The Lonely Soul – Anto Thermadam

 

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…..As the days pass by
The lonely soul became
More lonely, with no other
souls as his companion
The lonely soul wanders

Alone in the walks of life
The lonely soul decides
Not to die, but to face
Life in all its hardships
The lonely soul wanders

 

View of a butterfly on dry earth at Los Laureles reservoir during Earth Day. Los Laureles, which supplies over 50% of the million inhabitant Honduran capital of water, is suffering a drough

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Hymn of the minimum – Dionysis Karatzas

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For centuries I ask God to give me the right of light, so I can fearlessly go to the age of the flowers.
He has reasons to keep me uncertain, he says. And he insists that I still need to figure out the beauties of guilt, to get rid of the idea of ​​immortality once and believe in the power of my temporality.

So I turn to the world and where I find tears, I crawl to pass the fragrance of passion within me.

I’m already convinced of the value of the minimum.
Besides, the minimum – seed, semen, drop, word – produces the maximum, life and death.

Continue reading

Who knows if the moon is a balloon – e.e. cummings

 

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“Who knows if the moon is
a balloon,coming out of a keen city
in the sky filled with pretty people?

( and if you and I should
get into it, if they
should take me and take you into their balloon,
why then
we’d go up higher with all the pretty people

than houses and steeples and clouds:
go sailing
away and away sailing into a keen
city which nobody’s ever visited,where

always
it’s Spring) and everyone’s
in love and flowers pick themselves”

e.e. cummings, Collected Poems

To all the souls that bloom in heaven

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…..In God’s garden
Where flowers never die,
you are a flower will bloom forever
Watered by my tears I cried ……

Aφιερωμένο στην αδελφούλα μου  και σε όλες αυτές τις ψυχούλες που ανθίζουν στον Παράδεισο!!!

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Memorial poems – A Flower Blooms In Heaven

A Heart Can Turn To Stone – Kasey Smith


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……A heart can not turn to stone when there’s a spark of love,

let the beauty of your tomorrows fly in like a white dove.

There’s another out there waiting to show you they care,
keep an open heart and allow them to step in and to share.  

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http://www.authorsden.com/visit/viewPoetry.asp?id=245552

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My Star In The Purple Sky

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This is real love !!! Today my friend Ivor celebrate the birthday of his wife, who is not here with us anymore, with these wonderful words.

Another birthday for my gracious lady, I’ve written a new birthday poem for her this year, I’m beginning a new dawn, somehow, my body has been renewed, I’m wearing new shoes, and I’m flying across those new purple skies, going to New York and Philadelphia. I’ll go gather up new blossoms, and glittering American violet blue stardust, I’ll bring them back for you, and sprinkled the petals of family love, covering you, with a new colourful mauve blanket of love, ….. Oh, I can see your gorgeous everlasting smile,…… there in front of me…….

 

My morning flowers

Blossomed, a violet blue

For her and me

The sun filtered through

Casting a purple shadow

Over you and I

Delivering our mauve star

Into the distant sky

Where she shines nightly

Looking over you and I

https://ivors20.wordpress.com/2019/04/17/my-star-in-the-purple-sky/

THE BELLS – Adam Zagajewski

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And you know what they say each time a bell rings?

A new angel gets its wings….

Angel closeup Montp

 

We’ll take refuge in bells, in the swinging bells,
in the peal, the air, the heart of ringing.
We’ll take refuge in bells and we’ll float
over the earth in their heavy casings.

Over the earth, over meadows
and a single white daisy, over the bench on which love
carved its imperfect symbol, over a willow
obedient to the will of cool wind,

over the Tatras’ green lake, over crying
and mourning, over binoculars shining
in sun,

Over the border, over your attentive gaze,
over the pupil of somebody’s eye, over a rusty cannon,
over the garden gate which no longer exists,
over clouds, over rain drinking dew,

over the town park where a Swiss Army knife,
lost lifetimes ago, lies hidden still.

When the night comes, we’ll take refuge
in bells, those airy carriages,
those bronze balloons.

