06-25-2014, 04:43 PM | #601 |
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I always hear some songs and think they should be poems
I always felt this way about Laura Nyro's Emmie
Ooh la, la, la, ooh la, la, la, la Emily and her love to be carved in a heart on a berry tree But it's only a little farewell love spell, time to design a woman Touch me, oh wake me Emily, you ornament, the earth for me Emily, you're the natural snow The unstudied sea, you're a cameo And I swear you were born a weaver's lover, born for the loom's desire Move me, oh sway me Emily, the ornament, the earth for me Emmie, your momma's been calling you Who stole Mama's heart and cuddled in her garden? Darling Emmie la, la, la, ooh la, la la You're my friend and I loved you, Emily, Emily, Emily, Emily She got the way to move me, Emmie She got the way to move me, yeah She got the way to move me, Emmie She got the way to move me, get up and move me Read more at http://www.songlyrics.com/laura-nyro...KkYp0jpWFa5.99 |
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06-25-2014, 04:51 PM | #602 |
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Amazing, Patti Smith Reading Virginia Woolf
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06-25-2014, 05:06 PM | #603 |
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I like you calm, as if you were absent
I like you calm, as if you were absent,
and you hear me far-off, and my voice does not touch you. It seems that your eyelids have taken to flying: it seems that a kiss has sealed up your mouth. Since all these things are filled with my spirit, you come from things, filled with my spirit. You appear as my soul, as the butterfly’s dreaming, and you appear as Sadness’s word. I like you calm, as if you were distant, you are a moaning, a butterfly’s cooing. You hear me far-off, my voice does not reach you. Let me be calmed, then, calmed by your silence. Let me commune, then, commune with your silence, clear as a light, and pure as a ring. You are like night, calmed, constellated. Your silence is star-like, as distant, as true. I like you calm, as if you were absent: distant and saddened, as if you were dead. One word at that moment, a smile, is sufficient. And I thrill, then, I thrill: that it cannot be so. ~Pablo Neruda
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06-26-2014, 09:28 PM | #604 |
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Leonard Cohen: Suzanne
Suzanne by Leonard Cohen
Suzanne takes you down to her place near the river You can hear the boats go by You can spend the night beside her And you know that she's half crazy But that's why you want to be there And she feeds you tea and oranges That come all the way from China And just when you mean to tell her That you have no love to give her Then she gets you on her wavelength And she lets the river answer That you've always been her lover And you want to travel with her And you want to travel blind And you know that she will trust you For you've touched her perfect body with your mind. And Jesus was a sailor When he walked upon the water And he spent a long time watching From his lonely wooden tower And when he knew for certain Only drowning men could see him He said "All men will be sailors then Until the sea shall free them" But he himself was broken Long before the sky would open Forsaken, almost human He sank beneath your wisdom like a stone And you want to travel with him And you want to travel blind And you think maybe you'll trust him For he's touched your perfect body with his mind. Now Suzanne takes your hand And she leads you to the river She is wearing rags and feathers From Salvation Army counters And the sun pours down like honey On our lady of the harbour And she shows you where to look Among the garbage and the flowers There are heroes in the seaweed There are children in the morning They are leaning out for love And they will lean that way forever While Suzanne holds the mirror And you want to travel with her And you want to travel blind And you know that you can trust her For she's touched your perfect body with her mind. |
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06-26-2014, 09:30 PM | #605 |
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Democracy by Leonard Cohen
