  on to where Ivy always dreamed of going—to see the Sistine Chapel and to visit her pen pal of eleven years, Ursula Friedrich, in Munich.  

Now, Ivy was available to visit the funeral home for Gordon’s mother, and she had decided to go with her mother. Not seeing Gordon in years, Ivy had her misgivings, not knowing what to expect when encountering him. Perhaps, he would be different now, but maybe he would prove to be quite the ****.

As she came, she noticed Gordon’s sister, Deirdre, and she gave her a hug. “I’m so sorry to hear about your mom. She was so nice”, Ivy told Deirdre. She felt uncomfortable talking to Deirdre, for she did not know what to say other than the usual, I am sorry for your loss. It was “sympathy card” talk, and Ivy felt like she was quoting something contrived from a Hallmark store.    

Deirdre was two years older than Gordon. She slightly smiled at Ivy and sighed. She must have said just about the same thing all day long, “It is good of you to come. Thank you for your kind support. Mom would appreciate it”.

Ivy looked around the room. There were many flowers, in vases and baskets, and people surrounding the casket. Ivy could not see Mrs. Durand in the coffin, for people were in the way, her mother included. She was glad she couldn’t see the body from her view.

Funeral homes gave her the creeps, ever since she was thirteen years old and her grandmother died, her father’s mother, and she had to stay at the funeral home all day long. Even a whiff of some, certain flowers was not pleasant to smell. They reminded her of being at a place like this, certainly not evoking thoughts of joy.          

Ivy looked around the room. “Where is Gordon?” she asked Deirdre.

Deirdre sighed again. “Gordon cannot handle death very well”, she admitted. “Go outside and look. He has been hanging around the building outside, getting some fresh air and insisting he needs a big break from all this.”

Ivy shook her head and smirked. “That sounds like Gordon, I must say”  

“Yeah”, Deirdre agreed, as she looked like Gordon’s help to her was a lost cause. “And he’s leaving me to do all the important work—talking to people who come in while he goes away and escapes from reality”.

Ivy went outside to search for Gordon. Sure enough, she found him by the side of the building, under a broad, shady tree. He was having a cigarette, standing all by himself, when he saw her approach.

Gordon looked the same—wavy brown hair and freckles, but much more grown up and sophisticated, his suit jacked off and his tie loosened up. Ivy knew that he always hated wearing ties. She knew that when both her mom and his mom convinced them to go out with each other—a huge twist of their arms—to the Fall Fest Dance in ninth grade and in junior high school. Gordon’s mom bribed him to go with her by promising to double his allowance for the month, and Ivy actually had a silly crush on Gordon’s cousin, Ben, hoping that she might get to talk to him if she went with Gordon to the dance.

Ivy glanced at Gordon’s cigarette, and he noticed. “Been trying to quit”, Gordon told her as she approached. He dropped it on the sidewalk and stepped on it to put it out. His face was somber as he added without any emotion, as if parroting his own voice, “Ivy Jankauskas—how the hell have you been?” It sounded like he had just seen her in a matter of months instead of years.

Well, at least he had no problem identifying her or remembering her name. She must not have changed that drastically—and hopefully for the better.

Ivy stood there before him, as he looked her down from head to toe. Same old Gordon! She thought he was probably giving her “the inspection”. She thought he almost looked handsome in his brown suit vest and pants—almost—with a sharp look of sophistication that Gordon probably wasn’t accustomed to. Surely, Ivy had no real respect for him.

“I’m well”, she responded. “But the question is more like…how are you doing?” Ivy studied Gordon’s blank expression. “No—really. I’d like to know how you are coping”.

Gordon stood there looking at the ground, his hands in his pants pockets, like he never heard her. “Come on. Let’s go for a walk”

“Here? Now?”

“Just a short work, around the block”, he told her. He already started walking, and Ivy contemplated what to do before she decided to follow up with him to join him.

They walked together in silence for a while. From anyone passing by, they surely would have looked like a couple, a well-paired couple that truly enjoyed each other’s company. Ivy could not believe she was actually walking with him. Gordon Zachary Durand, the Third? Of all people!

“You haven’t answered my question”, Ivy said. “How are you coping? You know I really liked your mom a lot. She always was pleasant to me”.

She wanted to add, “Unlike you”, but it certainly was not the right time or the right place. She felt a twinge of guilt for thinking such a thing. Under more pleasant circumstances, she would have jabbed him a little. That was just how they always communicated, not necessarily in a mean-spirited way, but in a brotherly and sisterly way that involved plenty of teasing.

Gordon thought a moment before he answered. “Yeah, it’s hard. But what can I do? I lost my dad. I lost my mom. Period. End of discussion. I’m too old to be an orphan…but I kind of feel like one anyhow. That’s my answer, in a nutshell”.

“And I wish I knew about your dad”, Ivy said, with a great tone of remorse. “I was in Europe at the time, and I couldn’t have possibly gone to the funeral”.

“Europe? Wow! Aren’t you the jet setter? Who else gets to do that kind of stuff but you, Ivy?”

Now that was the Gordon she always knew! It did not take long for the true Gordon to come forth and show himself.

“No! I don’t have all kinds of money!” she quickly defended herself. “I actually helped pay for some of that trip by working all summer after we graduated from high school. Plus, it was the trip of a lifetime. I may never get the chance to go again on a trip like that again”.  

Ivy was a bit perturbed that Gordon seemed to imply that she was pampered by her parents. He accused her of that before, just because she was an only child.

Autumn was approaching, but summer was still in the air. It was Ivy’s favorite time of year, with the late summer and early autumn, all at the same time.  The trees were just starting to turn colors, but the sun felt nice and warm upon her as Ivy walked along. It was surely an Indian summer day, one that wouldn’t last forever. She wore a light sweater over her sleeveless, cotton dress, and took it off to experience more of the sun.

“It has been ages since I’ve seen you”, Gordon admitted. “Since high school. So what became of you? Did you ever go to college?”

“I did and I work as a social worker…I work in various prisons”

Gordon laughed out loud, and Ivy gave him a stern look. “What’s so funny?” she demanded.

“I just can’t picture you going in the slammer, even if you aren’t wearing an orange suit”, he said in between laughing. He looked at Ivy, and she had quite a frown on her face. He changed his tune. “I was only joking, Ivy. I think you’d probably do good work at your job”.  

“And where do you work?” she asked, a devilish expression on her face. “At the circus?”

Ivy caught herself becoming snarky to Gordon. It did not take long. She opened her mouth to apologize, but Gordon, sensing her need to be sorry, stopped her.

Laughing even more, he said, “Good one! You are sharp and fast on your feet! You always have been! I work for an insurance agency. I work for Triple A”.

“Oh, really? Do you like your job?” Ivy asked. Her interest was genuine.

“It pays the bills. But, hey! I am going back to college in January. I just have an Associate’s degree right now. I am not sure what I want to take up, but I want to go back and at least get a Bachelor’s”.

“That’s great!” Ivy exclaimed. “I think you should keep on learning and keep on moving forward. That is a great goa

An X-ray  of ******* love

They were so soft.
The hands that took control and made the pace
Of the heart that race
Within the mess of a chest
That bravado expels

It was so open.
That mind that reduced his fears Induced tears
Used to indulged his idol chatter
Hitting my wordy pitches
Like a home run "Hey Batter Batter!!"

