[wee-hoo]

17.12.2016 в 23:42

Пишет  desenrascanco:

Пишет  desenrascanco:

17.12.2016 в 22:40

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Do not go gentle into that good night

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There are no happy endings.
Endings are the saddest part,
So just give me a happy middle
And a very happy start.

Shel Silverstein


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ссылкой, чтобы в коммент влезло - youngerpoets.yupnet.org/2008/04/17/you-are-jeff...


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ссылкой, чтобы курсив не выделять вручную - words-end-here.livejournal.com/35121.html

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There is freedom waiting for you,
On the breezes of the sky,
And you ask 'What if I fall?'
Oh but my darling,
What if you fly?

Erin Hanson


*

The Quiet World
BY JEFFREY MCDANIEL

In an effort to get people to look
into each other’s eyes more,
and also to appease the mutes,
the government has decided
to allot each person exactly one hundred
and sixty-seven words, per day.

When the phone rings, I put it to my ear
without saying hello. In the restaurant
I point at chicken noodle soup.
I am adjusting well to the new way.

Late at night, I call my long distance lover,
proudly say I only used fifty-nine today.
I saved the rest for you.

When she doesn’t respond,
I know she’s used up all her words,
so I slowly whisper I love you
thirty-two and a third times.
After that, we just sit on the line
and listen to each other breathe.


*


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


*

my cat is sad.
no one else in his family is a cat
we are all human except for him
he is excluded from most things
and no one tells him why
he just wants to play
and be loved
he looks at us with wonder
and disappointment
he says hello i am a cat what is my existence
what is that / why it and not me / please can you look at me and love me too
can i have some of your food please im sorry i dont like my food so much
do you want to play with my toys? this one is my favourite
do you like me
are we brothers
why didnt i grow up
why am i so small
can you help me be happy
where are you going

Spencer Madsen


*

и обожаю авторов с тумбы


first. he touches you and you light on fire. your wrist blazes where his fingers meet your skin. the burns don’t show, but it’s hard to breathe with ash in your lungs. it’s so hard to breathe. you’re suffocating daily.
second. it hurts to watch him. he shines. he’s brighter than the sun, he’s too beautiful for your eyes. it’s hard to look at him. it’s even harder to look away from him. you’re going blind.
third. your ears are tuned to his voice. you could pick him out in a sea of thousands. his voice makes pretty singers who sing pretty songs sound dull. his voice makes everything else sound ugly.
fourth. the color of his eyes is blue enough to drown in. he is turning you into a clichéd love-wrecked being. you’re drowning, always sinking. down, down, down.
fifth. you know him. you love him. through a thousand lifetimes, across millions of stars, you’d find him, you’d never leave him. you love him, till death do you part.
( sixth. he loves you, too. )
five things you know and the one thing you don’t. 19/09/14 (via eposetties)


горю от этой леди cardiamachina.co.vu/tagged/My-Poetry
например


May I hand you my heart
And will you receive it with reverence
Like I’ve given to you the wholeness of the earth?

Will you be breathless as I am
Hand atop hand,
As I gently pour, into the lines of your palms:

1000 nights of restless sleep
500 shades of different colored skies
100 heart beats per solid minute
And 1 of the many breaths
You have unwittingly taken from my lungs.

This is a profession of numbers
A quantification of affection,
And in attempt for normalcy, I ask:

– Will you marry me? Poetic Proposals # 1, n.t.

и

We bless the craters of the moon with names,
Yet we are not allowed to honor
The marks on our body.

And so, I sanctify my own indentations:
Abenezra, the flare of red across my forehead
Kastner, the remnants of wounds on my knees
Humboldt, the lines of my body stretching and growing,
Bohr–the faded scars on my wrist.

There is no room here
For your footsteps,
Or your flags.

I claim my own landscape.

– Houston, we have a problem: she loves her own body. I repeat: she loves her own body! n.t.

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