It's coming through a hole in the air, from those nights in Tiananmen Square. It's coming from the feel that it ain't exactly real, or it's real, but it ain't exactly there. From the wars against disorder, from the sirens night and day, from the fires of the homeless, from the ashes of the gay: Democracy is coming to the U.S.A. It's coming through a crack in the wall, on a visionary flood of alcohol; from the staggering account of the Sermon on the Mount which I don't pretend to understand at all. It's coming from the silence on the dock of the bay, from the brave, the bold, the battered heart of Chevrolet: Democracy is coming to the U.S.A. It's coming from the sorrow on the street the holy places where the races meet; from the homicidal bitchin' that goes down in every kitchen to determine who will serve and who will eat. From the wells of disappointment where the women kneel to pray for the grace of G-d in the desert here and the desert far away: Democracy is coming to the U.S.A. Sail on, sail on o mighty Ship of State! To the Shores of Need past the Reefs of Greed through the Squalls of Hate Sail on, sail on It's coming to America first, the cradle of the best and the worst. It's here they got the range and the machinery for change and it's here they got the spiritual thirst. It's here the family's broken and it's here the lonely say that the heart has got to open in a fundamental way: Democracy is coming to the U.S.A. It's coming from the women and the men. O baby, we'll be making love again. We'll be going down so deep that the river's going to weep, and the mountain's going to shout Amen! It's coming to the tidal flood beneath the lunar sway, imperial, mysterious in amorous array: Democracy is coming to the U.S.A. Sail on, sail on o mighty Ship of State! To the Shores of Need past the Reefs of Greed through the Squalls of Hate Sail on, sail on I'm sentimental if you know what I mean: I love the country but I can't stand the scene. And I'm neither left or right I'm just staying home tonight, getting lost in that hopeless little screen. But I'm stubborn as those garbage bags that Time cannot decay, I'm junk but I'm still holding up this little wild bouquet: Democracy is coming to the U.S.A. |
06-26-2014, 09:45 PM | #606 |
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If I Was Dead
If I was dead, and my bones adrift like dropped oars in the deep, turning earth; or drowned, and my skull a listening shell on the dark ocean bed; if I was dead, and my heart soft mulch for a red, red rose; or burned, and my body a fistful of grit, thrown in the face of the wind; if I was dead, and my eyes, blind at the roots of flowers, wept into nothing, I swear your love would raise me out of my grave, in my flesh and blood, like Lazarus; hungry for this, and this, and this, your living kiss. --Carol Ann Duffy |
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06-28-2014, 06:44 PM | #607 |
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Want
She wants a house full of cups and the ghosts of last century's lesbians;p I want a spotless apartment, a fast computer.p She wants a woodstove, three cords of ash, an axe;p I want a clean gas flame.p She wants a row of jars: oats, coriander, thick green oil; I want nothing to store.p She wants pomianders, linens, baby quilts, scrapbooks.p She wants Wellesley reunions.p I want gleaming floorboards, the river's reflection.p She wants shrimp and sweat and salt; she wants chocolate.p I want a raku bowl, steam rising from rice.p She wants goats, chickens, children.p Feeding and weeping.p I want wind from the river freshening cleared rooms. She wants birthdays, theaters, flags, peonies. I want words like lasers.p She wants a mother's tenderness.p Touch ancient as the river. I want a woman's wit swift as a fox. She's in her city, meeting her deadline; I'm in my mill village out late with the dog, listening to the pinging wind bells thinking of the twelve years of wanting, apart and together. We've kissed all weekend; we want to drive the hundred miles and try it again. From COLD RIVER (Painted Leaf Press, 1997) |
07-01-2014, 05:55 PM | #608 |
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Summer Poems
(Sonnet 18) by William Shakespeare
Shall I compare thee to a summer's day? Shall I compare thee to a summer's day? Thou art more lovely and more temperate. Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May, And summer's lease hath all too short a date. Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines, And often is his gold complexion dimmed; And every fair from fair sometime declines, By chance, or nature's changing course, untrimmed; But thy eternal summer shall not fade, Nor lose possession of that fair thou ow'st, Nor shall death brag thou wand'rest in his shade, When in eternal lines to Time thou grow'st. So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see, So long lives this, and this gives life to thee. |
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07-01-2014, 05:59 PM | #609 |
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Summer Poems
A something in a summer's Day by Emily Dickinson
