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08-04-2015, 02:13 PM | #681 |
Timed Out - Identity Issues
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As You Go Through Life
Don’t look for the flaws as you go through life; And even when you find them, It is wise and kind to be somewhat blind And look for the virtue behind them. For the cloudiest night has a hint of light Somewhere in its shadows hiding; It is better by far to hunt for a star, Than the spots on the sun abiding. The current of life runs ever away To the bosom of God’s great ocean. Don’t set your force ‘gainst the river’s course And think to alter its motion. Don’t waste a curse on the universe – Remember it lived before you. Don’t butt at the storm with your puny form, But bend and let it go o’er you. The world will never adjust itself To suit your whims to the letter. Some things must go wrong your whole life long, And the sooner you know it the better. It is folly to fight with the Infinite, And go under at last in the wrestle; The wiser man shapes into God’s plan As water shapes into a vessel. - Ella Wheeler Wilcox |
08-04-2015, 02:52 PM | #682 |
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I like Rumi set to music cause I'm a hopeless sensualist.
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08-08-2015, 11:20 AM | #683 |
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Alone
Lying, thinking Last night How to find my soul a home Where water is not thirsty And bread loaf is not stone I came up with one thing And I don't believe I'm wrong That nobody, But nobody Can make it out here alone. Alone, all alone Nobody, but nobody Can make it out here alone. There are some millionaires With money they can't use Their wives run round like banshees Their children sing the blues They've got expensive doctors To cure their hearts of stone. But nobody No, nobody Can make it out here alone. Alone, all alone Nobody, but nobody Can make it out here alone. Now if you listen closely I'll tell you what I know Storm clouds are gathering The wind is gonna blow The race of man is suffering And I can hear the moan, 'Cause nobody, But nobody Can make it out here alone. Alone, all alone Nobody, but nobody Can make it out here alone. - Maya Angelou |
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08-19-2015, 09:37 AM | #684 |
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The Plaid Dress~
Edna St. Vincent Millay Strong sun, that bleach The curtains of my room, can you not render Colourless this dress I wear? This violent plaid Of purple angers and red shames; the yellow stripe Of thin but valid treacheries, the flashy green of kind deeds done Through indolence, high judgements given in haste; The recurring checker of the serious breach of taste? No more uncoloured than unmade, I fear, can be this garment that I may not doff; Confession does not strip it off, To send me homeward eased and bare; All through the formal, unoffending evening, under the clean Bright hair, Lining the subtle gown...It is not seen, But it is there. |
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08-19-2015, 08:08 PM | #685 |
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Still I Rise
You may write me down in history With your bitter, twisted lies, You may trod 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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08-20-2015, 05:44 AM | #686 |
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Mary Oliver - Wild Geese
You do not have to be good.
You do not have to walk on your knees for a hundred miles through the desert repenting. You only have to let the soft animal of your body love what it loves. Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine. Meanwhile the world goes on. Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain are moving across the landscapes, over the prairies and the deep trees, the mountains and the rivers. Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air, are heading home again. Whoever you are, no matter how lonely, the world offers itself to your imagination, calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting - over and over announcing your place in the family of things.
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08-20-2015, 06:13 AM | #687 |
Timed Out - Identity Issues
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Edna St. Vincent Millay, 1892 - 1950
I shall forget you presently, my dear, So make the most of this, your little day, Your little month, your little half a year, Ere I forget, or die, or move away, And we are done forever; by and by I shall forget you, as I said, but now, If you entreat me with your loveliest lie I will protest you with my favorite vow. I would indeed that love were longer-lived, And vows were not so brittle as they are, But so it is, and nature has contrived To struggle on without a break thus far, Whether or not we find what we are seeking Is idle, biologically speaking. |
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08-20-2015, 09:41 AM | #688 |
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Good vs. bad crazy
Some People-Charles Bukowski
some people never go crazy. me, sometimes I'll lie down behind the couch for 3 or 4 days. they'll find me there. it's Cherub, they'll say, and they pour wine down my throat rub my chest sprinkle me with oils. then, I'll rise with a roar, rant, rage - curse them and the universe as I send them scattering over the lawn. I'll feel much better, sit down to toast and eggs, hum a little tune, suddenly become as lovable as a pink overfed whale. some people never go crazy. what truly horrible lives they must lead.