It felt so right
The places that exposed his **** faces
Things that spread, squeezed, and joy in **** tasting
An inserted pleasure burrowed deep from throat to waisted
Passed out drunk on love lust and **** filled vases

The peak was so brilliant
Joy ride till they collide out of control out of their minds
Writing vandalism like an equations broadside
"E=U & I" , could hate you in this day and time
But starve till withered away the day she ever said goodbye

The splash was so divine
Touched by her personal heaven
An angel as lucky like the # 11
He could never pretend or fake being insatiable.
The main source of his complexity

The view was so vast
A world of flat boring land waiting to be filled
Brought to life by their skills and the pursuit of a thrill
Would feel beheaded if ever they stood still
Feeding their frenzy and bending alls will (to their own)

The potency was such a rush
Too much oh so much, but oh so desired
Craving how much she'd  say " it's you I admire"
Toiling with brow to his navel, igniting the fire
The long kiss goodnight, made the morning quench of the sun a joy to the heart like her sweet face and loving
The monument by which praise and parade of her exploited flesh bare the quill to write paradise that he is inspired

The dream is much too real
While they watch the world turn and the masses conform
We struggle against the tide and tread the waves of the pass they morn
A lottery, marathon, playground, where many have entered her but only one can win the title of "Adored"

The now is not so much of then
They were them sometimes Every now and again engaged in moments when
Them they see and believe "you and me can be...."

But time sprints, and they limp, slower every aging step
Till times out of view and they're  out of breath
Bed bound but not the expected intent
For one is most attentive while the other lay mostly spent
But embraced they lay unchanged in any way
Still in love and still insane
Crazy for each others bane
Awake for the moon, and snooze through the rain
Gentle dreams of forbidden entry, daily flirt but never stray
Away, stay, away, plead for a day. Agreed then rinse, repeat
A treat for the sweet thoughts of the "use to be" but enjoyable right here, right now, someday is today

-Xin-

there's a house at the
corner of misery boulevard,
and heartbreak avenue,
that i call home.
& i can't count on my left hand
how many times,
those sand tinted rooms
with decaying light bulbs
have overheard
through paper walls,
the sound of that rose coloured capsule
embracing the floor,
only to find itself in pieces.
my mother always
hid that in a cage,
locked tight.
never did that stop my father
from finding the key,
she always slipped under the door mat.
like she wanted him to find it.
and you could hear it shatter,
into glass fragments,
that she was always left to clean up
by herself.
because he never stayed
to watch her pick up the pieces,
he didn't want to cut his life line
on her fragmented heart.
- or the time when my mother,
stained my ear drums,
and sold residence to a ghost
who now haunts the walls of my mind,
with words,
she'll claim her tongue never dismissed.
but ten years later,
and i still think i'm that painting,
in monochromatic shades,
that no one ever bothers
to glance at.
when they're gliding
down a vacant hallway.
more empty than the emotion
in this house.
but i still call it home,
because the walls have been
infected with sadness,
because there aren't enough vitamins,
to cure all this sickness,
released through
hatred hymns.
but those melancholy rhythms,
can't compete with the
floorboards that still sing me to sleep,
or the elation that fills
my lungs when i breathe,
because this house
still smells like mourning
the old flames,
from vanilla candle wicks
my ninth birthday knew so well.
& yes, there is no place
that sends fragile shivers
down my spine
when crossing the paths
of gloomy road,
and loathing crescent
but this is home,
this house is just like the cerulean tide,
because it always finds a way to
pull me back to shore.
& then i met you,
promenading down
hope street,
making empty prayers
to god
with a dry tongue and
waterlogged eyes.
another dawn spent
searching for the light -
in coffee shop windows
or even the stars.
something -
to guide me home.
and you taught me that
home isn't always a place,
you can find on a map.
sometimes,
it's two eyes and a heart beat.
it's love entangled words,
uttered through a pair of crimson lips.
& you showed me,
that ruby tinted vases,
look best when
they're not placed on shelves,
but rather granted as gifts,
sealed in envelopes,
with kisses painted
in scarlet lipstick.
& ghosts can be put to sleep,
by a lullaby,
you whispered in my ear
seven times a day.
i love you
has a ring to it,
but it's been six months and
that ghost sold his house,
to a boy who
told me i'm a composition
of colours.
that an artist painted me
in gold, because he sees it in
my eyes when i smile.
- i swear to god,
four walls and a front door,
build a house,
you'll always turn to
when the sky's crying, or when
you tear your jeans
on the wire fence
down the road.
and that boy
who is a composition of wonder,
possesses no door,
and the only window,
is the amber iris
that feels like the ocean
when he looks at me.
because,
he's just like the tide.
& i can still smell vanilla every time
i kiss him.

there's something vulnerable
about your *****:
babe - whenever
I watch that pepper bush
I become vulnerable
and all I want to do
is to finger the moist bases;

there's something vulnerable
about your buttocks:
babe - whenever
your warm ****'s in my palm
I become vulnerable
and all I want to do
is to dig into the honey vases;

Sitting at my little desk
cluttered up with nothing real
so it looks like I have work
a little heater on my feet
epitome of luxury - warm feet
how time drags away today
so much behind to do at home
alone inside this little room
where photos line the wall
with other people’s happy day
would it be sacrilege
to ever put a sad pose
in the frame that
held such shining joy
≈≈≈
another wall is cabinets
with everything that
I might need for anything
but where is the band-aid
for today and the
cure-all for tomorrow
as I sit and wish that I was gone
to any place but here
≈≈≈
narcolepsy goose-steps in
battalions of its troops-
a war I must not lose
I cannot leave and
beat retreat
I must stand firm and fight
until the razor
hands of time
cut through the bars
that keep me here
unwilling but required
≈≈≈
for I support the camping trip
that we call daily life and there
are hungry mouths to feed
with names like heat and light and
shelter from the winter
they bring their cousins
food and clothes and
go juice for the car
to stand in line
on my front porch
with hands outstretched
demanding
≈≈≈
sometimes I muse
on what would happen
if i just turned out the lights
and locked the door
against intruders
and tap danced away
would there be a net
to catch me
if i jump too high
or dance along
the precipice
without my contact lenses
≈≈≈
now I recall
the words my mother said
when I would dream out loud
“wish in one hand
spit in the other
and see which one
gets full first”
good ole hillbilly philosophy
≈≈≈
so here I stay with a frozen clock
an antique desk
with a vase of crimson
bougainvillea I snipped
off the hedge
across the parking lot
I must have flowers
on my desk and
in my home
my very soul demands it
but never if I buy them
it requires the vaunted
ingenuity my mother
preached to me  
to keep the vases full
≈≈≈
what ceramic vase
 would I fit in
I’m neither rose
nor orchid
would I be
a whole bouquet
or just a single daisy
silliness to ponder
fourteen kinds of nonsense
≈≈≈
still the pen
stays wedded
to my finger
not yet done
with nonsense rambling
though I’ve said
most everything
I need to say
≈≈≈
I’m over half the
way to freedom
looking for a coin
to buy away
the final hundred minutes
will it be the radio
a game of solitaire
or just more
claptrap from this pen
≈≈≈
the usual fall back
crossword puzzle
points up my aphasia
and I’m in no mood
to face humiliation
once again
≈≈≈
how slowly can I nibble on
the sandwich
left from lunch and still the time
procrastinates
my mind at last is blank
And now is the acceptance
I can’t scribble on forever
it’s time to
put away the pen
and hide this diatribe
out of the public eye
And head at last for home.
                ljm

It was early morning when she descended the steps
to the porch side, teacup in hand, dressed in her nightgown.
Steam billowed from her cup, and with a swallow
she examined her garden of weeds and unexpected peonies.
It was early for blooming peonies; frost, like glass,
still settled on the lawn, reflecting sunrise light of tangerine.

The radiant glow of tangerine
cast amber trails across steps
covered in an icy coating of glass.
Between her fingers she tucked her nightgown
and gingerly treaded the garden of peonies
that melted the frost in one great flower swallow.

