A tribute well deserved
A tribute well deserved
A tribute well deserved
A tribute well deserved
I identify with this
A worthy tribute
They do not die,
they are absorbed,
slowly by the year,
feeding the tongue’s root,
weighing the worth of hearts,
swinging from page to page,
a rustle of birdsong in the morning,
a glimmer of twilit truth,
Muttering of war.
Of the scrubbed,
Dead eyed ones,
Once more decrying
Alternatives to destruction.
Their squealing slavering
Shall be spittle
In the breeze
On sea cliffs
Insistent gentle roar
Will bring wheels
And bees to drift
On warming slopes,
The sound of waves,
As He too,
Rolls those lines
To and fro.
Of sweet eyed
Clarity, a sword,
A vinegar, to cut
The fickle fat
Of lazy habit.
A new recognition,
Where we stand.
As it is,
But not of…
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Leaves are falling from the Sky
Through the warm Summer breeze
With a Silent cry,
Capturing my Imagination,
I look up into the Emerald trees,
Enjoying the fresh Sensation;
Autumn Tumbling from the Sky
Into the Evening breeze
With a Joyous cry,
Tantalizing my Admiration,
As I Smile up at the Emerald trees,
With Inestimable Appreciation,
Of Autumn Leaves Cascading from the Sky.
Image found at: ak1.picdn.net/shutterstock
Today we went to war
And I turned the other cheek
I learned to let my actions override
My ability to speak
What can I say about glorious injustice
Where I can I read more
To teach others
What we might find in our own hearts?
Would I know that soldier if I saw her
Would I be able to face the horrors
Would I see
Would I see
A perfect mirror-image
How can so much pain
Coexist with so much hope
How will we learn to share
This precious volatile planet
And still have more to give
Where is this collective consciousness?
Where are our minds in times like this?
More importantly, where are our hearts?
Would you stay with me
Which you hold my hand
Would you face the place
Where all the bombs land
Would you pray with me
If it meant eternal peace
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She held his hand
as they walked through
the sun’s last rays,
fire in the sky.
bare feet on wet sand.
They walked through
knowing the sun
would eventually rise,
across the black sky.
They walked with
They walked until
their feet were
raw and bleeding
the love they shared.
They walked a path
marked with crimson
They walked towards
and the end.
She held his hand
and they walked
knowing that fate
that the future
held their distance
in its hands.
They walked feeling
sift through their
blinding with beauty,
the black horizon,
leaving them on separate
on distant beaches
with just the memory
It’s been a while
A very long time since that last time I thought about you
However that distance in time was much need
To realize you were never worth the pursuit
Never worth my truth
The sky that day our eyes met, showered something for me to love
But those droplets were never intended to land on
Rather they were meant to fall and flow along a stream that would eventually
Grace the bare feet of a man
That would only love me from the water he stands on to however far “up” ..travels
All as it is, is meant to be here
There is nothing that exists without reason
Let go of fear and let flow come
In to your life to wash away fear
All that’s here is meant to be here
All that exists has a part to play
Each beautiful piece of land and creature
Has its own magnificent part to play
You yourself are full of wonder
A wonderous creation to your core
Let the beauty from within flow through you
Let yourself just be as you are
You are a wonderous beautiful being
So magnificent in every single way
Recognise this completely;
Then all darkness will soon dissipate
A gesture benign, soft, in intent
Both abnormal and normal, a vicarious sense
Malicious at times yet bittersweet
An intro to strangers as we meet.
A mutual trust, a gesture so human
a heartfelt contact all about reason
brutal betrayal, contemptuous treason
A touch so simple is always in season.
Saying hello, saying goodbye
Saying I’m with you until we die;
A pat on the shoulder, a tender embrace
The line of your tears upon your face –
eternally transcends gender and race.
Some Conversations with My Soul
Tell me if I had fallen to pieces,
or this is the way to hang together.
Your bridging the five corners
strung me into your pentagram,
my breathing set in the center
like an abstraction.
