reprise

Tag: poetry

Impermanence of life

by on Dec.31, 2016, under Life, missflora, poetry, reprise, Thoughts

當明白無常,
就不會張揚。今日華麗風光,明日可能狼藉一場。
當明白無常,
就不會悲傷。今日愁雲慘澹,明日可能滿天陽光。
當明白無常,
得,有什麼喜。失,有什麼傷,得失在不停轉換中。

當你明白無常,一切都覺得正常。

– 老占

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Do not stand at my grave and weep

by on Aug.14, 2011, under poetry

Do not stand at my grave and weep
I am not there. I do not sleep.
I am a thousand winds that blow.
I am the diamond glints on snow.
I am the sunlight on ripened grain.
I am the gentle autumn rain.
When you awaken in the morning’s hush
I am the swift uplifting rush.
Of quiet birds in circled flight.
I am the soft stars that shine at night.
Do not stand at my grave and cry;
I am not there. I did not die.

SOURCE

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from wilderness.

by on Jul.13, 2010, under poetry

I think I was once
I think we were

Your milk is my wine
My silk is your shine

-J.M

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from wilderness

by on Jun.08, 2010, under poetry

Cold electric music
Damage me
Rend my mind
w/your dark slumber

Cold temple of steel
Cold minds alive
on the strangled shore

Veterans of foreign wars
We are the soldiers of
Rock & Roll Wars

– Jim Morrison

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No Respect

by on Mar.19, 2010, under poetry, reading

New & Selected, by Gerard Malanga

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Days of avoiding lunch for a phone-call

by on Mar.16, 2010, under poetry

Days of nothingness
Days of clear skies the temperature descending
Days of no telephone calls or all the wrong ones
Days of complete boredom and nothing
is happening

Days of 1967 coming to a close in the frigid condition of chest
cold and cough
drops

Days of afternoons in the life of a young girl
not being on time

Days of daydreams exploding
Days of utter frustration
Days of my film being cursed and myself
with the curse never lifting

Days of closed windows to keep the cold
out the livingroom warm

Days of avoiding lunch for a phone-call
with change of plans for the day

Days of posting letters
Days of no mail today
Days of fatigue and amphetamine highs
Days of Charles Edward Ives
Days of the 4:00 pm doldrums
Days of wonder drugs to challenge the common cold
Days of utter frustration
Days of forgetting

Days of Rome, Gerard Malanga

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Stealing Beauty

by on Feb.10, 2010, under film, poetry

1. I have her secret deep within for years I’ve had to hide I’ve bought the clues And now I’m hope To bring the truth outside –

2. I wait I wait so patiently I’m as quiet as a cup I hope you’ll come and rattle me Quick! Come wake me up. –

3. The dye is cast The dice are rolled I feel like shit you look like gold.

– Liv Tyler from Stealing Beauty

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street poet

by on Dec.09, 2009, under blahblahblah, poetry

Daydream, delusion, limousine, eyelash
Oh baby with your pretty face
Drop a tear in my wineglass
Look at those big eyes
See what you mean to me
Sweet-cakes and milkshakes

I’m delusion angel
I’m fantasy parade

I want you to know what I think
Don’t want you to guess anymore
You have no idea where I came from
We have no idea where we’re going
Latched in life
Like branches in a river
Flowing downstream
Caught in the current
I’ll carry you
You’ll carry me
That’s how it could be
Don’t you know me?
Don’t you know me by now?

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how many souls?

by on Nov.06, 2009, under poetry, reading

Mirror, Mirror

When I look into a
mirror,

it is her face I see.
Her right is my left, double
moles, dimple and all.
My right is her left,
unblemished.

We are exact
opposites,

Kaeleigh and me.
Mirror-image identical
twins. One egg, one sperm,
one zygote, divided,
sharing one complete
set of genetic markers.

On the outside
we are the same. But not
inside. I think
she is the egg, so
much like our mother
it makes me want to scream.

Cold.
Controlled.

That makes me the sperm,
I guess. I take completely
after our father.
All Daddy, that’s me.

Codependent.
Cowardly.

Good, bad. Left, right.
Kaeleigh and Raeanne.
One egg, one sperm.
One being, split in two.

And how many
souls?

Identical by Ellen Hopkins

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with lines of moon and paths of an apple

by on Sep.25, 2009, under poetry

-Pablo Neruda

In nude you are as bare as one of your hands
smooth, earthly, small, round, transparent
with lines of moon and paths of an apple,
in nude you’re slender like a naked stem of wheat.

In nude you look blue like the Cuban night
with stars and vines in your hair,
in nude you are whole and yellow
like summer in a church of gold.

In nude you look tiny like one of your finger nails
curvy, subtle, rose-colored like the rising dawn
and you move back to the world’s underground.

As if in a large tunnel of robes and chores:
your clarity, dressed, blinds and drops its leaves
and other times becomes a naked hand again.

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