(Translated by Renata Gorczynski, Benjamin Ivry and C. K. Williams)

http://ramartin-rudy.blogspot.com/2013/02/quasimodo-blessing-of-bells.html

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You can’t cage angels… Wayne Stubbs

….You can’t cage me in
I’m nobody’s guilty sin
For I will fly once again
To free people from pain
I’ve lived poor
I’ve lived rich
I’ve been unsure
I won’t wilt
I will soar
I will be free
This angel won’t be caged
For I have too much grace
Let me fly
Time is mine!

 

 

https://cosmofunnel.com/poems/you-cant-cage-angels-149399

 

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“The Perfect World” By Kahlil Gibran


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God of lost souls, thou who are lost amongst the gods, hear me:

Gentle Destiny that watchest over us, mad, wandering spirits, hear me:

I dwell in the midst of a perfect race, I the most imperfect.

I, a human chaos, a nebula of confused elements, I move amongst finished worlds—peoples of complete laws and pure order, whose thoughts are assorted, whose dreams are arranged, and whose visions are enrolled and registered. Continue reading

Oedipus and the Sphinx


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Oedipus and the Sphinx

is an 1864 oil on canvas painting by Gustave Moreau that was first exhibited at the French Salon of 1864 where it was an immediate success. It is now in the Metropolitan Museum of Art.The work was a fresh treatment of the established subject of the meeting between Oedipus and the Sphinx on the road to Delphi, notably portrayed at Sophocles‘ play Oedipus Rex.

The painting depicts Oedipus meeting the Sphinx at the crossroads on his journey between Thebes and Delphi. Continue reading

The Railway Station – Archibald Lampman

 

 I will be with my grandson for some days!!
So don’t worry I will be fine!!
See you on Monday!! Love you all!!!

 

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Τα τρένα 
παγεροί μάρτυρες γίνονται 
στους εναγκαλισμούς 
τα χαμόγελα, 
τα φιλιά, 
τα δάκρυα 

και τα μουρμουρητά των επιβατών τους …..

 

Μπριλή Μαίρη

 

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*William Powell Frith, The Railway Station, c.1862-1909, oil on canvas, Royal Collection

 

The darkness brings no quiet here, the light
No waking: ever on my blinded brain
The flare of lights, the rush, and cry, and strain,
The engines’ scream, the hiss and thunder smite:
I see the hurrying crowds, the clasp, the flight,
Faces that touch, eyes that are dim with pain:
I see the hoarse wheels turn, and the great train
Move labouring out into the bourneless night.
So many souls within its dim recesses,
So many bright, so many mournful eyes:
Mine eyes that watch grow fixed with dreams and guesses;
What threads of life, what hidden histories,
What sweet or passionate dreams and dark distresses,
What unknown thoughts, what various agonies!

Continue reading

Flute Player – Farzaneh Khojandi

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*The Flautist by Dasha Riley


Where is the real bazaar?

I want to buy an eyeful of kindness.
I want to dress my soul in hyperbole.
There’s a merchant who brings me
a whole spectrum of leaping colour
from the city of desires.
But here at the bazaar at Khojand,
faces are sour, talk is hot
and I long for the cool sweets of Tabriz.
Where is the real bazaar?
The flute-player tells me:
come with your ears used to insults,
and listen to the light recite a prayer to the dark.
Open your eyes used to pale shame
and see the beauty of Truth.
Where is the real bazaar?
The flute-player is there
calling my heart towards his hat
full of old change, but not a single pearl,
and since I am the jewel in the teardrop
I must go.

 

Thank you all  for spending a few moments of your precious time viewing my posts!!!

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Η Νηπιαγωγός | The Kindergarten Teacher

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Μια τρυφερή δασκάλα

Ένα χαρισματικό αγόρι

Μια ιδιαίτερη ιστορία αγάπης

The Kindergarten Teacher tells a twisted tale of mentor and protégé, and displays Maggie Gyllenhaal’s immense talent. In this story, Gyllenhaal plays Lisa Spinelli, the titular teacher whose life isn’t exactly in crisis, but slowly stagnating.