A something in a summer's Day As slow her flambeaux burn away Which solemnizes me. A something in a summer's noon -- A depth -- an Azure -- a perfume -- Transcending ecstasy. And still within a summer's night A something so transporting bright I clap my hands to see -- Then veil my too inspecting face Lets such a subtle -- shimmering grace Flutter too far for me -- The wizard fingers never rest -- The purple brook within the breast Still chafes it narrow bed -- Still rears the East her amber Flag -- Guides still the sun along the Crag His Caravan of Red -- So looking on -- the night -- the morn Conclude the wonder gay -- And I meet, coming thro' the dews Another summer's Day! |
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07-04-2014, 11:04 PM | #610 |
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In honor of July 4th
I Hear America Singing
Walt Whitman, 1819 - 1892 I hear America singing, the varied carols I hear, Those of mechanics, each one singing his as it should be blithe and strong, The carpenter singing his as he measures his plank or beam, The mason singing his as he makes ready for work, or leaves off work, The boatman singing what belongs to him in his boat, the deckhand singing on the steamboat deck, The shoemaker singing as he sits on his bench, the hatter singing as he stands, The wood-cutter’s song, the ploughboy’s on his way in the morning, or at noon intermission or at sundown, The delicious singing of the mother, or of the young wife at work, or of the girl sewing or washing, Each singing what belongs to him or her and to none else, The day what belongs to the day—at night the party of young fellows, robust, friendly, Singing with open mouths their strong melodious songs. |
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07-05-2014, 03:16 AM | #611 |
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Ella Wheeler Wilcox “Solitude”
Laugh, and the world laughs with you;
Weep, and you weep alone. For the sad old earth must borrow it’s mirth, But has trouble enough of its own. Sing, and the hills will answer; Sigh, it is lost on the air. The echoes bound to a joyful sound, But shrink from voicing care. Rejoice, and men will seek you; Grieve, and they turn and go. They want full measure of all your pleasure, But they do not need your woe. Be glad, and your friends are many; Be sad, and you lose them all. There are none to decline your nectared wine, But alone you must drink life’s gall. Feast, and your halls are crowded; Fast, and the world goes by. Succeed and give, and it helps you live, But no man can help you die. There is room in the halls of pleasure For a long and lordly train, But one by one we must all file on Through the narrow aisles of pain. |
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07-05-2014, 06:08 AM | #612 |
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You may write me down in history
With your bitter, twisted lies, You may tread me in the very dirt But still, like dust, I'll rise. Does my sassiness upset you? Why are you beset with gloom? 'Cause I walk like I've got oil wells Pumping in my living room. Just like moons and like suns, With the certainty of tides, Just like hopes springing high, Still I'll rise. Did you want to see me broken? Bowed head and lowered eyes? Shoulders falling down like teardrops. Weakened by my soulful cries. Does my haughtiness offend you? Don't you take it awful hard 'Cause I laugh like I've got gold mines Diggin' in my own back yard. You may shoot me with your words, You may cut me with your eyes, You may kill me with your hatefulness, But still, like air, I'll rise. Does my sexiness upset you? Does it come as a surprise That I dance like I've got diamonds At the meeting of my thighs? Out of the huts of history's shame I rise Up from a past that's rooted in pain I rise I'm a black ocean, leaping and wide, Welling and swelling I bear in the tide. Leaving behind nights of terror and fear I rise Into a daybreak that's wondrously clear I rise Bringing the gifts that my ancestors gave, I am the dream and the hope of the slave. I rise I rise I rise. Maya Angelou |
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07-05-2014, 06:42 AM | #613 |
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“The best and most beautiful things in the world cannot be seen or even touched. They must be felt with the heart”
― Helen Keller “Character cannot be developed in ease and quiet. Only through experience of trial and suffering can the soul be strengthened, vision cleared, ambition inspired, and success achieved.” ― Helen Keller
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07-06-2014, 06:53 AM | #614 |
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I'm aware some stare at my hair.
