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Gems And Stars- Poetry and Prose

What do you when you’re drowning
Do you pull every branch out there
Do you hold on to the shallow ends in the hope they’ll keep you safe
Do you let someone try to keep you from drowning
And take them down with you

When you’re falling
Do you panic and ruin everything around you like the storm that you are
Do you avoid the deep ends
Or do you take every rope extended to you that makes you stayz

When you’re running away
Do you take those you love with you
Or do you leave them behind for their own good
Do you kiss them goodbye

So when you’re drowning
Falling
And running away
How do you stumble upon your perserverance and indefatigable efforts and stay where you are?

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Ode To Tomatoes – Pablo Neruda

The street
filled with tomatoes,
midday,
summer,
light is
halved
like
a
tomato,
its juice
runs
through the streets.
In December,
unabated,
the tomato
invades
the kitchen,
it enters at lunchtime,
takes
its ease
on countertops,
among glasses,
butter dishes,
blue saltcellars.
It sheds
its own light,
benign majesty.
Unfortunately, we must
murder it:
the knife
sinks
into living flesh,
red
viscera
a cool
sun,
profound,
inexhaustible,
populates the salads
of Chile,
happily, it is wed
to the clear onion,
and to celebrate the union
we
pour
oil,
essential
child of the olive,
onto its halved hemispheres,
pepper
adds
its fragrance,
salt, its magnetism;
it is the wedding
of the day,
parsley
hoists
its flag,
potatoes
bubble vigorously,
the aroma
of the roast
knocks
at the door,
it’s time!
come on!
and, on
the table, at the midpoint
of summer,
the tomato,
star of earth, recurrent
and fertile
star,
displays
its convolutions,
its canals,
its remarkable amplitude
and abundance,
no pit,
no husk,
no leaves or thorns,
the tomato offers
its gift
of fiery color
and cool completeness.

Pablo Neruda
Gif
Poem analysis

SILVER (WALTER DE LA MARE)

Another Kind Of Grass

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Slowly, silently, now the moon
Walks the night in her silver shoon;
This way, and that, she peers, and sees
Silver fruit upon silver trees;
One by one the casements catch
Her beams beneath the silvery thatch;
Couched in his kennel, like a log,
With paws of silver sleeps the dog;
From their shadowy cote the white breasts peep
Of doves in silver feathered sleep
A harvest mouse goes scampering by,
With silver claws, and silver eye;
And moveless fish in the water gleam,
By silver reeds in a silver stream.

Walter de la Mare

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The Search for Lost Lives – James Tate

Another Kind Of Grass

I was chasing this blue butterfly down
the road when a car came by and clipped me.   
It was nothing serious, but it angered me and
I turned around and cursed the driver who didn’t
even slow down to see if I was hurt.  Then I
returned my attention to the butterfly which   
was nowhere to be seen.  One of the Doubleday   
girls came running up the street with her toy
poodle toward me.  I stopped her and asked,
“Have you seen a blue butterfly around here?”
“It’s down near that birch tree near Grandpa’s,”
she said. “Thanks,” I said, and walked briskly
toward the tree.  It was fluttering from flower
to flower in Mr.  Doubleday’s extensive garden,   
a celestial blueness to soothe the weary heart.   
I didn’t know what I was doing there. I certain-
ly didn’t want to capture it.  It was like
something I had known in…

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A Stream Flowing

Another Kind Of Grass

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Now I saw a stream flowing;
Now neither bank nor bridge was seen.
Now I saw a bush in bloom;
Now neither rose nor thorn was seen.

Lalla

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HIS HEART WAS DARKER THAN THE STARLESS NIGHT – EMILY DICKINSON

Another Kind Of Grass

http://media.giphy.com/media/K4Ah8dch7yrAs/giphy.gif

His Heart was darker than the starless night
For that there is a morn
But in this black Receptacle
Can be no Bode of Dawn

EMILY DICKINSON

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The Search for Lost Lives – James Tate

I was chasing this blue butterfly down
the road when a car came by and clipped me.   
It was nothing serious, but it angered me and
I turned around and cursed the driver who didn’t
even slow down to see if I was hurt.  Then I
returned my attention to the butterfly which   
was nowhere to be seen.  One of the Doubleday   
girls came running up the street with her toy
poodle toward me.  I stopped her and asked,
“Have you seen a blue butterfly around here?”
“It’s down near that birch tree near Grandpa’s,”
she said. “Thanks,” I said, and walked briskly
toward the tree.  It was fluttering from flower
to flower in Mr.  Doubleday’s extensive garden,   
a celestial blueness to soothe the weary heart.   
I didn’t know what I was doing there. I certain-
ly didn’t want to capture it.  It was like
something I had known in another life, even if
it was only in a dream, I wanted to confirm it.   
I was a blind beggar on the streets of Cordoba
when I first saw it, and now, again it was here.
The Search For Lost LivesJames Tate
Cinemagraph: Butteryplanet

THE LAST BARMAN POET

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I am the world’s last barman poet.
I see America drinking the fabulous cocktails I make.
Americans getting stinking on something I stir or shake.
The Sex on the Beach,
The Schnapps made from peach,
The Velvet Hammer,
The Alabama Slammer.

I make things with juice and froth.
The Pink Squirrel,
The 3-Toed Sloth.

I make drinks so sweat and snazzy.
The Iced Tea,
The Kamikaze,
The Orgasm,
The Death Spasm,
The Singapore Sling,
The Ding-a-ling.

America you’re just devoted to every flavor I got.
But if you want to get loaded,
Why don’t you just order a shot?
Bar is OPEN!!!

 

Gif: Buttery Planet

 

this wind

Leonard Durso

this wind that howls
outside my windows
spraying rain at times
on the terraces the balconies
this wind that moans
beyond my windows
is the only music
I listen to
and for reasons unexplained
comforts me
more than Sibelius
or Ralph Vaughan Williams
could today

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