Lisa’s home life is unsatisfying, her teenage children and husband emotionally distant. She takes the time to attend a weekly poetry class, but her work isn’t particularly good. It’s not terrible – just not great. It’s mundane, just like everything else in Lisa’s existence.

Lisa is coasting through life, until she notices that one of her students, five-year-old Jimmy, going into a kind of trance and reciting a poem that he simply shouldn’t have been capable of Continue reading

Searching a peaceful shelter…

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Where will I find peace
That puts my mind at ease
Where will I find the solace I seek
Would that help me scale happiness peak
I have searched the world
Only to find hearts so cold
People so insensitive n ruthless
My feelings seem so worthless
Tired of wandering & searching
A broken heart I was nursing
Ultimately I sought shelter in solitude
Numb with pain at the worlds attitude
Stop I Did often just to question
What actually was my intention
Tired of running away from reality
I found peace within my own entity

© Aarzoo Mehek

Τσάμικος, Μάνος Χατζιδάκις, Νίκος Γκάτσος

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Οnly if you are from Greece you will understand…..

Tsamikos Lyrics: Nikos Gatsos
Music: Manos Hatzidakis
First version: Manolis Mitsias

In the stony mountains with the flute and the clarinet on top of the holy rock now dance three brave men Nikephoros* and Digenes** and the son of Anna Komnene*** Continue reading

Time for Meditation….

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Take it easy, Sadness. Settle down.
You asked for evening. Now, it’s come. It’s here.
A choking fog has blanketed the town,
infecting some with calm, the rest with fear.

While the squalid throng of mortals feels the sting
of heartless pleasure swinging its barbed knout
and finds remorse in slavish partying,
take my hand, Sorrow. I will lead you out,

away from them. Look as the dead years lurch,
in tattered clothes, from heaven’s balconies.
From the depths, regret emerges with a grin.

The spent sun passes out beneath an arch,
and, shroudlike, stretched from the antipodes,
—hear it, O hear, love!—soft night marches in.

 

MeditationCharles Baudelaire

 

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To Kiss The Sea – Ivor Steven

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Today my friend Ivor posted a poem for our  love for sea!
He lives in Australia and there is still summer …

Thank you so much my friend!!

 

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Read his lovely poem :

A sincere thank you to Efi, of EfiSoul63,  for being the inspiration behind my poem, and our mutual love of the sea

To Kiss The Sea

I wish to be at the beach and free

Saltwater and sand are out of reach for me

Oh, to be sunbathing and swimming

To be in the surf, playing and frolicking

I’m close enough to breathe the nearness of the sea

Just across the sand dunes and through the tea-tree

I wish to be under the sea

Rolling with the waves crashing above me

Swirling and unfurling

Bubbling and frothing

I’m close enough to hear the evening sea-mist

Just outside my window, I feel the bliss of the sea’s kiss

 

https://ivors20.wordpress.com/2019/02/20/to-kiss-the-sea/comment-page-1/#comment-19522

“The Little Boy and the Old Man – Shel Silverstein

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Said the little boy, “Sometimes I drop my spoon.”

Said the old man, “I do that too.”


The little boy whispered, “I wet my pants.”
I do that too,” laughed the little old man.


Said the little boy, “I often cry.”
The old man nodded, “So do I.”


But worst of all,” said the boy, “it seems
Grown-ups don’t pay attention to me.”


And he felt the warmth of a wrinkled old hand.
I know what you mean,” said the little old man.”

 

 

Mother to Son – Langston Hughes

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Well, son, I’ll tell you:

Life for me ain’t been no crystal stair.
It’s had tacks in it,
And splinters,
And boards torn up,
And places with no carpet on the floor—
Bare.
But all the time
I’se been a-climbin’ on,
And reachin’ landin’s,
And turnin’ corners,
And sometimes goin’ in the dark
Where there ain’t been no light.

So boy, don’t you turn back.

Don’t you set down on the steps
’Cause you finds it’s kinder hard.
Don’t you fall now—
For I’se still goin’, honey,
I’se still climbin’,

And life for me ain’t been no crystal stair.

https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/47559/mother-to-son
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Going for Water – Robert Frost

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The well was dry beside the door,
And so we went with pail and can
Across the fields behind the house
To seek the brook if still it ran;

Not loth to have excuse to go,
Because the autumn eve was fair
(Though chill), because the fields were ours,
And by the brook our woods were there.