When I close my eyes
you look me in the eye,
and we ponder the sweet
and bitter chase you put me through.
You are palpable in this search.
I feel your presence
in vibrating shadows,
aliquots of my life.
In early days of my solitude
my name echoed as a whisper off your lips.
And you are the past
while I still live this future
to the point where you will outlive me,
perched as figurehead on the boat’s bow,
as I cross the river,
my head tucked between your wings.
We talk my gravity into being.
Come and have siesta with me.
Love is the best
Love is a gift
It comes not only from the heart
But deep inside your soul
It is the very essence of oneself
Love takes time
It is patient and understanding
And will endure for all time
Love does not fade
But draw close those we hold dear
Love is blind and will forgive anything
True love is the path
To eternal life
For time can never extinguish
A light so bright
As the glow of your love.
Dedicated to my friends Natalie & Steven on their wedding day.
I am the blackness of midnight
I am the brilliance of a fresh day
A fighter delivering the blow
A free spirit wandering in the underbrush
I am the hand pulling you to the surface
and the claws yanking you down under
Scars and open wounds
the raw skin beneath
I am the waves of violins
and the pounding off the bass
The rush a hurricane
and the calm of the open ocean
The emptiness of falling
and the strength in standing
I am conflict.
How can one hear
The gentle pitter-patter of the rain
Over the incessant
Chitter-chatter of the brain
To beautiful flowers
And blue skies, the eyes are blind
They lose all their power
To the cries of the mind
What chance has love
To grow and to spread
When thinking has filled
All space in the head
Lovely bit…. very honest & original
Thanks to you, I have learned
to calm down and breathe in, when I’m anxious.
If I’m concerned
about whether or not I am precious
I breathe in, I sit back, I breathe out,
then I know I am worth something
and the love I now feel makes me courageous,
I sit back and enjoy.
I have learned
to take my time and my space
cause I’m my own person,
just the same as you
and that’s cool.
We can both have this friendship
without losing ourselves in the core.
It’s okay, I say to myself,
It’s okay, I repeat
We’ll be friends and that’s enough for me
because I enjoy you.
Wonderful bit of writing
As soon as he first learnt to walk
The purpose became clear,
How he could get away from those
Who were too close,
From family, from people,
A child becomes a refugee
The way when he understood
The gift of speech was silence.
Among the crowds he found
His hiding place called anonymity
In strange cities in foreign lands
Now that Africa had been discovered
And man’s footprint already on the moon.
The only other option left
Was close the door and stay inside his room.
Then, when he switched off the searchlight
No-one could get to him.
From afar I have watched you
In close contact at times, each anew
Your settled maturity a calming influence
Life experience speaks for itself
A positive powerful presence surrounding you
Bright company always a ray of sunshine
Yet seemingly elusively out of my reach
Sensing a spark beyond friendship
Never trusting it enough to test the waters
Or worse, dive in head first
Playing on my mind time and again
Suddenly content in the close confines
Of your embrace touchingly tender and
Lovingly openly affectionate
Freezeframe time – the moment for keeps
Always unprepared for the effect you have on me
Now more than ever
Then comes tomorrow
Unsure where to go from here
As elusive as ever
To contact you or not is the question
Burning crazily to do so
But how much is too much?
Come on too strong?
Feeling like that’s your…
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Waiting is hard , but believing while waiting is harder still. That’s why people take things into their hands. Is there one special matter you have been praying about for a long time? I myself have one. How many times have you tried to quit because nothing is happening? No answer, not even a sign. . God’s timing does not always coincide with our immediate plans. Sometimes his timing requires that We WAIT and HOPE.
An inward peace ,
God’s heavenly promise
says,” you must trust”.
Mind says, “better quit”
As this feeling insist,
“keep going must adjust”
As this doubts calls,
an inner voice saying,
“Can’t be, I’m so sorry”
God even in His silence
still in heart, it whispers
“don’t you ever worry”
Waiting and hoping ,
tells a good story.
What we just need is
to seek God’s glory.