In fact, to be fair, Some really despair of my hair. But I don't care, Cause they're not aware, Nor are they debonaire. In fact, they're just square. They see hair down to there, Say, "Beware" and go off on a tear! I say, "No fair!" A head that's bare is really nowhere. So be like a bear, be fair with your hair! Show it you care. Wear it to there. Or to there. Or to there, if you dare! My wife bought some hair at a fair, to use as a spare. Did I care? Au contraire! Spare hair is fair! In fact, hair can be rare. Fred Astair got no hair, Nor does a chair, Nor nor a chocolate eclair, And where is the hair on a pear? Nowhere, mon frere! So now that I've shared this affair of the hair, I'm going to repair to my lair and use Nair, do you care? (Beard Poem) Here's my beard. Ain't it wierd? Don't be sceered, Just a beard. ~George Carlin |
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07-07-2014, 11:48 AM | #615 |
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I Sing the Body Electric: Walt Whitman
I Sing the Body Electric
BY WALT WHITMAN 1 I sing the body electric, The armies of those I love engirth me and I engirth them, They will not let me off till I go with them, respond to them, And discorrupt them, and charge them full with the charge of the soul. Was it doubted that those who corrupt their own bodies conceal themselves? And if those who defile the living are as bad as they who defile the dead? And if the body does not do fully as much as the soul? And if the body were not the soul, what is the soul? 2 The love of the body of man or woman balks account, the body itself balks account, That of the male is perfect, and that of the female is perfect. The expression of the face balks account, But the expression of a well-made man appears not only in his face, It is in his limbs and joints also, it is curiously in the joints of his hips and wrists, It is in his walk, the carriage of his neck, the flex of his waist and knees, dress does not hide him, The strong sweet quality he has strikes through the cotton and broadcloth, To see him pass conveys as much as the best poem, perhaps more, You linger to see his back, and the back of his neck and shoulder-side. The sprawl and fulness of babes, the bosoms and heads of women, the folds of their dress, their style as we pass in the street, the contour of their shape downwards, The swimmer naked in the swimming-bath, seen as he swims through the transparent green-shine, or lies with his face up and rolls silently to and fro in the heave of the water, The bending forward and backward of rowers in row-boats, the horseman in his saddle, Girls, mothers, house-keepers, in all their performances, The group of laborers seated at noon-time with their open dinner-kettles, and their wives waiting, The female soothing a child, the farmer’s daughter in the garden or cow-yard, The young fellow hoeing corn, the sleigh-driver driving his six horses through the crowd, The wrestle of wrestlers, two apprentice-boys, quite grown, lusty, good-natured, native-born, out on the vacant lot at sun-down after work, The coats and caps thrown down, the embrace of love and resistance, The upper-hold and under-hold, the hair rumpled over and blinding the eyes; The march of firemen in their own costumes, the play of masculine muscle through clean-setting trowsers and waist-straps, The slow return from the fire, the pause when the bell strikes suddenly again, and the listening on the alert, The natural, perfect, varied attitudes, the bent head, the curv’d neck and the counting; Such-like I love—I loosen myself, pass freely, am at the mother’s breast with the little child, Swim with the swimmers, wrestle with wrestlers, march in line with the firemen, and pause, listen, count. 3 I knew a man, a common farmer, the father of five sons, And in them the fathers of sons, and in them the fathers of sons. This man was of wonderful vigor, calmness, beauty of person, The shape of his head, the pale yellow and white of his hair and beard, the immeasurable meaning of his black eyes, the richness and breadth of his manners, These I used to go and visit him to see, he was wise also, He was six feet tall, he was over eighty years old, his sons were massive, clean, bearded, tan-faced, handsome, They and his daughters loved him, all who saw him loved him, They did not love him by allowance, they loved him with personal love, He drank water only, the blood show’d like scarlet through the clear-brown skin of his face, He was a frequent gunner and fisher, he sail’d his boat himself, he had a fine one presented to him by a ship-joiner, he had fowling-pieces presented to him by men that loved him, When he went with his five sons and many grand-sons to hunt or fish, you would pick him out as the most beautiful and vigorous of the gang, You would wish long and long to be with him, you would wish to sit by him in the boat that you and he might touch each other. 