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08-25-2015, 07:43 AM | #689 |
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Changing our lives is difficult but doable.
“A Biography in Five Chapters”
Portia Nelson Chapter One: I walk down the street. There is a deep hole in the sidewalk. I fall in. I am lost. …I am helpless. It isn’t my fault. It takes forever to find a way out. Chapter Two: I walk down the same street. There is a deep hole in the sidewalk. I pretend I don’t see it. I fall in again. I can’t believe I’m in this same place. But it isn’t my fault. It still takes a long time to get out. Chapter Three: I walk down the same street. There is a deep hole in the sidewalk. I see it there. I fall in. …It’s a habit … but my eyes are open. I know where I am. I get out immediately. Chapter Four: I walk down the same street. There is a deep hole in the sidewalk. I walk around it. Chapter Five: I walk down a different street. |
08-25-2015, 07:38 PM | #690 |
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When I cannot look at your face
I look at your feet. Your feet of arched bone, your hard little feet. I know that they support you, and that your sweet weight rises upon them. Your waist and your breasts, the doubled purple of your nipples, the sockets of your eyes that have just flown away, your wide fruit mouth, your red tresses, my little tower. But I love your feet only because they walked upon the earth and upon the wind and upon the waters, until they found me. Pablo Neruda
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08-26-2015, 06:32 AM | #691 |
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Love
When I Started Loving Myself” - A Poem By Charlie Chaplin Written On His 70th Birthday On April 16, 1959:
When I Started Loving Myself I Understood That I’m Always And At Any Given Opportunity In The Right Place At The Right Time. And I Understood That All That Happens Is Right – From Then On I Could Be Calm. Today I Know: It’s Called TRUST. When I Started To Love Myself I Understood How Much It Can Offend Somebody When I Tried To Force My Desires On This Person, Even Though I Knew The Time Is Not Right And The Person Was Not Ready For It, And Even Though This Person Was Me. Today I Know: It’s Called LETTING GO When I Started Loving Myself I Could Recognize That Emotional Pain And Grief Are Just Warnings For Me To Not Live Against My Own Truth. Today I Know: It’s Called AUTHENTICALLY BEING. When I Started Loving Myself I Stopped Longing For Another Life And Could See That Everything Around Me Was A Request To Grow. Today I Know: It’s Called MATURITY. When I Started Loving Myself I Stopped Depriving Myself Of My Free Time And Stopped Sketching Further Magnificent Projects For The Future. Today I Only Do What’s Fun And Joy For Me, What I Love And What Makes My Heart Laugh, In My Own Way And In My Tempo. Today I Know: It’s Called HONESTY. When I Started Loving Myself I Escaped From All What Wasn’t Healthy For Me, From Dishes, People, Things, Situations And From Everyhting Pulling Me Down And Away From Myself. In The Beginning I Called It The “Healthy Egoism”, But Today I Know: It’s Called SELF-LOVE. When I Started Loving Myself I Stopped Wanting To Be Always Right Thus I’ve Been Less Wrong. Today I’ve Recognized: It’s Called HUMBLENESS. When I Started Loving Myself I Refused To Live Further In The Past And Worry About My Future. Now I Live Only At This Moment Where EVERYTHING Takes Place, Like This I Live Every Day And I Call It CONSCIOUSNESS. When I Started Loving Myself I Recognized, That My Thinking Can Make Me Miserable And Sick. When I Requested For My Heart Forces, My Mind Got An Important Partner. Today I Call This Connection HEART WISDOM. We Do Not Need To Fear Further Discussions, Conflicts And Problems With Ourselves And Others Since Even Stars Sometimes Bang On Each Other And Create New Worlds. Today I Know: THIS IS LIFE! |
09-06-2015, 07:00 AM | #692 |