The barn swallow,
perched not far from the path of tangerine,
must have also taken notice of the peonies
as he took the first steps
to nest-building. She imagined that his lady bird, also in her nightgown,
would enjoy the flowerbed of glass

that he chose for their home. Sipping her glass
of tea, she admired the familiar swallow
lover as she folded into her nightgown
bouquets of peonies that glistened in the tangerine
sunlight. She took the steps
back to the house, recalling her own swallow’s peonies:

Peonies
placed in vases of glass,
peonies lining the porch steps,
peonies presented over morning tea. With a swallow,
she carefully, methodically lined the tangerine
trail with the peonies from her nightgown.

Her nightgown,
stained with the rouge petals of peonies,
dragged along the tangerine
terrace of glass,
blood red with the memory of her swallow
lover’s peony-petaled steps.

The steps to the house creaked beneath her nightgown.
The barn swallow, quieted by the rouge of the peonies,
shut his glass eyes to the skies of tangerine.

That night, I stared at the night sky,
Soaked up the stars
Enough to form constellations of my own
And named them after you.

That is the thing about stars,
The more you look
The more you find.
Scars, alike.

Though, I am a novice
In the realm of
Pain and suffering,
I have already understood
The difference between
Papercuts and broken hearts
Chaining souls and holding hands
Flying paper airplanes and shooting darts
Abandonment and negligence.

And for once,
I want to believe in afterlives,
Wishing on shooting stars that are
Confused with fireflies,
If only it was as simple as
The art behind tracing your lips,
Falling asleep to the rhythm of your breath,
Your glinting eyes floating in pools of bliss.

But, we are more than music.
A noise
That beats in our ears;
A scream
That burns our throats.
Of Shattered vintage vases,
Wrecked ships
And sinking boats.

1
 
Here’s a sunny card to cheer up your hospital room.
Kate’s Flowers c. 1936 by Winifred Nicholson
So glad you’ve got your own room
And can therefore do a bit more of what you want to.
Take it easy though!
 
This painting is not what it seems.
Taking the long long look
that Jeanette Winterson recommends
there’s this abundance of orange
and its close friend yellow:
plenty and laughter
joining hands with
wisdom and calm.
Sometimes known as Kate’s Bunch
It’s an oil on plywood,
painted in Paris.
Two vases, daffodils and lilies,
the latter’s petals fallen on
a polished table, mahogany possibly,
and spread about by a gust of wind,
or perhaps a passing child. Kate
her first born, her miracle child
just seven when this painting was made.
 
2
 
There, sitting in front of us
in the stalls in the Town Hall,
was Stockhausen himself,
resplendent in the orange jumper
he always seemed to wear
in the last years of his life.
Because he invariably wore
white shirts and white jeans
an orange jumper, scarf
and jacket seemed sensible
garb for an angel from Sirius,
particularly when working in his garden.
At a concert he’d been known
to sport a purple scarf.
Orange and purple:
two colours that defy rhyme
but clearly not the reason
of this genius from another planet.
  
3
 
This Orange is Ecstatic.
Its theme of six quick notes,
almost never leaves the music.
Composer Michael Torke
slows it down, smooths it out,
it’s so quick and catchy
momentum builds up quickly;
it simply sounds (almost) unstoppable.
It sure is! Such fun,
and so good to listen to
because you never loose the thread.
Ok, the tune cycles round your head
but the instruments change
and there’s lots of extra tunes
playing away like good buddies.
This is music you can’t help smiling to.
It’s Ecstatic and Orange.

4
 
Did you know there’s a Music of Colour?
It is so new that few people,
except those who are creating it,
are aware that it exists.
At all.
 
Colour has seven degrees
of depth intensity.
With Orange it's
Alabaster
Apricot
Fire
Fox
Copper
Tobacco
Black coffee
 
Colour has seven degrees
between the shade of its hue
to its neutralization.
With orange it's
flame
sand
ochre
bistre
fawn
dun
mud
 
Oh Winifred, have you any idea
of the song your colours sing?
How orange and yellow
and blue and white
and almost purple
with a little green
make music become a picture.
 
5
 
I bought some orange tights! X
Oh Gosh! X
I’m not wearing them though . . . X
There’s a time and place for orange tights . . .
wait for (poetic) instructions please . . . X
Curiouser and curiouser . . . X
 
You see I bought this frock
in a charity shop.
Folly green and Pointing white
it was pleasantly patterned,
though a small fourteen,
and knowing he’d like it
I put it on one night
before we went to bed.
And he said:
‘You know it would be just right
with a pair of orange tights.’
And so it is.
Just right.

6

Dearest,
don’t let me touch you
yet, above the knee
where this warm colour
flows towards that centre
of your movements’ grace,
where lower limbs join
to kiss and stroke each inner thigh,
those quiet smooth planes of softest skin
that inviting so the caress of a hand,
daring so the intimate touch of a cheek.
Let orange keep you close to the possibility of passion
to the glow of your beauty’s length and line
where the firmness of your standing self
will shine out and speak of purpose
and of love’s sweet gift.

As a child, I was told that anything I touch breaks. They speak of it as if it was a curse held onto me, something I cannot escape. But again, as a child, I made myself believe that it was a lie. Maybe I was just clumpsy, and that they kep saying that to scare me; to scare me so I would stop touching things. So I would stop breaking them.

But once when I was nine, my mom brought home a new vase. She plastered it into place on a corner, where it could be properly displayed. I touched it, admiring the design and how it glistens to the light. "Be careful," she said. "You wouldn't want to break that again."

For a few days, I was starting to believe that I don't break everything I touch. Not until I accidentally slipped, my feet swiped on the corner, and the art made of marble fell into pieces. And once again, I was marked. And ever since then, I believed what I was told.

Maybe that's why I'm afraid to touch you. I'm afraid to feel your warmth. I'm anxious to feel you for I might tear you apart. I can be your destruction while you are my light. I wouldn't want you to dim because of me. You deserve so much better, and so much more than the girl who broke that new vase.

You don't deserve someone whose touch can break.

The human race is amateur
No one reaches godliness or
Perfection
There is only a soul searching
For answers in an answerless world

empty glass vases

Their only purpose is to be filled with floral waters
But there are chips and cracks in them all
And even the most fathomless bouquet arrangements
Carnations, daffodils, baby's breath, poppies, sunflowers,
roses


All die.

vrai dire .celui-ci était difficile pour moi .Il m'a fallu un peu plus de temps pour mettre en place les conseils pour ce poste .Non pas parce que je n'étais pas complètement enamouré .fait tout le contraire .Je ne pouvais pas choisir entre toutes les images superbes de Corliss Photographie .Les fleurs de Paisley Petals Studio de fleur .cette grange incroyablement rustique .chaque détail a été en lice pour mon affection .donc j'ai fini par passer un peu de temps en leur disant tout combien je les aimais .C'est normal .non?\u003cp\u003e

ColorsSeasonsSummerSettingsBarnStylesRomantic­

du designer floral .Nous sommes tous pressés ce tournage en droit en plein milieu de la saison de mariage parce que dans le Nord-Ouest .notre fenêtre de temps décent pour un tournage en plein air est limitée .Les résultats ont été bien elle .nous vaut tous passé un super de travailler ensemble sur ce projet !

