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poetry
Dec 3, 2015 18:32:55 GMT -5
Post by Deleted on Dec 3, 2015 18:32:55 GMT -5
change the color for god's sake..  |
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poetry
Dec 3, 2015 20:47:38 GMT -5
Post by stardustpilgrim on Dec 3, 2015 20:47:38 GMT -5
change the color for god's sake.. I was trying to match your green pajamas........  |
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Post by glimmer on Dec 19, 2015 4:29:49 GMT -5
inscribe
atoms hold together
an inscription to remain sometime
in a time place
what grace
the inscription blazes in a space
due to time and grace
and my gosh, please take
this inscription such
from a humble place
grace to notice such
is a description of grace
with no face and that is
the face of all grace
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Post by glimmer on Dec 20, 2015 2:00:27 GMT -5
"it moves me .."
"I was moved .."
what are these stirrings?
oh heart,
the real murmurs now
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Post by zin on Dec 26, 2015 17:20:56 GMT -5
when you think 'I cannot meditate' listen .. read poetry if it helps or listen .. rustle, chirp swish, woosh nature is always talking poetry so listen .. pssttt now you are in meditation mornings are empty after a lot of talks and walks buildings begin to broadcast feelings and plants look thoughtful, especially single leaves I go to rarely visited streets note down unnoticed cafes and when it gets too dark I locate the moon, before going home  |
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Post by charliegee on Dec 27, 2015 11:36:11 GMT -5
happy christmas all ....
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Post by silver on Dec 27, 2015 11:46:16 GMT -5
back atcha, charlie
~<3
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poetry
Dec 27, 2015 11:46:20 GMT -5
Post by charliegee on Dec 27, 2015 11:46:20 GMT -5
why, yes it is <3
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Post by charliegee on Dec 27, 2015 12:09:57 GMT -5
my reason
and I, never quite at home,
rush forward to future days
or, holding steady,
to days that were
were bright and shinily new
or, older then, beyond
the reach of star love
I wait for this or that
content to hear things
spoken or silent
lovely or shimmering
love, it is, that tumbles
out of hearts
broken and creased
bestowing light on the peace
that lives in you .. ..
so easy, unforced
love, it is, that comes
in the guise of turmoil
love, it is, that bubbles up
in the wake of beauty
beauty that is you
and mine by extension
mine by heavenly gift
mine undeservedly
unreservedly mine to keep
I thank you. my angel
my reason to live
charlie giardino 12/27/15
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Post by silver on Dec 27, 2015 12:15:22 GMT -5
really lovely, charlie
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poetry
Dec 28, 2015 16:39:24 GMT -5
Post by charliegee on Dec 28, 2015 16:39:24 GMT -5
thanks silver <3
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Post by glimmer on Dec 31, 2015 4:27:47 GMT -5
new year drift 2015 over to
new year's eve music
plays from outside
fresh music air drifts
in from an open
window and fireworks
crack as they usually
do every holiday
from random kids
over at the church
across the road
there was once
a mass of seagulls
on the roof more
spiritual an experience
I've never seen from there
~~
a favourite story
of mine is the elderly
new year
handing over to
a newborn year
I'm getting older
in body but that's
only an experience
of what the mirror
has to say
my mind is still
quite ageless
it's true as it has seeded
a few times now
and haha well
we'd have to
talk about cherrry trees
best you just go to japan
if you want to know
all wisdom
from pink falling
on your head
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poetry
Jan 12, 2016 12:13:21 GMT -5
Post by maxdprophet on Jan 12, 2016 12:13:21 GMT -5
via The Poetry FoundationTrying to Name What Doesn’t Change BY NAOMI SHIHAB NYE Roselva says the only thing that doesn’t change is train tracks. She’s sure of it. The train changes, or the weeds that grow up spidery by the side, but not the tracks. I’ve watched one for three years, she says, and it doesn’t curve, doesn’t break, doesn’t grow. Peter isn’t sure. He saw an abandoned track near Sabinas, Mexico, and says a track without a train is a changed track. The metal wasn’t shiny anymore. The wood was split and some of the ties were gone. Every Tuesday on Morales Street butchers crack the necks of a hundred hens. The widow in the tilted house spices her soup with cinnamon. Ask her what doesn’t change. Stars explode. The rose curls up as if there is fire in the petals. The cat who knew me is buried under the bush. The train whistle still wails its ancient sound but when it goes away, shrinking back from the walls of the brain, it takes something different with it every time. |
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Post by charliegee on Jan 12, 2016 22:46:58 GMT -5
thin, white duke
cloudy January Mondays
are melancholy
almost funereal
causing consternation
and heart pain
that deep pulse
of sadness
David Bowie has died
he was my age
I'll be seventy
in a couple of weeks
and despite
the evidence of joy
in my life
I can't shake
the ancient grey
the atonal blue
that makes up my existence
any death is my death
any sadness, my own
my wife will be gone
seven years on eleven, February
the month that took her out
ushered me in
the tears fall unabashedly
shamelessly
I cry for her, for him, for me
for all of us
let us cling to the day
the night comes too quickly
charlie giardino 1/11/16
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Post by glimmer on Jan 13, 2016 3:52:25 GMT -5
thin, white duke cloudy January Mondays are melancholy almost funereal causing consternation and heart pain that deep pulse of sadness David Bowie has died he was my age I'll be seventy in a couple of weeks and despite the evidence of joy in my life I can't shake the ancient grey the atonal blue that makes up my existence any death is my death any sadness, my own my wife will be gone seven years on eleven, February the month that took her out ushered me in the tears fall unabashedly shamelessly I cry for her, for him, for me for all of us let us cling to the day the night comes too quickly charlie giardino 1/11/16 somehow grey goes with pink it's a matter of not differentiating between sunset or sunrise both are beautiful moments so oft lost in thought I felt this body fall away from me in time all as all in all |
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