4 I have perceiv’d that to be with those I like is enough, To stop in company with the rest at evening is enough, To be surrounded by beautiful, curious, breathing, laughing flesh is enough, To pass among them or touch any one, or rest my arm ever so lightly round his or her neck for a moment, what is this then? I do not ask any more delight, I swim in it as in a sea. There is something in staying close to men and women and looking on them, and in the contact and odor of them, that pleases the soul well, All things please the soul, but these please the soul well. 5 This is the female form, A divine nimbus exhales from it from head to foot, It attracts with fierce undeniable attraction, I am drawn by its breath as if I were no more than a helpless vapor, all falls aside but myself and it, Books, art, religion, time, the visible and solid earth, and what was expected of heaven or fear’d of hell, are now consumed, Mad filaments, ungovernable shoots play out of it, the response likewise ungovernable, Hair, bosom, hips, bend of legs, negligent falling hands all diffused, mine too diffused, Ebb stung by the flow and flow stung by the ebb, love-flesh swelling and deliciously aching, Limitless limpid jets of love hot and enormous, quivering jelly of love, white-blow and delirious juice, Bridegroom night of love working surely and softly into the prostrate dawn, Undulating into the willing and yielding day, Lost in the cleave of the clasping and sweet-flesh’d day. This the nucleus—after the child is born of woman, man is born of woman, This the bath of birth, this the merge of small and large, and the outlet again. Be not ashamed women, your privilege encloses the rest, and is the exit of the rest, You are the gates of the body, and you are the gates of the soul. The female contains all qualities and tempers them, She is in her place and moves with perfect balance, She is all things duly veil’d, she is both passive and active, She is to conceive daughters as well as sons, and sons as well as daughters. As I see my soul reflected in Nature, As I see through a mist, One with inexpressible completeness, sanity, beauty, See the bent head and arms folded over the breast, the Female I see. 6 The male is not less the soul nor more, he too is in his place, He too is all qualities, he is action and power, The flush of the known universe is in him, Scorn becomes him well, and appetite and defiance become him well, The wildest largest passions, bliss that is utmost, sorrow that is utmost become him well, pride is for him, The full-spread pride of man is calming and excellent to the soul, Knowledge becomes him, he likes it always, he brings every thing to the test of himself, Whatever the survey, whatever the sea and the sail he strikes soundings at last only here, (Where else does he strike soundings except here?) The man’s body is sacred and the woman’s body is sacred, No matter who it is, it is sacred—is it the meanest one in the laborers’ gang? Is it one of the dull-faced immigrants just landed on the wharf? Each belongs here or anywhere just as much as the well-off, just as much as you, Each has his or her place in the procession. (All is a procession, The universe is a procession with measured and perfect motion.) Do you know so much yourself that you call the meanest ignorant? Do you suppose you have a right to a good sight, and he or she has no right to a sight? Do you think matter has cohered together from its diffuse float, and the soil is on the surface, and water runs and vegetation sprouts, For you only, and not for him and her? 7 A man’s body at auction, (For before the war I often go to the slave-mart and watch the sale,) I help the auctioneer, the sloven does not half know his business. Gentlemen look on this wonder, Whatever the bids of the bidders they cannot be high enough for it, For it the globe lay preparing quintillions of years without one animal or plant, For it the revolving cycles truly and steadily roll’d. In this head the all-baffling brain, In it and below it the makings of heroes. Examine these limbs, red, black, or white, they are cunning in tendon and nerve, They shall be stript that you may see them. Exquisite senses, life-lit eyes, pluck, volition, Flakes of breast-muscle, pliant backbone and neck, flesh not flabby, good-sized arms and legs, And wonders within there yet. Within there runs blood, The same old blood! the same red-running blood! There swells and jets a heart, there all passions, desires, reachings, aspirations, (Do you think they are not there because they are not express’d in parlors and lecture-rooms?) This is not only one man, this the father of those who shall be fathers in their turns, In him the start of populous states and rich republics, Of him countless immortal lives with countless embodiments and enjoyments. How do you know who shall come from the offspring of his offspring through the centuries? (Who might you find you have come from yourself, if you could trace back through the centuries?) 