La grange rénovée sur cette ferme à seulement 35 miles au sud de Seattle fait un endroit parfait pour aa mariage de pays inspiré séance photo .Holcomb Mariages \u0026Evénements achetés ensemble une équipe de rêve pour exécuter le concept de l'élégance rustique et de romance douce .Les couleurs claires et des notes métalliques complété avec un peu d' étincelle supplémentaire à la grange ' histoire et de charme .Nous avons décidé de laisser la grange fournir l'élément rustique tout en gardant le décor sur le côté élégant .Lorsque tout s'est bien passé .les résultats ont été tout ce que nous espérions qu'ils seraient !

tables artisan magnifiques tableaux de Seattle agricoles étaient ornés d'élégants vases en verre transparent débordant d' une prime de local.fleurs de saison dans les arrangements luxuriants conçus par Paisley Petals Studio de fleur .Les tableaux ont été finis avec la chaude lueur de verre au mercure à partir des détails significatifs .plus de Paisley Petals créations dans de petits vases d'argent et place des cartes artisanale par Itsy Belle .Le cadre rustique de la grange et la ferme était la juxtaposition parfaite contre la romance douce du décor .La météo imprévisible qui fait de jour pour une belle lumière .et les portes de la grange ont été ouverts pour laisser illuminer le réglage.En dehors de la grange .des tables ont été placées dans le paysage pour créer une ambiance intime .Chaque table paysage est légèrement différent de l'autre tout en conservant le sentiment de romance rustique .

la robe de Notre modèle de mariée de Something Blue Bridal Boutique était douce et féminine et arrosé avec l'étincelle de son bijoux guillotine à son correspondant bandeau .Ses magnifiques yeux verts ont été portées à la vie par l'artiste de maquillage Korrine Claxon robe de mariée courte .Le bouquet de la mariée était un mélange frais de la ferme des dahlias .roses de jardin .astilbe .lismachia .scabieuse .dentelle de reine anne .des rosettes .origan .menthe ananas .l'achillée millefeuille .adiante et vignes finis robe de mariée courte avec un ruban ric rac de pêche de luxe .La boutonnière assortie utilisé principalement des herbes et des textures de prêter une ambiance plus masculine .

Une cérémonie simple a été mis en place à l'aide de tables bancs agricoles Seattle .L'emplacement au sommet de la ferme a profité pleinement de la vue panoramique sur les champs ci-dessous.Notre

http://www.modedomicile.com

photographe a su capter les dernières images de plein air comme un orage a commencé à rouler à travers .ce qui a pour fin passionnante de notre journée ensemble !
Nous avons été ravis d'avoir Corliss Photographie à bord pour capter magnifiquement l'essence de ce que nous avions créé .C'est toujours inspirant de travailler avec des professionnels du mariage de talent .Nous étions tous ravis de faire partie de celui-ci !Dans notre petit coin du nord-ouest du pays .nous sommes entourés par nature .donner.professionnels de la collaboration dans tous les coins de l'industrie du mariage .Mettre sur pied un tournage comme celui-ci nous donne une chance de fléchir nos muscles créatifs .apprendre à connaître l'autre un robe courte devant longue derriere peu mieux .et de mettre nos talents à travailler pour créer quelque chose de beau juste pour le plaisir !

Photographie : Corliss Photographie | Planification de l'événement: Holcomb Mariages et Evénements | Floral Design : Paisley Petals Studio de fleur | Robe de mariée : Something Blue Bridal Boutique | maquilleur : Korrine Claxton | Place Cards : Itsy Belle | Locations : tableaux de Seattle ferme |Locations de vacances : AA Party | Location : Les détails significatifs | Lieu de mariage : La Ferme

I’m just one of many people you hurt
You hurt me because that’s who you were
You didn’t know how to not hurt
It wasn’t that you were slipping up or were in a bad head space, you did what you did because that’s WHO YOU WERE
I don’t know why I didn’t understand that
I don’t know why I thought for so long, just maybe, things could be different or have been different.
You weren’t for me. You were a clumsy oaf but you were dropping everyone since childhood. I wasn’t special. I wasn’t the first, and I wasn’t the last.
I thought so highly of love and it’s power, and I wasn’t wrong. Love is that powerful, but it can do nothing for someone who won’t receive it.
You couldn’t receive my love because of WHO YOU WERE. You couldn’t receive any kind of love very much.
I wasn’t a fool for trying.
I offered you something beautiful and undying, and again, I wasn’t special. I wasn’t the first to offer you a real love you couldn’t handle, and I wasn’t the last.
My heart was just one small casualty in all your destruction. For you it was all in a day’s work and you couldn’t help stepping on what your eyes were blind to.
Maybe one day you’ll see all that you did, but I don’t wish that for you. Even if you become capable of understanding the destruction from the lies you planted in me, it would be placed next to an understanding of everything you did to everyone else.
And that’s a lot of ****.
I’ve come to realize I don’t need your apology. You apologizing would be like a child apologizing for breaking vases during tantrums he threw as a toddler. You didn’t know better because no one raised you better.
I’m fine now.
I have new vases.

I went to the library
and gathered flowers from its garden
to leave in the cement vases
of forgotten soldiers monuments
that they keep
in their front yard.
in that moment,
i felt alive.
it was raining.




it keeps raining.

<p><p>peu près sûr de l'ouverture tourné à droite à travers le dernier baiser .vous allez être tous sur ce mariage  <a href="http://www.modedomicile.com/robe-de-cocktail-c-6"><b>robe cocktail</b></a>  et ses bits vraiment remarquables .Des détails comme les trompettes pour célébrer l' M. nouvellement couronné et Mme ou la palette de couleurs tout à fait inattendu qui fonctionne dans une très belle manière .Prélasser dans la gloire de jolies fleurs par des conceptions et des images d'une abondance par Ashley Kelemen douce Marie et lorsque vous avez terminé ?Il ya même plus de cette soirée de fantaisie ici .\u003cp\u003ePartager cette superbe galerie ColorsSeasonsSpringSettingsEvent VenueStylesWhimsical <p>de la mariée .Notre goût typique peut être moderne .lumineux et coloré .et assez simple .Ce qui était amusant de notre mariage est nous avons délibérément décidé d'aller avec un design esthétique différent de ce que nous gravitons toujours vers .C'est tellement amusant de ne pas faire la même chose tout le temps!Nous ne voulions pas que nos amis disent: « Oui.c'est ce que nous avons pensé que nous verrions d'eux " .mais en même temps toujours voulu travailler dans tous les petits détails qui font toute l'affaire nous ( si traduisons par maladroitet bizarre ) .Nous sommes allés pour une vue d'ensemble et le sentiment que c'était plus glam et riche que <b>robe cocktail</b>  nous-mêmes tous les jours .comme il se doit pour notre mariage !Donc.à côté de vases d'or .magnifique profondes fleurs rouges et du linge de paillettes émeraude nous avions Tron jouer sur le grand écran et serviettes de cocktail de fantaisie avec des faits comme " requins mangent des personnes pour le plaisir . "Fondamentalement c'est ce que vous obtenez lorsque deux dorks décidé de jeter leur version d'une soirée de fantaisie .<p>Nous nous avions prévu et nous avons obtenu de bricolage beaucoup.ce qui signifie tous les détails reflètent exactement ce que nous aimons .Il était une tonne de travail et un travail d'amour .mais vraiment la peine pour le niveau de contrôle que nous avons pu avoir sur l'ensemble du processus .Nous sommes tous les deux perfectionnistes et nous sommes allés de l'autre fou avec tous les ajustements et  <p><a href="http://modedomicile.com/goods.php?id=2547" target="blank"><img width="240" height="320" src="http://188.138.88.219/imagesld/td//t35/productthumb/1/1664635353535393372.jpeg"></a></p>  tergiversations sur les petites choses .Je suis un chef de projet dans la construction et Brian est un électricien .alors je suis de planifier et d'expliquer ma vision .puis Brian compris comment y arriver dans la vie réelle .Il était un excellent partenariat !<p>Nous étions tellement heureux de nous associer avec les fournisseurs étonnantes qui ont obtenu totalement notre vision .Douce Marie Designs soufflé notre esprit avec l' arrangement floral jusqu'à vases super cool .TACT était incroyable pour aider à planifier tous les détails d'une journée .Nous aurions été perdus sans eux.Et bien sûr .rien ne vaut Marvimon pour créer l'ambiance et la sensation que nous allions pour Photographie <p>: Ashley Kelemen | Coordinateur: . TACTco | Floral Design : Sweet Marie Designs | gâteau : Wonder boulangerie | Cupcakes : My Sweet Cupcake | Brides Chaussures: Steve Madden | Restauration : Huntington  <a href="http://www.modedomicile.com/robe-de-cocktail-pour-mariage-c-69"><b>robe de cocktail pour mariage</b></a>  Restauration | Barman : Huntington Restauration | Brides robe : Watters Brides | DJ \u0026 Eclairage : DJ Twigz | Film Lab : Indie Film Lab | cheveux + Maquillage : 10.11 Maquillage | Linge de maison: La Tavola | Autres Desserts : Lecolonie suisse | photo Booth mobile Photo Booth | Photographie adjoint : Ryan Johnson Photographie | Location : Huntington Restauration | Lieu de mariage : MarvimonWatters est un membre de notre Look Book .Pour plus d'informations sur la façon dont les membres sont choisis .cliquez ici .Mobile Photo Booth est un membre de notre Little Black Book .Découvrez comment les membres sont choisis en visitant notre page de FAQ .Mobile Photo Booth voir le</p>