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"Don't look at your form,
however ugly or beautiful. Look at love and at the aim of your quest. ... O you whose lips are parched, keep looking for water. Those parched lips are proof that eventually you will reach the source." RUMI |
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09-06-2015, 07:42 AM | #693 |
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e.e. cummings - somewhere i have never travelled, gladly beyond
somewhere i have never travelled,gladly beyond
any experience your eyes have their silence: in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me, or which i cannot touch because they are too near your slightest look easily will unclose me though i have closed myself as fingers, you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens (touching skilfully,mysteriously)her first rose or if your wish be to close me,i and my life will shut very beautifully,suddenly, as when the heart of this flower imagines the snow carefully everywhere descending; nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals the power of your intense fragility:whose texture compels me with the colour of its countries, rendering death and forever with each breathing (i do not know what it is about you that closes and opens;only something in me understands the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses) nobody,not even the rain,has such small hands e.e. cummings
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09-13-2015, 02:16 PM | #694 |
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Camomile Tea
Camomile Tea by Katherine Mansfield (1888-1923) Outside the sky is light with stars; There’s a hollow roaring from the sea. And, alas! for the little almond flowers, The wind is shaking the almond tree. How little I thought, a year ago, In the horrible cottage upon the Lee That he and I should be sitting so And sipping a cup of camomile tea. Light as feathers the witches fly, The horn of the moon is plain to see; By a firefly under a jonquil flower A goblin toasts a bumble-bee. We might be fifty, we might be five, So snug, so compact, so wise are we! Under the kitchen-table leg My knee is pressing against his knee. Our shutters are shut, the fire is low, The tap is dripping peacefully; The saucepan shadows on the wall Are black and round and plain to see.
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Be still when you have nothing to say; when genuine passion moves you, say what you've got to say, and say it hot. D. H. Lawrence |
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09-13-2015, 03:07 PM | #695 |
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Those Winter Sundays by Robert Hayden
Those Winter Sundays by Robert Hayden
Sundays too my father got up early and put his clothes on in the blueblack cold, then with cracked hands that ached from labor in the weekday weather made banked fires blaze. No one ever thanked him. I’d wake and hear the cold splintering, breaking. When the rooms were warm, he’d call, and slowly I would rise and dress, fearing the chronic angers of that house, Speaking indifferently to him, who had driven out the cold and polished my good shoes as well. What did I know, what did I know of love’s austere and lonely offices? |
09-15-2015, 07:28 PM | #696 |
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There are nights when only Bukowski will do.
The Laughing Heart
your life is your life don't let it be clubbed into dank submission. be on the watch. there are ways out. there is a light somewhere. it may not be much light but it beats the darkness. be on the watch. the gods will offer you chances. know them. take them. you can't beat death but you can beat death in life, sometimes. and the more often you learn to do it, the more light there will be. your life is your life. know it while you have it. you are marvelous the gods wait to delight in you.
