srt by Dascha Freidlova

b and w

poem

Rim Elsalamouny ♥
Visioning the unseen...........

Seek the truth on the level beyond
The gate is opened to a one bond
No place for walls or barriers
Once being your own warrior

Step in and dominate the place
Your pure soul will fill the space
Your inner spirit will shine and glow
Natural beauty will start to draw

You are empowered by your heart
Reveal yourself as a start
Knowing you are not a frame
Pursue your dream With no shame

To transcend beyond any earthly sight
To find whatever your seek in light
Your sacred being finally will stand
Onto an eternal golden land
~R~

Onward

He got his muscles toned and ready
for the next new model. To woo and touch and
swoon over. He is at his peak.
Surveying the landscape of his new quest
with shiny new purpose and sparkling
opportunities. He's got it made!
Out with the old, in with the new!
Riding over the bumpy past, ironing out the
the vestiges of  bygone troubles. He looks forward.
Nothing will stop the upward mobility of this
man on a mission.
He will ride and ride and ride
until he can ride no more.
He deserves it, after all.
He made sacrifices! He did the deeds.
Took you for a ride you never wanted. But that's
too late now. Its onward and
westward ho!
No time for unwanteds,
they just bog you down.
Time is of the essence!
No time to waste!
Must
move
on.

By Lucya Kotelewec Lebid

King

 "King?"
What do you call a man
that calls you
peice of shit, a pig, insane?
King?
What do you call a man
who belittles you,
calls you stupid and laughs when you cry?
King of the hill?
What do you call a man
who kicks you when you're down and
twists your words?
King of the mountain?
What do you call a man who
says you are the reason of all his troubles
and he wishes he had never met you?
King of the castle?
What do you call a man who
doesn't care if you're sick and
blames you that his dinner wasn't done
or laundry wasn't washed.
King of the world?
What do you call a man who sees you
taking care of ill mother, sick child but
says you do nothing.
King of the road?
What do you call a man who
says you're lazy, good for nothing
and a waste?.
King of the beasts?
What do you call a man who
thinks he is so much smarter than you
and uses every opportunity to show it and
put you in your place?
King? No, Coward.
by Lucya Kotelewec Lebid

"insignificance " poem

"insignificance"

The moment when the night noises end
and the first bird sings
when the moon sets and
dew descends covering
the world with glistening diamonds.
To linger in this brief moment
between life and death
love and hate
I become one with the universe
suspended
transformed
an instant in time
in eternity….
the magnitude of the summer
sun’s rays
multiplied
and infinite
And my
insignificance
is worthy.
By Lucya Kotelewec Lebid
©2013, Lucya Kotelewec Lebid, all rights reserved

Separation
by W.S. Merwin

Your absence has gone through me
Like thread through a needle.... 

Everything I do is stitched with its color.

poet W S Merwin

For the Anniversary of My Death,” from 1967. It’s a poem that, like much of his best work, smuggles in overlapping layers of grave meaning:

Every year without knowing it I have passed the day
When the last fires will wave to me
And the silence will set out
Tireless traveller
Like the beam of a lightless star
Then I will no longer
Find myself in life as in a strange garment
Surprised at the earth
And the love of one woman
And the shamelessness of men
As today writing after three days of rain
Hearing the wren sing and the falling cease
And bowing not knowing to what

http://www.nytimes.com/2010/07/01/books/01garner.html?_r=1

quote

"Listen for the whisper...or the scream will become deafening." ~Erin Duquette

Fall by D. Freidlova

Autumn in Bakchesarai ,Crimea by Andrij Lashchuk 5

Autumn in Bakchesarai ,Crimea by Andrij Lashchuk 4

Autumn in Bakchesarai ,Crimea by Andrij Lashchuk 3

People of Bakchesarai ,Crimea by Andrij Lashchuk

Autumn in Bakchesarai ,Crimea by Andrij Lashchuk 2

Autumn in Crimea by Andrij Lashchuk

quote

"I prefer to be subcultural rather than mass-cultural. I'm not interested in hitting the vein of the mainstream."~Jim Jarmusch

beautiful Swedish tapestry

Poem by Fernando Pessoa

Fernando Pessoa A Shrug of the Shoulders We generally give to our ideas about the unknown the color of our notions about what we do know: If we call death a sleep it's because it has the appearance of sleep; if we call death a new life, it's because it seems different from life. We build our beliefs and hopes out of these small misunderstandings with reality and live off husks of bread we call cakes, the way poor children play at being happy. But that's how all life is; at least that's how the particular way of life generally known as civilization is. Civilization consists in giving an innapropriate name to something and then dreaming what results from that. And in fact the false name and the true dream do create a new reality. The object really does become other, because we have made it so. We manufacture realities. We use the raw materials we always used but the form lent it by art effectively prevents it from remaining the same. A table made out of pinewood is a pinetree but it is also a table. We sit down at the table not at the pinetree. ... An excerpt from "The Book of Disquiet," written in the 1920's, first published in 1982 by Atica in Lisbon.