Vases with flowers on countertops-
No good to those who wish for eternity,
or easy appreciation.

There is pruning, watering, replacement.
There are dead petals strewn among the granite,
drooping dying faces bending into gravity.

Beauty lasted only for a second and,
all that was left behind were holes in the ground.
Those roses left for dead.
Unnourished for but a moment.

Uncherished from muddled perception.
Like all the plastic primrose-
And artificial daises held up to mirrors,
Empty when it needed light.

It was not the lesser hand that took it,
and promised it forever,
but lack of understanding,
the message caught in friction.

Empty when it needed light.
Clipped from its roots before it had a chance to sing.

Nourrissez votre cœur du feu des charités,
Filles du Fils de l'homme, aux yeux pleins de clartés.
Aimez celle qu'un peuple appelle politesse.
Avant Notre-Seigneur, savoir vivre, qu'était-ce ?
Quelque chose au dehors, mais au fond, presque rien.
Etre civilisé, c'est bien ; poli, très bien ;
La politesse, fleur de l'homme charitable,
Règle notre attitude et rit à notre table,
Et donne un sens exquis aux choses du repas.
Science qui s'apprend, et qui ne s'apprend pas :
Code intime et profond, né dans la quiétude
Du cloître, et dont le monde, après, fit son étude.
L'âme où passa Jésus toujours en garde un pli,
Et c'est encor rester chrétien qu'être poli,
La politesse est reine et fait son doux royaume
Des cœurs purs, c'est un lis royal qui les embaume !
Non celle qui se montre en chapeaux élégants,
Bien qu'un homme se lise aux couleurs de ses gants,
Ni celle qui fatigue, ou bien qui complimente,
Obligée à se taire à moins qu'elle ne mente :
Mais celle-là qui règne avec simplicité,
Qui sait servir le miel pur de la vérité ;
Qui veut laisser chacun ou chacune à sa place,
Qui calme les transports, comme elle rompt la glace.
Parmi les charités, si légères au sol
Qu'elles foulent si peu, que l'on dirait un vol
Timide, à fleur déterre, ou d'ange ou d'hirondelle ;
Au nom des tout petits qui soupent sans chandelle
Sous les arbres, les yeux dans leurs cheveux trop longs,
Et viennent d'Italie avec leurs violons ;
Du vieux joueur de flûte, aux mèches toutes grises,
Et du pauvre, à genoux sur le seuil des églises,
Qui marmotte une antienne ou qui froisse les grains
Du rosaire, à la fête où vont les pèlerins ;
Parmi les charités, porteuses d'escarcelles,
D'un vers reconnaissant je veux célébrer celle
Qui passe en écoutant les plaintes des roseaux,
Et qui donne aux petits comme on donne aux oiseaux !
Fais ton miel admirable, ô reine des abeilles,
Charité, donne encor tes jours, ton cœur, tes veilles ;
Jésus multiplia les poissons et les pains.
Voyez, dans ce palais, dont les plafonds sont peints,
Où les lustres ont plus de branches que les arbres,
Où le peuple des sphinx taillés au cœur des marbres
Garde la cour sonore et les vastes paliers,
Château plein de frontons, d'urnes et de piliers,
Cette royale entant toute belle, qui foule,
Comme un jardin fleuri, l'éloge de la foule !
Eh bien, la charité qui lui parle à mi-voix
Saura lui retirer les bagues de ses doigts,
La perle éclose au coin de son oreille en flamme,
Sa chevelure où rit la gloire de la femme,
Sa chambre où le soleil allonge dans la paix
Sa large griffe d'or sur les tapis épais,
Ses miroirs éclatants, les servantes accortes,
Ce vestibule altier, plein de dessus de portes
Où des gens, dont le vent chiffonne le manteau,
Sont poudrés par Boucher et fardés par Watteau,
Et l'œil de ces bergers diseurs de douces choses,
Les grands vases de fleurs, où Sèvre a peint les roses !
Ses pieds si délicats chaussés de gros souliers,
Sa taille consacrée à d'humbles tabliers,
Sous sa coiffe de tulle et d'épingles légères,
L'enfant ira, parmi les âmes étrangères,
Fermer les yeux des morts, coudre le drap fatal,
Ou, sous les crucifix des murs de l'hôpital,
Au chevet d'un mourant dont la bouche blasphème,
Pour lui dire : « Je suis votre sœur qui vous aime ! »
Cette charité-là se nomme amour divin,
Elle enivre les cœurs, plus forte que le vin.
Père des charités, dont le Père pardonne,
Jésus, ô doux Jésus, pour qu'enfin l'on se donne
À vous, dont on tient l'âme et le cœur que l'on a,
Vous qui changiez en vin l'eau claire de Cana
Qui chantait en entrant sonore au col des vases,
Changez la boue en or dans nos cœurs lourds de vases.
Vous qui rendiez la vue à ceux dont les bâtons
Tâtent le pied des murs, nous marchons à tâtons,
Et nous sommes des sourds, et la pierre est pareille
À nous. Maître, mettez le doigt sur notre oreille !
Vous, dont l'ordre, au soleil qui sur le peuple luit,
Tirait Lazare blanc des brunies de la nuit,
Seigneur, ressuscitez aussi nos cœurs de roche,
S'il est vrai, ô Seigneur, que votre règne approche !

Now, moving in, cartons on the floor,
the radio playing to bare walls,
picture hooks left stranded
in the unsoiled squares where paintings were,
and something reminding us
this is like all other moving days;
finding the ***** ends of someone else's life,
hair fallen in the sink, a peach pit,
and burned-out matches in the corner;
things not preserved, yet never swept away
like fragments of disturbing dreams
we stumble on all day. . .
in ordering our lives, we will discard them,
scrub clean the floorboards of this our home
lest refuse from the lives we did not lead
become, in some strange, frightening way, our own.
And we have plans that will not tolerate
our fears-- a year laid out like rooms
in a new house--the dusty wine glasses
rinsed off, the vases filled, and bookshelves
sagging with heavy winter books.
Seeing the room always as it will be,
we are content to dust and wait.
We will return here from the dark and silent
streets, arms full of books and food,
anxious as we always are in winter,
and looking for the Good Life we have made.