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09-18-2015, 02:33 PM | #697 |
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Honey and Salt
by Carl Sandburg A bag of tricks—is it? And a game smoothies play? If you’re good with a deck of cards or rolling the bones—that helps? If you can tell jokes and be a chum and make an impression—that helps? When boy meets girl or girl meets boy— what helps? They all help: be cozy but not too cozy: be shy, bashful, mysterious, yet only so-so: then forget everything you ever heard about love for it’s a summer tan and a winter windburn and it comes as weather comes and you can’t change it: it comes like your face came to you, like your legs came and the way you walk, talk, hold your head and hands— and nothing can be done about it—you wait and pray. Is there any way of measuring love? Yes but not till long afterward when the beat of your heart has gone many miles, far into the big numbers. Is the key to love in passion, knowledge, affection? All three—along with moonlight, roses, groceries, givings and forgivings, gettings and forgettings, keepsakes and room rent, pearls of memory along with ham and eggs. Can love be locked away and kept hid? Yes and it gathers dust and mildew and shrivels itself in shadows unless it learns the sun can help, snow, rain, storms can help— birds in their one-room family nests shaken by winds cruel and crazy— they can all help: lock not away your love nor keep it hid. How comes the first sign of love? In a chill, in a personal sweat, in a you-and-me, us, us two, in a couple of answers, an amethyst haze on the horizon, two dance programs criss-crossed, jackknifed initials interwoven, five fresh violets lost in sea salt, birds flying at single big moments in and out a thousand windows, a horse, two horses, many horses, a silver ring, a brass cry, a golden gong going ong ong ong-ng-ng, pink doors closing one by one to sunset nightsongs along the west, shafts and handles of stars, folds of moonmist curtains, winding and unwinding wisps of fogmist. How long does love last? As long as glass bubbles handled with care or two hot-house orchids in a blizzard or one solid immovable steel anvil tempered in sure inexorable welding— or again love might last as six snowflakes, six hexagonal snowflakes, six floating hexagonal flakes of snow or the oaths between hydrogen and oxygen in one cup of spring water or the eyes of bucks and does or two wishes riding on the back of a morning wind in winter or one corner of an ancient tabernacle held sacred for personal devotions or dust yes dust in a little solemn heap played on by changing winds. There are sanctuaries holding honey and salt. There are those who spill and spend. There are those who search and save. And love may be a quest with silence and content. Can you buy love? Sure every day with money, clothes, candy, with promises, flowers, big-talk, with laughter, sweet-talk, lies, every day men and women buy love and take it away and things happen and they study about it and the longer they look at it the more it isn’t love they bought at all: bought love is a guaranteed imitation. Can you sell love? Yes you can sell it and take the price and think it over and look again at the price and cry and cry to yourself and wonder who was selling what and why. Evensong lights floating black night water, a lagoon of stars washed in velvet shadows, a great storm cry from white sea-horses— these moments cost beyond all prices. Bidden or unbidden? how comes love? Both bidden and unbidden, a sneak and a shadow, a dawn in a doorway throwing a dazzle or a sash of light in a blue fog, a slow blinking of two red lanterns in river mist or a deep smoke winding one hump of a mountain and the smoke becomes a smoke known to your own twisted individual garments: the winding of it gets into your walk, your hands, your face and eyes. |
09-29-2015, 11:27 AM | #698 |
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You come between me & the night.
Closer than sleep you lie with me You are the air, you are the light, You are my hearing, you my sight, And you are all I hear & see. Edith Wharton
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Be still when you have nothing to say; when genuine passion moves you, say what you've got to say, and say it hot. D. H. Lawrence |
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10-05-2015, 08:12 PM | #699 |
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silence feeling is first
who pays any attention to the syntax of things will never wholly kiss you; wholly to be a fool while Spring is in the world my blood approves, and kisses are a better fate than wisdom lady I swear by all flowers. Don't cry -the best gesture of my brain is less than your eyelids' flutter which says we are for each other: then laugh, leaning back in my arms for life's not a paragraph And death I think is no parenthesis -e.e. cummings
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Love consists in this, that two solitudes protect and touch and greet each other. - Rainer Maria Rilke |
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12-18-2015, 10:23 AM | #700 |
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A Walk
My eyes already touch the sunny hill,
going far ahead of the road I have begun. So we are grasped by what we cannot grasp; It has its inner light even from a distance- And changes us, even if we do not reach it, into something else, which hardly sensing it, we already are; A gesture waves us on, answering our own wave… but what we feel is the wind in our faces. — Rainer Marie Rilke |
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