poem by Pablo Neruda

The Song of Despair
by Pablo Neruda translated by W. S. Merwin
The memory of you emerges from the night around me. The river mingles its stubborn lament with the sea. Deserted like the wharves at dawn. It is the hour of departure, oh deserted one! Cold flower heads are raining over my heart. Oh pit of debris, fierce cave of the shipwrecked. In you the wars and the flights accumulated. From you the wings of the song birds rose. You swallowed everything, like distance. Like the sea, like time. In you everything sank! It was the happy hour of assault and the kiss. The hour of the spell that blazed like a lighthouse. Pilot’s dread, fury of a blind diver, turbulent drunkenness of love, in you everything sank! In the childhood of mist my soul, winged and wounded. Lost discoverer, in you everything sank! You girdled sorrow, you clung to desire, sadness stunned you, in you everything sank! I made the wall of shadow draw back, beyond desire and act, I walked on. Oh flesh, my own flesh, woman whom I loved and lost, I summon you in the moist hour, I raise my song to you. Like a jar you housed the infinite tenderness, and the infinite oblivion shattered you like a jar. There was the black solitude of the islands, and there, woman of love, your arms took me in. There were thirst and hunger, and you were the fruit. There were grief and the ruins, and you were the miracle. Ah woman, I do not know how you could contain me in the earth of your soul, in the cross of your arms! How terrible and brief was my desire of you! How difficult and drunken, how tensed and avid. Cemetery of kisses, there is still fire in your tombs, still the fruited boughs burn, pecked at by birds. Oh the bitten mouth, oh the kissed limbs, oh the hungering teeth, oh the entwined bodies. Oh the mad coupling of hope and force in which we merged and despaired. And the tenderness, light as water and as flour. And the word scarcely begun on the lips. This was my destiny and in it was the voyage of my longing, and in it my longing fell, in you everything sank! Oh pit of debris, everything fell into you, what sorrow did you not express, in what sorrow are you not drowned! From billow to billow you still called and sang. Standing like a sailor in the prow of a vessel. You still flowered in songs, you still broke in currents. Oh pit of debris, open and bitter well. Pale blind diver, luckless slinger, lost discoverer, in you everything sank! It is the hour of departure, the hard cold hour which the night fastens to all the timetables. The rustling belt of the sea girdles the shore. Cold stars heave up, black birds migrate. Deserted like the wharves at dawn. Only the tremulous shadow twists in my hands. Oh farther than everything. Oh farther than everything. It is the hour of departure. Oh abandoned one.

poem by Tada Chimako

Mirrors
by Tada Chimako translated by Jeffrey Angles
The mirror is always slightly taller than I It laughs a moment after I laugh Turning red as a boiled crab I cut myself from the mirror with shears * When my lips draw close, the mirror clouds over And I vanish behind my own sighs Like an aristocrat hiding behind his crest Or a gangster behind his tattoos * Oh traveler, go to Lacedaemon and say that in the mirror, Graveyard of smiles, there is a single gravestone Painted white, thick with makeup Where the wind blows alone

poem by Tada Chimako

A Spray of Water: Tanka [the hot water in]
by Tada Chimako translated by Jeffrey Angles
the hot water in the abandoned kettle slowly cools still carrying the resentment of colder water

Poem by Yusef Komunyakaa

Jasmine
by Yusef Komunyakaa
I sit beside two women, kitty-corner to the stage, as Elvin's sticks blur the club into a blue fantasia. I thought my body had forgotten the Deep South, how I'd cross the street if a woman like these two walked towards me, as if a cat traversed my path beneath the evening star. Which one is wearing jasmine? If my grandmothers saw me now they'd say, Boy, the devil never sleeps. My mind is lost among November cotton flowers, a soft rain on my face as Richard Davis plucks the fat notes of chance on his upright leaning into the future. The blonde, the brunette— which one is scented with jasmine? I can hear Duke in the right hand & Basie in the left as the young piano player nudges us into the past. The trumpet's almost kissed by enough pain. Give him a few more years, a few more ghosts to embrace—Clifford's shadow on the edge of the stage. The sign says, No Talking. Elvin's guardian angel lingers at the top of the stairs, counting each drop of sweat paid in tribute. The blonde has her eyes closed, & the brunette is looking at me. Our bodies sway to each riff, the jasmine rising from a valley somewhere in Egypt, a white moon opening countless false mouths of laughter. The midnight gatherers are boys & girls with the headlights of trucks aimed at their backs, because their small hands refuse to wound the knowing scent hidden in each bloom.

my favorite time of year

Foto by Dascha Freidlova

Fall Moves In by Brent Durken

Fall Moves In.

Brent

random

night rain

Night rain
washing the blurred scenery down
a muddy river with
somber beats
of drops dripping
monotonously
seeping into
a groundswell of a dark damp
hollow brain
filling with watery
deception devoid
of all reason.

By Lucya Kotelewec Lebid

Wanderlust...can't wait to hit the road again....

flowers