I see myself then: tense, solemn,
in high-heeled shoes that pinch,
not basking in the light of goals fulfilled,
but looking back to now and seeing
a lazy, sunburned, sandaled girl
in a bare room, full of promise
and feeling envious.

Now we plan, postponing, pushing our lives forward
into the future--as if, when the room
contains us and all our treasured junk
we will have filled whatever gap it is
that makes us wander, discontented
from ourselves.

The room will not change:
a rug, or armchair, or new coat of paint
won't make much difference;
our eyes are fickle
but we remain the same beneath our suntans,
pale, frightened,
dreaming ourselves backward and forward in time,
dreaming our dreaming selves.

I look forward and see myself looking back.

You’re basic,
a lengthy silhouette
miming the human experience.

Staying up late
to blind yourself,
blinking to the sounds of sleepiness
heart beating to Skinny Love.
What ifs,
pre-recorded scenarios
imagining that first hug.
Contemplate that bottle of pills by the sink
that new film that you want to see,
condensation in the lid of the teapot.
You’re candid,
unsure if all scabs heal
trying to remember when you didn't have a writing callus,
when you slept through the night,
when purple was the only colour you didn't use.

Purify infectious matter,
***** green-blue wine glasses overflowing.
Tinfoil vases and orchid flowers,
melting boxes of 64 assorted crayons.
You’re laconic,
often dying to create,
like the verbose and the wordy
sighing simply to translate.

Missouri gift exchanges,
loose blue jeans ******
stacks of classics.
Tales of the Jazz Age wrinkling
to a slow 50s song.
You’re a try hard
dying to knit,
only true fear is disappointment
burning in the lime light.
6000 voluntary hours
linking syllables to daisy chains,
dropping pesos to foreigners,
hands sandwiched inside
the front cover and the first page
of The Count of Monte Cristo.

You’re basic,
down for maintenance,
compressing the weight of the atmosphere.

there is this drug in me, swimming inside my bloodstream, kissing insanity away and forming sunflowers on potted vases, in to vast gardens. I can't stop it. sometimes, when I don't consume it, it rips through flesh and wriggles itself in, tickling me until I dissolve in to fits of laughter; and then it would usually pick one of the sunflowers and ask me to take it for a dance and I would, oh I would. I think about it every time I wake up or read a book or breathe; some days when it's quiet I would still sense it's touch but very faintly, very softly; I can't live without it though, not ever; even if it couldn't come in some days and plant it's sunflowers I'd still need it; I wouldn't want those sunflowers withering away without it, and that drug I need swimming in my bloodstream and kissing insanity away and gifting me with sunflowers is, yes, you.

**You.

Écoutez. Une femme au profil décharné,
Maigre, blême, portant un enfant étonné,
Est là qui se lamente au milieu de la rue.
La foule, pour l'entendre, autour d'elle se rue.
Elle accuse quelqu'un, une autre femme, ou bien
Son mari. Ses enfants ont faim. Elle n'a rien ;
Pas d'argent ; pas de pain ; à peine un lit de paille.
L'homme est au cabaret pendant qu'elle travaille.
Elle pleure, et s'en va. Quand ce spectre a passé,
Ô penseurs, au milieu de ce groupe amassé,
Qui vient de voir le fond d'un cœur qui se déchire,
Qu'entendez-vous toujours ? Un long éclat de rire.

Cette fille au doux front a cru peut-être, un jour,
Avoir droit au bonheur, à la joie, à l'amour.
Mais elle est seule, elle est sans parents, pauvre fille !
Seule ! - n'importe ! elle a du courage, une aiguille,
Elle travaille, et peut gagner dans son réduit,
En travaillant le jour, en travaillant la nuit,
Un peu de pain, un gîte, une jupe de toile.
Le soir, elle regarde en rêvant quelque étoile,
Et chante au bord du toit tant que dure l'été.
Mais l'hiver vient. Il fait bien froid, en vérité,
Dans ce logis mal clos tout en haut de la rampe ;
Les jours sont courts, il faut allumer une lampe ;
L'huile est chère, le bois est cher, le pain est cher.
Ô jeunesse ! printemps ! aube ! en proie à l'hiver !
La faim passe bientôt sa griffe sous la porte,
Décroche un vieux manteau, saisit la montre, emporte
Les meubles, prend enfin quelque humble bague d'or ;
Tout est vendu ! L'enfant travaille et lutte encor ;
Elle est honnête ; mais elle a, quand elle veille,
La misère, démon, qui lui parle à l'oreille.
L'ouvrage manque, hélas ! cela se voit souvent.
Que devenir ! Un jour, ô jour sombre ! elle vend
La pauvre croix d'honneur de son vieux père, et pleure ;
Elle tousse, elle a froid. Il faut donc qu'elle meure !
A dix-sept ans ! grand Dieu ! mais que faire ?... - Voilà
Ce qui fait qu'un matin la douce fille alla
Droit au gouffre, et qu'enfin, à présent, ce qui monte
À son front, ce n'est plus la pudeur, c'est la honte.
Hélas, et maintenant, deuil et pleurs éternels !
C'est fini. Les enfants, ces innocents cruels,
La suivent dans la rue avec des cris de joie.
Malheureuse ! elle traîne une robe de soie,
Elle chante, elle rit... ah ! pauvre âme aux abois !
Et le peuple sévère, avec sa grande voix,
Souffle qui courbe un homme et qui brise une femme,
Lui dit quand elle vient : « C'est toi ? Va-t-en, infâme ! »

Un homme s'est fait riche en vendant à faux poids ;
La loi le fait juré. L'hiver, dans les temps froids ;
Un pauvre a pris un pain pour nourrir sa famille.
Regardez cette salle où le peuple fourmille ;
Ce riche y vient juger ce pauvre. Écoutez bien.
C'est juste, puisque l'un a tout et l'autre rien.
Ce juge, - ce marchand, - fâché de perdre une heure,
Jette un regard distrait sur cet homme qui pleure,
L'envoie au bagne, et part pour sa maison des champs.
Tous s'en vont en disant : « C'est bien ! » bons et méchants ;
Et rien ne reste là qu'un Christ pensif et pâle,
Levant les bras au ciel dans le fond de la salle.