8 A woman’s body at auction, She too is not only herself, she is the teeming mother of mothers, She is the bearer of them that shall grow and be mates to the mothers. Have you ever loved the body of a woman? Have you ever loved the body of a man? Do you not see that these are exactly the same to all in all nations and times all over the earth? If any thing is sacred the human body is sacred, And the glory and sweet of a man is the token of manhood untainted, And in man or woman a clean, strong, firm-fibred body, is more beautiful than the most beautiful face. Have you seen the fool that corrupted his own live body? or the fool that corrupted her own live body? For they do not conceal themselves, and cannot conceal themselves. 9 O my body! I dare not desert the likes of you in other men and women, nor the likes of the parts of you, I believe the likes of you are to stand or fall with the likes of the soul, (and that they are the soul,) I believe the likes of you shall stand or fall with my poems, and that they are my poems, Man’s, woman’s, child’s, youth’s, wife’s, husband’s, mother’s, father’s, young man’s, young woman’s poems, Head, neck, hair, ears, drop and tympan of the ears, Eyes, eye-fringes, iris of the eye, eyebrows, and the waking or sleeping of the lids, Mouth, tongue, lips, teeth, roof of the mouth, jaws, and the jaw-hinges, Nose, nostrils of the nose, and the partition, Cheeks, temples, forehead, chin, throat, back of the neck, neck-slue, Strong shoulders, manly beard, scapula, hind-shoulders, and the ample side-round of the chest, Upper-arm, armpit, elbow-socket, lower-arm, arm-sinews, arm-bones, Wrist and wrist-joints, hand, palm, knuckles, thumb, forefinger, finger-joints, finger-nails, Broad breast-front, curling hair of the breast, breast-bone, breast-side, Ribs, belly, backbone, joints of the backbone, Hips, hip-sockets, hip-strength, inward and outward round, man-balls, man-root, Strong set of thighs, well carrying the trunk above, Leg fibres, knee, knee-pan, upper-leg, under-leg, Ankles, instep, foot-ball, toes, toe-joints, the heel; All attitudes, all the shapeliness, all the belongings of my or your body or of any one’s body, male or female, The lung-sponges, the stomach-sac, the bowels sweet and clean, The brain in its folds inside the skull-frame, Sympathies, heart-valves, palate-valves, sexuality, maternity, Womanhood, and all that is a woman, and the man that comes from woman, The womb, the teats, nipples, breast-milk, tears, laughter, weeping, love-looks, love-perturbations and risings, The voice, articulation, language, whispering, shouting aloud, Food, drink, pulse, digestion, sweat, sleep, walking, swimming, Poise on the hips, leaping, reclining, embracing, arm-curving and tightening, The continual changes of the flex of the mouth, and around the eyes, The skin, the sunburnt shade, freckles, hair, The curious sympathy one feels when feeling with the hand the naked meat of the body, The circling rivers the breath, and breathing it in and out, The beauty of the waist, and thence of the hips, and thence downward toward the knees, The thin red jellies within you or within me, the bones and the marrow in the bones, The exquisite realization of health; O I say these are not the parts and poems of the body only, but of the soul, O I say now these are the soul! |
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07-07-2014, 01:26 PM | #616 |
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From..
Never A Greater Need by Walter Benton 2:1 I came in from camp and you from the city . . . uncertain, apprehensive still -- having for days rehearsed, each by his own script, the play of attitudes and words, the first tentative touch, the implied yes and (always) the ultimate embrace. But as it happened: I took your hand to cross the street, and our fingers held . . . the way vines do in growing, and we were wonderfully inarticulate -- we were breathlessly afraid . . . like flying in a dream. Then most of the afternoon we lay in the sun, among the last late dandelions and curious foraging ants -- shuttling secret thoughts between us and exquisite promises . . . anticipating evening. |
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07-07-2014, 05:42 PM | #617 |
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You Learn
After a while you learn the subtle difference Between holding a hand and chaining a soul, And you learn that love doesn't mean leaning And company doesn't mean security. And you begin to learn that kisses aren't contracts And presents aren't promises, And you begin to accept your defeats With your head up and your eyes open With the grace of a woman, not the grief of a child, And you learn to build all your roads on today Because tomorrow’s ground is too uncertain for plans And futures have a way of falling down in mid-flight. After a while you learn… That even sunshine burns if you get too much. So you plant your garden and decorate your own soul, Instead of waiting for someone to bring you flowers. And you learn that you really can endure… That you really are strong And you really do have worth… And you learn and learn… With every good-bye you learn.