Words of wisdom
If you ask a teenager anything
There’s one thing they will agree
That the older generation
Don’t have sex but just drink tea
For they think they’re really all too old
And only dare partake
In cordial conversation or
At most a small hand shake
And as for these adolescents’ parents
Well heaven must forbid
The thought of their mums and dads at parties
Come on! Their oldies surely never lived!
And when it comes to sporting prowess,
The games and medals won
The muffin tops and double chins
Suggest those times are now long gone!
Whilst the stories from the old days
Get taken with a pinch of salt
Any idea that a parent comprehends
Is “totes weird” as a default!
And forget empathy and understanding
When parents want the best
For a teen perception takes this to mean
We’ll hound you like a pest
So to all parents…
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Really nice work….
I am trapped in the abysmal plain
Forever searching for my love
That was slain by death
I miss the sunshine and the moonlight
It used to bring warmth to my soul
Oh how I miss the feelings of old
No death No peace
Know death Know peace
The darkness consumes me
Terrorizing my soul
It penetrates through me
Am I existing in this life we call death?
In my abysmal depth
Pretty good material…. The arrangement could be better
Like the moon brightens the murky night
You have brightened my life in ways
that no one ever could.
In the windy winter days
In the smoky December nights
In the early morning and dusky afternoon,
With grasses soft and green
With dew on the petals of every rose
I wish to be with you
With my newborn heart in you.
The spaces between your fingers are meant to be filled with mine,
Your open arm is meant to be
hugged by me.
I dream of you and me forever
It’s an irrevocable promise.
In the July rain
I’d be with you under the same umbrella
dancing with every splash of the rain.
And when you feel cold
I’d light the fire for you.
In the Marigold field with cuckoo’s song and butterfly’s dance
We would dance till sunset.
And if the whole world collides
We would outlast and outlive…
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Master of my soul
In the fell clutch of circumstance
I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeonings of chance
My head is bloody, but unbowed.
Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the Horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
Finds, and shall find, me unafraid.
It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll.
I am the master of my fate:
I am the captain of my soul.
Beautiful…. They don’t write poems like these anymore. I totally enjoyed this, I’m sure may others will.
A sash of winter starlings
from The Narrows
disintegrates in freeze
of intrusive Arctic air.
Hits zero to their bones.
Their flutter tumbles
jostle willow scrub.
Soft rustlings all around,
and thin twigs snap.
Where low breakers
wash crispy sand flats,
a Portaferry girl and boy
gather rubbery sea wrack,
to pack in wicker baskets
to strengthen soil at home.
The children startle,
to glimpse death
as birds falling from the sky.
They stack dead starlings
black green purple shine
in rows upon the wrack.
Feed for the pigs.
Da might smile.
Boy snaps the necks
of birds that struggle
with some trace of warm.
Thumb and forefinger.
Strong hand, that.
He walks the sand for more.
Girl…she lives the troubles
knows to set the moment
of her brother’s joy in killing.
Tiny sparks to nurture flames.
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I love this
Educative & engaging
I have known only one coffin maker. To my knowledge he built only one coffin. It was carefully crafted with all the love he could pour into the task. It was a small coffin, just large enough to hold his nine-year-old granddaughter. I remember watching the wood-shavings fall gently to the shop floor; more poignantly than tears. When his task was complete, children gently, quietly, reverently placed small stuffed animals inside to keep their playmate company on a journey they did not understand. One little boy picked up a few of the wood-shavings, looked toward the grandfather, raised the shavings to his lips and kissed them. When everyone left, I mimicked the child’s actions and then placed several wood-shavings into my pocket. As the coffin maker helped his son lower the precious cargo into the ground, I fingered the wood-shavings; a gesture of gratitude for the strength they provided. “If…
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I buried a man today
Ten years my junior
Stark, the room
Cold the assurances
As the fragile breath
Sighed no more.
Sleek alabaster carpets
With leaves enwrapped
As if half in protection
Coddled close the precious
Solemn the day light slipped
Past windows half closed
Curtains half drawn
Yet unnoticed, we bid farewell.
