Absorb the silence around
Know the silence and it messages
Connect with the inner self
At rest is the soul and mind
Moments that reveals the truth
Silence douses the flames of uncertainty
Rendezvous with silence
As silence is there to be deciphered
Harsh and cold
autumn holds to it our naked trees:
If only you would free, at least, the sparrows
from the tips of your fingers
and release a smile, a small smile
from the imprisoned cry I see.
Sing! Can we sing
as if we were light, hand in hand
sheltered in shade, under a strong sun?
Will you remain, this way
stoking the fire, more beautiful than necessary, and quiet?
and the distant light is our only consolation —
that one, which from the beginning
has, little by little, been flickering
and is now about to go out.
Come to me. Closer and closer.
I don’t want to know my hand from yours.
And let’s beware of sleep, lest the snow smother us.
by Walid Khazindar
Walid Khazindar was born in 1950 in Gaza City. He is considered one of the best Palestinian poets; his poetry has been said to be “characterized by metaphoric originality and a novel thematic approach unprecedented in Arabic poetry.” He was awarded the first Palestine Prize for Poetry in 1997.
Thanking today Peter Watkins for his poem.
Fingers like darts,
akin to fireflies,
zipping up and down, creating art,
along the fret board so the tune never dies.
Never stopping, undying,
Through the air, the notes are flying.
Striking out a barre,
slipping into a scale,
plucking the strings, in a swift flurry to blind like a star,
a needle sewing a tapestry that will fail to grow frail.
Never forgotten, undying,
Through your ears, the notes are caressing.
Until the plucking,
becomes part of you,
a song in the back of your mind, soothing your sighing,
coming to surface whenever your troubles come to face you.
Always remaining, undying,
Through your heart, the notes are building…
Until they’re ready to be let free.
Through violence, passion, creativity? It’s not up to me!
Rose Colored Glasses
People take the world as they see it themselves
some see black
some see white
many see grey
as for me?
I see it for what it is….technicolored.
Life is far to wonderful and bright too see it as simple black
it is too deep and mysterious to be only white
it is too exciting and amazing to be described as grey
There’s a reason that there is color present everywhere.
If the world were colorless, so life would be… continue reading
When I was younger,
I enjoyed drinking black coffee.
I liked the taste and the smell.
The bitterness but the sweetness of the coffee bean.
I realized later on how much coffee related to life.
There are bitter moments that stay on the pallate and create a lasting and pungent after taste.
But there are really sweet times that last even longer.
Everyone is seeing these days cherry blossoms. It is a beautiful spectacle that has not escaped anyone’s view worldwide. They are a clear sign of the coming of spring, one of the most beautiful seasons. These flowers belong to the cherry tree in my garden. Hope you like.
Japanese admire the cherry blossoms as the transient nature of life. The entire nation celebrates with festivals, and viewing parties and picnics, and after dark, the parks always seemed to be filled with strolling couples admiring the trees in the moonlight.
Some Japanese poems on the subject of cherry blossoms:
We cannot behold
the beauty of the blossoms
enshrouded by haze –
yet steal us their scent, at least,
spring breezes blowing from the hills.
Yoshimine no Munesada (816-90)
How many times now
have I crossed over hill crests
with the image
of blossoms leading me on –
toward nothing but white clouds?
Fujiwara no Shunzei (1114-1204)
Everyone feels grief
when cherry blossoms scatter.
Might they then be tears –
those drops of moisture falling
in the gentle rains of spring?
Otomo no Juronushi (late 9th century)
Thanks to The Endless Further for these beautiful poems.
This is the Third Post of the Five Photos, Five Stories Challenge.
A bicycle, often called a bike or cycle, is a human-powered, pedal-driven, single-track vehicle, having two wheels attached to a frame, one behind the other. A bicycle rider is called a cyclist, or bicyclist.
Bicycles were introduced in the 19th century in Europe and, as of 2003, number more than a billion worldwide, twice as many as automobiles. They are the principal means of transportation in many regions. They also provide a popular form of recreation, and have been adapted for use as children’s toys, general fitness, military and police applications, courier services, and bicycle racing.
The basic shape and configuration of a typical upright, or safety bicycle, has changed little since the first chain-driven model was developed around 1885. But many details have been improved, especially since the advent of modern materials and computer-aided design. These have allowed for a proliferation of specialized designs for many types of cycling.