Un homme de génie apparaît. Il est doux,
Il est fort, il est grand ; il est utile à tous ;
Comme l'aube au-dessus de l'océan qui roule,
Il dore d'un rayon tous les fronts de la foule ;
Il luit ; le jour qu'il jette est un jour éclatant ;
Il apporte une idée au siècle qui l'attend ;
Il fait son œuvre ; il veut des choses nécessaires,
Agrandir les esprits, amoindrir les misères ;
Heureux, dans ses travaux dont les cieux sont témoins,
Si l'on pense un peu plus, si l'on souffre un peu moins !
Il vient. - Certe, on le va couronner ! - On le hue !
Scribes, savants, rhéteurs, les salons, la cohue,
Ceux qui n'ignorent rien, ceux qui doutent de tout,
Ceux qui flattent le roi, ceux qui flattent l'égout,
Tous hurlent à la fois et font un bruit sinistre.
Si c'est un orateur ou si c'est un ministre,
On le siffle. Si c'est un poète, il entend
Ce chœur : « Absurde ! faux ! monstrueux ! révoltant ! »
Lui, cependant, tandis qu'on bave sur sa palme,
Debout, les bras croisés, le front levé, l'œil calme,
Il contemple, serein, l'idéal et le beau ;
Il rêve ; et, par moments, il secoue un flambeau
Qui, sous ses pieds, dans l'ombre, éblouissant la haine,
Éclaire tout à coup le fond de l'âme humaine ;
Ou, ministre, il prodigue et ses nuits et ses jours ;
Orateur, il entasse efforts, travaux, discours ;
Il marche, il lutte ! Hélas ! l'injure ardente et triste,
À chaque pas qu'il fait, se transforme et persiste.
Nul abri. Ce serait un ennemi public,
Un monstre fabuleux, dragon ou basilic,
Qu'il serait moins traqué de toutes les manières,
Moins entouré de gens armés de grosses pierres,
Moins haï ! -- Pour eux tous et pour ceux qui viendront,
Il va semant la gloire, il recueille l'affront.
Le progrès est son but, le bien est sa boussole ;
Pilote, sur l'avant du navire il s'isole ;
Tout marin, pour dompter les vents et les courants,
Met tour à tour le cap sur des points différents,
Et, pour mieux arriver, dévie en apparence ;
Il fait de même ; aussi blâme et cris ; l'ignorance
Sait tout, dénonce tout ; il allait vers le nord,
Il avait tort ; il va vers le sud, il a tort ;
Si le temps devient noir, que de rage et de joie !
Cependant, sous le faix sa tête à la fin ploie,
L'âge vient, il couvait un mal profond et lent,
Il meurt. L'envie alors, ce démon vigilant,
Accourt, le reconnaît, lui ferme la paupière,
Prend soin de la clouer de ses mains dans la bière,
Se penche, écoute, épie en cette sombre nuit
S'il est vraiment bien mort, s'il ne fait pas de bruit,
S'il ne peut plus savoir de quel nom on le nomme,
Et, s'essuyant les yeux, dit : « C'était un grand homme ! »

Où vont tous ces enfants dont pas un seul ne rit ?
Ces doux êtres pensifs, que la fièvre maigrit ?
Ces filles de huit ans qu'on voit cheminer seules ?
Ils s'en vont travailler quinze heures sous des meules ;
Ils vont, de l'aube au soir, faire éternellement
Dans la même prison le même mouvement.
Accroupis sous les dents d'une machine sombre,
Monstre hideux qui mâche on ne sait quoi dans l'ombre,
Innocents dans un bagne, anges dans un enfer,
Ils travaillent. Tout est d'airain, tout est de fer.
Jamais on ne s'arrête et jamais on ne joue.
Aussi quelle pâleur ! la cendre est sur leur joue.
Il fait à peine jour, ils sont déjà bien las.
Ils ne comprennent rien à leur destin, hélas !
Ils semblent dire à Dieu : « Petits comme nous sommes,
« Notre père, voyez ce que nous font les hommes ! »
Ô servitude infâme imposée à l'enfant !
Rachitisme ! travail dont le souffle étouffant
Défait ce qu'a fait Dieu ; qui tue, œuvre insensée,
La beauté sur les fronts, dans les cœurs la pensée,
Et qui ferait - c'est là son fruit le plus certain -
D'Apollon un bossu, de Voltaire un crétin !
Travail mauvais qui prend l'âge tendre en sa serre,
Qui produit la richesse en créant la misère,
Qui se sert d'un enfant ainsi que d'un outil !
Progrès dont on demande : « Où va-t-il ? Que veut-il ? »
Qui brise la jeunesse en fleur ! qui donne, en somme,
Une âme à la machine et la retire à l'homme !
Que ce travail, haï des mères, soit maudit !
Maudit comme le vice où l'on s'abâtardit,
Maudit comme l'opprobre et comme le blasphème !
Ô Dieu ! qu'il soit maudit au nom du travail même,
Au nom du vrai travail, saint, fécond, généreux,
Qui fait le peuple libre et qui rend l'homme heureux !

Le pesant chariot porte une énorme pierre ;
Le limonier, suant du mors à la croupière,
Tire, et le roulier fouette, et le pavé glissant
Monte, et le cheval triste à le poitrail en sang.
Il tire, traîne, geint, tire encore et s'arrête ;
Le fouet noir tourbillonne au-dessus de sa tête ;
C'est lundi ; l'homme hier buvait aux Porcherons
Un vin plein de fureur, de cris et de jurons ;
Oh ! quelle est donc la loi formidable qui livre
L'être à l'être, et la bête effarée à l'homme ivre !
L'animal éperdu ne peut plus faire un pas ;
Il sent l'ombre sur lui peser ; il ne sait pas,
Sous le bloc qui l'écrase et le fouet qui l'assomme,
Ce que lui veut la pierre et ce que lui veut l'homme.
Et le roulier n'est plus qu'un orage de coups
Tombant sur ce forçat qui traîne des licous,
Qui souffre et ne connaît ni repos ni dimanche.
Si la corde se casse, il frappe avec le pié ;
Et le cheval, tremblant, hagard, estropié,
Baisse son cou lugubre et sa tête égarée ;
On entend, sous les coups de la botte ferrée,
Sonner le ventre nu du pauvre être muet !
Il râle ; tout à l'heure encore il remuait ;
Mais il ne bouge plus, et sa force est finie ;
Et les coups furieux pleuvent ; son agonie
Tente un dernier effort ; son pied fait un écart,
Il tombe, et le voilà brisé sous le brancard ;
Et, dans l'ombre, pendant que son bourreau redouble,
Il regarde quelqu'un de sa prunelle trouble ;
Et l'on voit lentement s'éteindre, humble et terni,
Son œil plein des stupeurs sombres de l'infini,
Où luit vaguement l'âme effrayante des choses.
Hélas !

Cet avocat plaide toutes les causes ;
Il rit des généreux qui désirent savoir
Si blanc n'a pas raison, avant de dire noir ;
Calme, en sa conscience il met ce qu'il rencontre,
Ou le sac d'argent Pour, ou le sac d'argent Contre ;
Le sac pèse pour lui ce que la cause vaut.
Embusqué, plume au poing, dans un journal dévot,
Comme un bandit tuerait, cet écrivain diffame.
La foule hait cet homme et proscrit cette femme ;
Ils sont maudits. Quel est leur crime ? Ils ont aimé.
L'opinion rampante accable l'opprimé,
Et, chatte aux pieds des forts, pour le faible est tigresse.
De l'inventeur mourant le parasite engraisse.
Le monde parle, assure, affirme, jure, ment,
Triche, et rit d'escroquer la dupe Dévouement.
Le puissant resplendit et du destin se joue ;
Derrière lui, tandis qu'il marche et fait la roue,
Sa fiente épanouie engendre son flatteur.
Les nains sont dédaigneux de toute leur hauteur.
Ô hideux coins de rue où le chiffonnier morne
Va, tenant à la main sa lanterne de corne,
Vos tas d'ordures sont moins noirs que les vivants !
Qui, des vents ou des cœurs, est le plus sûr ? Les vents.
Cet homme ne croit rien et fait semblant de croire ;
Il a l'œil clair, le front gracieux, l'âme noire ;
Il se courbe ; il sera votre maître demain.