Sorrow, this despised guest,
Beckoned us to come
And with eyes
heavy with mourning
We duly obliged.
Yet as prayer and song
Evaporated past these lobby doors
I swear I saw him there
Glimpsing one last time
At what he missed,
He nodded to me
Seeing me there…
and i knew that
The sunset was not
Well written… Nice
The old rooster crowed each day
From as far back as he could remember.
He ruffled his feathers and gave his cry
Without fail from January to December.
But now he was old and could barely crow,
Knowing that he was near death.
With his head bowed,
fighting for breath,
‘It is too bad I must die,
Though I cannot stall it.
For the sun will not rise
If I am not here to call it.
‘I mourn for the world that must live in the dark
Without the sun whom I wake.
Not a coo from a dove or a cry from a lark
will ever take my crow’s place.’
Then came his last breath of air,
As he lay there and die.
And confirmed was his fear,
For the sun did not rise,
At least for him.
I hoped for daffodils,
Or roses to grow in my throat,
So i wouldn’t feel the gag
Reflex of choking in
The misery, in all it’s natural
Splendor that crawled up
On my curled toes and bended
I am half of what I was when I
First went in to this spell,
Half intentional, half curious
Second-time ferocious, but
Deep in the thorns
Genuinely imitating the
Affections I dreamt of having
And not what I’m currently
I tasted coals, the longer I stayed,
Everything was in vain, and this is
A losing game, going home
With nothing, saying nothing
And everytime I will open my
Small red eyes, I’d stare at the sun
And let the painful light
remind me of the burnt soul
I had when I started ,
Leaving with a winter in the end..
Beyond the knotty roots of age old trees
on the banks of damp soil
she sits, staring, mesmerized
her eyes transfixed
– that steely moon gleamed
her breath held in her throat
a hand clutching her tightening chest
– she had forever dreamed this
to hold the moon asunder
her every breath and ever pore,
every waking morrow
– that moon in the mirrored lake teased
sending tiny ripples
of desperate hope cascading
her tender dreams caught in the web
sticky gossamers fastening
– pinned, weighed down, or dragged
bleary eyed down a path
– and there she was, finally
the cold watery folds gently calling
she reached her arm towards the moon
– the moon on the water so close
and for briefest of moments she felt the weight
nestled in her trembling hand
feeling the veil breaking
that had covered the dream
her wee little dream
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The little girl, only twelve, did not know what to do anymore.
Her mother was a crumpled mess of smeared mascara.
And every morning when the little girl awoke, she
would tuck her beautiful mother,
whose emerald eyes, once sparkled with intrepid life,
Racked with worry, she asked;
“Mother, why do you always go to sleep as soon as the sun rises?”
“Because,” her mother choked.
“When you have been down in a dark place for too long,
you become afraid of the light.”
The little girl did not understand.
One day, she would.
Yeats is always a favorite of mine
Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
The best lack all conviction, while the worst
Are full of passionate intensity.
Surely some revelation is at hand;
Surely the Second Coming is at hand.
The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out
When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi
Troubles my sight: a waste of desert sand;
A shape with lion body and the head of a man,
A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,
Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it
Wind shadows of the indignant desert birds.
The darkness drops again but now I know
That twenty centuries of stony sleep
Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,
And what rough…
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The many little pleasant scents of life we don’t take notice of…..
Sometimes a busy life
Can be full of stress,full of strife
Always rushing through the concrete and metal
Never enough time to go barefoot on a flower petal
Crowded buses and trains
People coughing,blowing their noses
Never enough time to dance in the rain
Or stop and smell the roses!
Eat,pray,love and take your shoes off,summer is almost gone!
By Mary Anne Massaro. 2013
Should one chose to, can one, and still survive, look at reality? “Humankind cannot bear very much reality” T.S. Eliot wrote. We dissemble, we dessiminate, we color and shade, we apply personality and point of view allowing intent to override the world we face each day. Should we choose to accept the current scientific paradigm, that physical reality is as it is because it is and that there is no supernatural or transcendental, only mental constructions designed to fulfill the quite natural survival of the fittest urge that is the animator of reality, then meaning and purpose, soul and spirit, are false, fake, inaccurate; merely ways in which we adapt to the unfriendly, the inhospitable, the alien.