The bicycle’s invention has had an enormous effect on society, both in terms of culture and of advancing modern industrial methods. Several components that eventually played a key role in the development of the automobile were initially invented for use in the bicycle, including ball bearings, pneumatic tires, chain-driven sprockets, and tension-spoked wheels.
After three thousand days we stopped loving.
It left quietly, before the first blue in the sky,
while one could still see stars and long shadows.
It walked barefoot across the moonlit floor admiring its feet,
holding a pair of shoes in one hand and an old toothbrush in the other.
It tried to look back but the thought of salt was too great. When it
reached the door,
it shut its eyes going back to minutes prior, with you in bed and your
It tried to memorize your lashes and the creases in your lips, each
It wanted more time but knew that more time was not an option.
It did not close the door entirely for fear of making noise, so
after we stopped loving, everything was framed in the sullen violet
of almost morning. Almost something that was not enough.
by Erika Moya
Erika Moya is a painter and writer. Her work has appeared in Qaartsiluni, the Smoking Poet, the Holly Rose Review, SN Review, the Toronto Quarterly, and Mosaic: Art and Literary journal of the University of California, Riverside. She attends the MFA program of the University of North Carolina Wilmington.
Mireu-me els ulls
Mireu-me els ulls per creure
en el demà que teniu als dits,
dels meus ulls clars
no hi haurà per ningú
Penseu en mi per créixer
en l’esperança d’uns anys millors,
que ens heu negat
brilla al fons dels meus ulls
Sols el poder us tempta
i pel poder us veneu el cor,
però la clau d’or
del temps que fuig
la tinc jo i és la veu
Mireu-me els ulls per créixer… per créixer…
Look at my eyes to believe
in the morning you have fingers,
my eyes clear
there will be no one to
Consider me to grow
in the hope of better years,
we have denied
shines in the background of my eyes
Only the power tempts you
and will sell power to the heart,
but the golden key
I have it and it is the voice
Look at my eyes to grow … to grow …
Miquel Martí i Pol (March 19, 1929 – November 11, 2003)
was one of the most popular poets from Catalunya (Europe) in the 20th century.
Yo no quiero más luz que tu cuerpo ante el mío
Yo no quiero más luz que tu cuerpo ante el mío:
claridad absoluta, transparencia redonda.
Limpidez cuya extraña, como el fondo del río,
con el tiempo se afirma, con la sangre se ahonda..
¿Qué lucientes materias duraderas te han hecho,
corazón de alborada, carnación matutina?
Yo no quiero más día que el que exhala tu pecho.
Tu sangre es la mañana que jamás se termina.
No hay más luz que tu cuerpo, no hay más sol: todo ocaso.
Yo no veo las cosas a otra luz que tu frente.
La otra luz es fantasma, nada más, de tu paso.
Tu insondable mirada nunca gira al poniente.
Claridad sin posible declinar. Suma esencia
del fulgor que ni cede ni abandona la cumbre.
Juventud. Limpidez. Claridad. Transparencia
acercando los astros más lejanos de lumbre.
Claro cuerpo moreno de calor fecundante.
Hierba negra el origen; hierba negra las sienes.
Trago negro los ojos, la mirada distante.
Día azul. Noche clara. Sombra clara que vienes.
Yo no quiero más luz que tu sombra dorada
donde brotan anillos de una hierba sombría.
En mi sangre, fielmente por tu cuerpo abrasada,
para siempre es de noche: para siempre es de día.
Miguel Hernández (October 30, 1910-March 28, 1942), born in Orihuela (Alicante Province), was a leading 20th century Spanish poet and playwright.
Here I Am … by Charles Bukowski
drunk again at 3 a.m. at the end of my 2nd bottle
of wine, I have typed from a dozen to 15 pages of
an old man
maddened for the flesh of young girls in this
top-floor blood pressure
while all the fear of the wasted years
laughs between my toes
no woman will live with me
no Florence Nightingale to watch the
Johnny Carson show with
if I have a stroke I will lay here for six
days, my three cats hungrily ripping the flesh
from my elbows, wrists, head
the radio playing classical music …
I promised myself never to write old man poems
but this one’s funny, you see, excusable, be-
cause I’ve long gone past using myself and there’s
still more left
here at 3 a.m. I am going to take this sheet from
pour another glass and
make love to the fresh new whiteness
maybe get lucky
from “All’s Normal Here” – 1985
Henry Charles Bukowski (August 16, 1920 – March 9, 1994) was a German American poet, novelist, and short story writer