Tu casses des cailloux, vieillard, sur le chemin ;
Ton feutre humble et troué s'ouvre à l'air qui le mouille ;
Sous la pluie et le temps ton crâne nu se rouille ;
Le chaud est ton tyran, le froid est ton bourreau ;
Ton vieux corps grelottant tremble sous ton sarrau ;
Ta cahute, au niveau du fossé de la route,
Offre son toit de mousse à la chèvre qui broute ;
Tu gagnes dans ton jour juste assez de pain noir
Pour manger le matin et pour jeûner le soir ;
Et, fantôme suspect devant qui l'on recule,
Regardé de travers quand vient le crépuscule,
Pauvre au point d'alarmer les allants et venants,
Frère sombre et pensif des arbres frissonnants,
Tu laisses choir tes ans ainsi qu'eux leur feuillage ;
Autrefois, homme alors dans la force de l'âge,
Quand tu vis que l'Europe implacable venait,
Et menaçait Paris et notre aube qui naît,
Et, mer d'hommes, roulait vers la France effarée,
Et le Russe et le *** sur la terre sacrée
Se ruer, et le nord revomir Attila,
Tu te levas, tu pris ta fourche ; en ces temps-là,
Tu fus, devant les rois qui tenaient la campagne,
Un des grands paysans de la grande Champagne.
C'est bien. Mais, vois, là-bas, le long du vert sillon,
Une calèche arrive, et, comme un tourbillon,
Dans la poudre du soir qu'à ton front tu secoues,
Mêle l'éclair du fouet au tonnerre des roues.
Un homme y dort. Vieillard, chapeau bas ! Ce passant
Fit sa fortune à l'heure où tu versais ton sang ;
Il jouait à la baisse, et montait à mesure
Que notre chute était plus profonde et plus sûre ;
Il fallait un vautour à nos morts ; il le fut ;
Il fit, travailleur âpre et toujours à l'affût,
Suer à nos malheurs des châteaux et des rentes ;
Moscou remplit ses prés de meules odorantes ;
Pour lui, Leipsick payait des chiens et des valets,
Et la Bérésina charriait un palais ;
Pour lui, pour que cet homme ait des fleurs, des charmilles,
Des parcs dans Paris même ouvrant leurs larges grilles,
Des jardins où l'on voit le cygne errer sur l'eau,
Un million joyeux sortit de Waterloo ;
Si bien que du désastre il a fait sa victoire,
Et que, pour la manger, et la tordre, et la boire,
Ce Shaylock, avec le sabre de Blucher,
A coupé sur la France une livre de chair.
Or, de vous deux, c'est toi qu'on hait, lui qu'on vénère ;
Vieillard, tu n'es qu'un gueux, et ce millionnaire,
C'est l'honnête homme. Allons, debout, et chapeau bas !

Les carrefours sont pleins de chocs et de combats.
Les multitudes vont et viennent dans les rues.
Foules ! sillons creusés par ces mornes charrues :
Nuit, douleur, deuil ! champ triste où souvent a germé
Un épi qui fait peur à ceux qui l'ont semé !
Vie et mort ! onde où l'hydre à l'infini s'enlace !
Peuple océan jetant l'écume populace !
Là sont tous les chaos et toutes les grandeurs ;
Là, fauve, avec ses maux, ses horreurs, ses laideurs,
Ses larves, désespoirs, haines, désirs, souffrances,
Qu'on distingue à travers de vagues transparences,
Ses rudes appétits, redoutables aimants,
Ses prostitutions, ses avilissements,
Et la fatalité des mœurs imperdables,
La misère épaissit ses couches formidables.
Les malheureux sont là, dans le malheur reclus.
L'indigence, flux noir, l'ignorance, reflux,
Montent, marée affreuse, et parmi les décombres,
Roulent l'obscur filet des pénalités sombres.
Le besoin fuit le mal qui le tente et le suit,
Et l'homme cherche l'homme à tâtons ; il fait nuit ;
Les petits enfants nus tendent leurs mains funèbres ;
Le crime, antre béant, s'ouvre dans ces ténèbres ;
Le vent secoue et pousse, en ses froids tourbillons,
Les âmes en lambeaux dans les corps en haillons :
Pas de cœur où ne croisse une aveugle chimère.
Qui grince des dents ? L'homme. Et qui pleure ? La mère.
Qui sanglote ? La vierge aux yeux hagards et doux.
Qui dit : « J'ai froid ? » L'aïeule. Et qui dit : « J'ai faim ? » Tous !
Et le fond est horreur, et la surface est joie.
Au-dessus de la faim, le festin qui flamboie,
Et sur le pâle amas des cris et des douleurs,
Les chansons et le rire et les chapeaux de fleurs !
Ceux-là sont les heureux. Ils n'ont qu'une pensée :
A quel néant jeter la journée insensée ?
Chiens, voitures, chevaux ! cendre au reflet vermeil !
Poussière dont les grains semblent d'or au soleil !
Leur vie est aux plaisirs sans fin, sans but, sans trêve,
Et se passe à tâcher d'oublier dans un rêve
L'enfer au-dessous d'eux et le ciel au-dessus.
Quand on voile Lazare, on efface Jésus.
Ils ne regardent pas dans les ombres moroses.
Ils n'admettent que l'air tout parfumé de roses,
La volupté, l'orgueil, l'ivresse et le laquais
Ce spectre galonné du pauvre, à leurs banquets.
Les fleurs couvrent les seins et débordent des vases.
Le bal, tout frissonnant de souffles et d'extases,
Rayonne, étourdissant ce qui s'évanouit ;
Éden étrange fait de lumière et de nuit.
Les lustres aux plafonds laissent pendre leurs flammes,
Et semblent la racine ardente et pleine d'âmes
De quelque arbre céleste épanoui plus haut.
Noir paradis dansant sur l'immense cachot !
Ils savourent, ravis, l'éblouissement sombre
Des beautés, des splendeurs, des quadrilles sans nombre,
Des couples, des amours, des yeux bleus, des yeux noirs.
Les valses, visions, passent dans les miroirs.
Parfois, comme aux forêts la fuite des cavales,
Les galops effrénés courent ; par intervalles,
Le bal reprend haleine ; on s'interrompt, on fuit,
On erre, deux à deux, sous les arbres sans bruit ;
Puis, folle, et rappelant les ombres éloignées,
La musique, jetant les notes à poignées,
Revient, et les regards s'allument, et l'archet,
Bondissant, ressaisit la foule qui marchait.
Ô délire ! et d'encens et de bruit enivrées,
L'heure emporte en riant les rapides soirées,
Et les nuits et les jours, feuilles mortes des cieux.
D'autres, toute la nuit, roulent les dés joyeux,
Ou bien, âpre, et mêlant les cartes qu'ils caressent,
Où des spectres riants ou sanglants apparaissent,
Leur soif de l'or, penchée autour d'un tapis vert,
Jusqu'à ce qu'au volet le jour bâille entr'ouvert,
Poursuit le pharaon, le lansquenet ou l'hombre ;
Et, pendant qu'on gémit et qu'on frémit dans l'ombre,
Pendant que le

I'm ready for something real.
I'm tired of being the curtains that are pulled closed every-night.

I once gave a boy my glass heart, and he held it dear,
and then, he moved away. And I was packed inside a box,
it was labeled, 'fragile,' 'handle with care.'
It wasn't for months that I saw the sun,
and when I did, I couldn't tell the difference
between artificial, and sunlight.
Once again, he held me in his hands,
but they were rough and calloused;
the security was gone.

I was placed in a corner where I was rarely touched again,
and one night something terrible must've happened,
my smooth exterior seemed to have sharpened at the edges,
and he placed me in a bin, never to be seen again.

There's vases that hold flowers,
and there's vases that are placed in china cabinets;
I'm tired of being falsely decorated.
I'm tired of having to hold everything in,
and be expected to be the beautiful centerpiece
for everyone to glance at, and walk by.

I am beautiful, but I am not a centerpiece.
I am also a collection of flaws;
I'm translucent: all my emotions flood,
and I'm fragile; I tend to break at the slightest touch,
and I'm empty,
until someone fills me up.

But I want something real.
I don't want to hold plastic flowers,
that will never fade away.
I want to hold the beautiful rose
and at it's prime time,
though I will cry,

I can say it was real.
I can say he was mine.

(NJ2014) All Rights Reserved.