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I think it pisses God off when you walk by the color purple in a field and don't notice it. I'm an idealist. I don't know where I'm going, but I'm on my way. If history repeats itself....I am so getting me a Dinosaur |
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07-07-2014, 05:52 PM | #618 |
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Equality by Maya Angelou
You do own to hear me faintly
as a whisper out of range, while my drums beat out the message and the rhythms never change. Equality, and I will be free. Equality, and I will be free. You announce my ways are wanton, that I fly from man to man, but if I'm just a shadow to you, could you ever understand? We have lived a painful history, we know the shameful past, but I keep on marching forward, and you keep on coming last. Equality, and I will be free. Equality, and I will be free. Take the blinders from your vision, take the padding from your ears, and confess you've heard me crying, and admit you've seen my tears. Hear the tempo so compelling, hear the blood throb through my veins. Yes, my drums are beating nightly, and the rhythms never change. Equality, and I will be free. Equality, and I will be free. Written by Maya Angelou |
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07-10-2014, 07:32 AM | #619 |
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"To My Daughter with Love on the Important things in life"
A mother tries to provide her daughter with insight into the important things in life in order to make her life as happy and fulfilling as possible. A mother tries to teach her daughter to be good, always helpful to other people to be fair, always treating others equally to have a positive attitude at all times to always make things right when they are wrong to know herself well to know what her talents are to set goals for herself to not be afraid of working too hard to reach her goals. A mother tries to teach her daughter to have many interests to pursue to laugh and have fun every day to appreciate the beauty of nature to enter into friendships with good people to honor their friendships and always be a good friend and to particularly respect and love our elder members to use her intelligence all times to listen to her emotions to adhere to her values A mother tries to teach her daughter to not be afraid to stick to her beliefs to not follow the majority when the majority is wrong to carefully plan a life for herself to vigorously follow her chosen path to enter into a relationship with someone worthy of herself to love this person unconditionally with her body and mind to share all that she has learned in her life with this person If I have provided you with an insight into most of these things then I have succeeded as a mother in what I hoped to accomplish in raising you if many of these slipped by while we were all so busy I have a feeling you know them anyway One thing I am sure of though, I have taught you to be proud of the fact that you are a woman equal to all men and that I have loved you every second of your life I have supported you at all times as a mother, as a person, and as a friend I will always continue to Cherish and love everything about you my beautiful daughter. Author: Susan Polis Schutz |
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07-10-2014, 03:59 PM | #620 |
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I want you to know
one thing. You know how this is: if I look at the crystal moon, at the red branch of the slow autumn at my window, if I touch near the fire the impalpable ash or the wrinkled body of the log, everything carries me to you, as if everything that exists, aromas, light, metals, were little boats that sail toward those isles of yours that wait for me. Well, now, if little by little you stop loving me I shall stop loving you little by little. If suddenly you forget me do not look for me, for I shall already have forgotten you. If you think it long and mad, the wind of banners that passes through my life, and you decide to leave me at the shore of the heart where I have roots, remember that on that day, at that hour, I shall lift my arms and my roots will set off to seek another land. But if each day, each hour, you feel that you are destined for me with implacable sweetness, if each day a flower climbs up to your lips to seek me, ah my love, ah my own, in me all that fire is repeated, in me nothing is extinguished or forgotten, my love feeds on your love, beloved, and as long as you live it will be in your arms without leaving mine. Pablo Neruda |
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