When i remember your namei know you are my hope.for what ?not for love...'cause i know you can't love me.but i know you are my hope for... Life.Just remembering your smile...i know you are my worldyou shaping my world that became like this...you are my storyNot to be told, But to remember...i love youand... I miss you nowi miss my worldi miss your face, your smile and your voiceI miss you more than anyone that I've ever met-For Enno Indi WP-
Oh, Man in the Moon""Oh, man in the moon, send an evening star to wink at my dreary eyes, and I shall make a wish for a peaceful world that spins with no more lies. Oh, man in the moon, send the night's cool breeze to lull my leery heart, and I shall cast my fears to the wind with ease, and watch them all depart.Oh, man in the moon, send the sandman's dust to rest my weary soul, and I shall slumber in happy dreams until the morning bells do toll.
I'm only leaving you for a handful of days, but it feels as though I'll be gone forever—- the way the door closes behind me with such solidity, the way my suitcase carries everything I'd need for an eternity of traveling light. I've left my hotel number on your desk, instructions about the dog and heating dinner. But like the weather front they warn is on its way with its switchblades of wind and ice, our lives have minds of their own.
I know you can't wash in the same river even onceI know the river will bring new lights that you will not seeI know we live slightly longer than a horse and not nearly as long as a crowI know this has troubled people before and will trouble those after meI know all this has been said a thousand times before and will be said after meI didn't know I like the sky cloudy or clearthe blue vault that Andrei watched on his back on the battlefield at Borodino...
هيچ صيادي در جوي حقيري كه به گودالي مي ريزد ،مرواريدي صيد نخواهد كرد .
If we meet and I say, "Hi,"That's a salutation.If you ask me how I feel,That's a consideration.If we stop and talk awhile,That's a conversation.If we understand each other,That's communication.If we argue, scream and fight,That's an altercation.If later we apologize,That's a reconciliation.If we help each other home,That's cooperation.And all these ations added upMake civilization.(And if I say this is a wonderful poem, Is that exaggeration?)
Within my heart a garden grows,wild with violets and fragrant rose.Bright daffodils line the narrow path,my footsteps silent as I pass.Sweet tulips nod their heads in rest;I kneel in prayer to seek God's best.For round my garden a fence stands firmto guard my heart so I can learnwho should enter, and who should waiton the other side of my locked gate.I clasp the key around my neckand wonder if the time is yet.If I unlocked the gate today, would you come in? Or run away?
Kamu menulis: "Kita sudah mengatakan A, maka kita harus menyebutkan seluruh huruf." Namun masalah itu sekarang sudah sedemikian luar biasa hingga aku menjadi ragu. Maka, kukutipkan puisi singkat dari Jan Erik Vold mengenai hal itu:"Siapa yang mengatakan ATelah mengatakan A"Kamu mengerti yang kumaksud, kan? Kalau kamu telah mengatakan A, maka kamu telah mengatakan A dan harus menjalani segala resiko yang mengikutinya. Tapi, itu tak berarti bahwa kamu juga harus mengatakan B.
Transcendence is before you should you choose to take a swim.Into your deep blue you dive and all that is within.Referred to as my subconscious so you may understand me clear.But there’s nothing very simple about the message I’m sending here.The colour of your blood, the liquid through your veins, is really just a pathway to the place that feels your pains.The heart is an ocean but within it there’s a sun, submerged beneath the ocean, and all that is but one.
I love you beyond your uncertainties and above your fears;I love you profoundly enough for your eyes to know no tears.I love you in your utmost simplicity and yet, in your unrevealed complexity;I love you in your toughest days and in my sincerest ways.I love you in our unfathomable silence and in our expressive distance;I love you for who you were yesterday and at the touch of love, who you become every day.I love you in your presence;I love you in your absence.I just love you.
Katie says, "You can't choose the time and place the when and where with whom you fall in love."She says, "It just happens like that weird feeling you get right before you fall asleep when you gasp in surprise because your muscles just relaxed and you feel like you are falling."She says, "Marcie, you shouldn't worry about it -- give it time to actually happen."I guess --I worry that I won't do it right.That it'll be the wrong time, the wrong place, the wrong person.
As a youth, I listened to the rain from the bowers of pleasure houses,Red silk drapes translucent in the glow of candlelight.In my prime, I listened to the rain as a traveler,The sky low, the river broad, the calls of the wild geese harsh and cold.Now, grey at the temples, I listen to the rain beneath the eaves of an abandoned cloister.Has mine been a futile life?I have no answers, only the sound of raindrops upon worn stone steps,And long hours yet to pass before the light of dawn.
AmendsRegret lingers, niggles. Yellow lilieson the table, gone brown in the vase.The garden we talk about, endlessly, but never begin, deterred by tough sod.On the edge of the walk, the wheelbarrowfull of stones waits like an undeliveredapology. Within, the floor needs scrubbingand only hands and knees will do the job.I know that forgiveness is a simple meal—a salad, a boiled potato, a glass of tea.Easy to prepare, to offer. That the silenceafterward will satisfy, perhaps even nourish.
Poetry can be more eloquent than the most eloquent sermons, and it becomes a weapon more formidable than the sharpest of swords; whenever such a poem--which finds its correct tune and conveys the excitement of the heart--rings out, all the miserable, heaped drifts of words fly for shelter and bury themselves in ashamed silence. Whenever such a sword of poetry is drawn from its scabbard, all the false princes of words, who have set their thrones on a void, are thwarted and retreat into seclusion.
Journey’s endIn western lands beneath the SunThe flowers may rise in Spring,The trees may bud, the waters run,The merry finches sing.Or there maybe 'tis cloudless night,And swaying branches bearThe Elven-stars as jewels whiteAmid their branching hair.Though here at journey's end I lieIn darkness buried deep,Beyond all towers strong and high,Beyond all mountains steep,Above all shadows rides the SunAnd Stars for ever dwell:I will not say the Day is done,Nor bid the Stars farewell.J.