I think I am a realist, mostly. Not really, I am a dreamer, a see-er, a believer. All this is not random, or maybe it is. I believe in God. That God created…
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Breasts of Doom (QC92B)
Expires at midnight (GMT) 19th Aug, 2013
BREASTS OF DOOM
This is probably the saddest story ever, with a somewhat touching folded ending. It tells of a nameless newly married village girl, coerced into coming to the city with her husband to do menial work during the dry season. In a quick successive sequence of unending cruel happenings, she literally lives the life of her country.
This is a sad story, with a somewhat touching folded ending. It tells of a nameless newly married village girl, coerced into coming to the city with her husband to do menial work during the dry season. In a quick successive sequence of unending cruel happenings, she is starved by her husband and tricked into being raped by a night watchman. Her husband finds out and beats her, before he mysteriously disappears amidst a bloody civil unrest. Then the watchman is accidentally killed.
She is lost in the huge city, begs for alms to feed, sleeps everywhere in the open and became friends with a madman. She discovers she is pregnant and couldn’t return to her village, without her lost husband and visibly pregnant for someone else. Still, she hopes she could return someday. She learns her father disowned her and her mother killed herself rather than live with the shame she had caused.
She painfully lost a helpful couple in an accident and had to live in a whore house because no one else would rent her a room. She got robbed of everything she owns and raped yet again, late into her pregnancy. Right then, she gave birth to a son on her own and had no choice but return to the selfless care of the madman.
The madman got beaten to death and she is also beaten up by the same vigilante group. She almost lost her son in a fire that burnt down everything she owns, again. She got badly burnt in the fire and was horribly disfigured. Her son’s first friend was a donkey and it mysteriously vanishes like it appeared.
Amidst such suffering and cruel mockery, she sold wood and her sole objective was caring for her son. He excelled in schooling and moved to a bigger school, staying far away from her love for too long. She went after him and discovered he had fitted into his new prestigious surrounding so well that she embarrasses him.
The tale gradually unfolds with chapter opening quotes and apt poetry. It reveals to be more than just the story of a suffering deformed maiden that suffers a lot of ill-fortune, or about how her gifted son grows into being ashamed of her, despite all her travails for him. The tale actually draws parallels with an ailed federation.
It handles a flawed state of nationhood. It highlights the nation’s relationship with its people, and their disdain for what made them anything special. It hints of their never ending and never ever accomplished ulterior desire to be something else, other than what they really are; mainly a country still forging statehood for itself.
Beautiful and powerful
So very fitting…. Eternity is so vague & blur, in this same colorful yet focus-less manner
Definitions & meaning….. They don’t really define us, do they?
Those feelings that entangle reason aren’t easily discarded or thrown away because they hinder the prospering of the very logic that would do so and preserve those which wouldn’t. So the realist is both pessimistic & optimistic in varying degrees.
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Breasts of Doom (QC92B)
Expires at midnight (GMT) 19th Aug, 2013
This is deep… Very powerful stuff
Moving and engaging
Deep in the Cavern of my chest
Waves crash against my rib cage
Screaming to be free. Tides push
and pull the waves, smashing them
Against the walls of my heart,
That black organ refuses to yield,
And the waves are trapped,
Frothing and Bubbling inside.
Sometimes when I look at you
The ocean calms, the sea’s rage
steadies, and I can feel it
Beating. You don’t know I
Exist, and when out eyes disconnect
the current drags me under again.
When I leave the room, you
Will never think of me again, but
The battling waves won’t let
Me forget you, what you’ve
Done for me. If I could be yours
My heart would stop fighting so
Hard, and the salty waters of
My emotions would cease to
Shriek in my chest, vibrating
Against my ribs and drowning
My lungs. If you could be mine
We would create worlds…
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