We ran as if to meet the moon
That slowly dawned behind the trees,
The barren boughs without the leaves,
Without the birds, without the breeze.

But once within the wood, we paused
Like gnomes that hid us from the moon,
Ready to run to hiding new
With laughter when she found us soon.

Each laid on other a staying hand
To listen ere we dared to look,
And in the hush we joined to make
We heard, we knew we heard the brook.

A note as from a single place,
A slender tinkling fall that made
Now drops that floated on the pool
Like pearls, and now a silver blade.

* Photo by: Abdullah Evindar

Rattle of eternity

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……. On the next death
I will donate the rattle of eternity
in the first passive devil


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1600 Jan Claesz., Girl with a Rattle

…….Στον επόμενο θάνατο
θα δωρίσω τη κουδουνίστρα της αιωνιότητας
στο πρώτο περαστικό διάβολο..

Μαρία Ροδοπούλου

 

 

An Old Abandoned House – Kay Whitaker

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An old abandoned house,
White frame, stands on the hill
And looks down here on me.
A feeling always still Lingers about its walls
Each time I look around.
The windows, vacant, stare.
There never is a sound. And yet it seems to live.
Its memories float inside
In rooms I cannot see,
A former life to hide Of some time in the past
When children’s voices called
Where grasses now stand still
And dead tree limbs are sprawled. I wonder on the house,
The life that once was there.
But it stands silent, mocking me,
Continuing to stare.

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RESCUER’S ARE ANGELS

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Yes, rescuers are angels
You cannot see their wings
They keep them neatly folded
As they do their caring things.

 

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Hate for Sale by Neil Gaiman

Hate for sale. All the very best 
Hate for sale. Vintage stuff.
Do my cries excite your interest? 
Lovely hate. Your life is rough.
Buy my hate. You’ll come right back for more. 
Hate for sale. Enough to start a war.
Hate the rich, the brown, the black, the poor. 
Hate is clean. And hate will make you sure.
Hate for sale. You’ll feel superior.
Hate for sale. You’ll make the news.
Hate the families who come here fleeing war. 
Hate the gay. The trans. The new. The Jews.
Don’t need to care who you detest 
Hate makes you feel a whit less scared 
To know that your group is the best 
And burn to ashes all the rest
Who will not face the real test
But showed up naked, unprepared
To be sent back, or drowned, or hurled 
back into the abyss. Your world
will be so safe, so clean, so great.
And all you needed was some hate.
Hate for sale. All the very best 
Hate for sale. Vintage stuff.
Do my cries excite your interest? 
Hate for sale. Never enough.

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Neil Gaiman has this powerful and insightful offering for us to reflect upon, with his words being spoken by Peter Kenny, and animated by Anna Eijsbouts.

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Scars Of War -Elizabeth Fontaine Grieco

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You say your calling was the Marines,
But yet your life remains apart at the seams.

You say the life of a soldier
Is what saved you from yourself,
But vivid dreams continue to haunt you
to reveal remanants of the torture,
You had to inflict.
How does the act justify the means?

You say, your honor was stolen from you!
But who stole it from you?

You say, it was the politicians in the end,
that left you scorned.

You say we fought in a senseless war,
In the end you were left feeling void,

Void of any human compassion. How could my
Countrymen have abandoned us?

Why were we such an embarrasment to them?
Our politician’s and leader’s had us believing that
it was our war as well as theirs. What enemy?
Who’s enemy? Their enemy or ours? Was it easier to forget
Those brave men who selflessly gave of themselves
For their country?

You say again, how could they have abandoned us?
No recongnition, no bands playing, just a few
Surviving pictures that tell the story of the
Suffering and the innocence we left beind,
Only to realize that it will continue to burn
In our minds and leave us scared for an eternity!

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The Choice Is Mine – Abimbola T. Alabi

 

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*Merab Gagiladze
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Life may not let me choose my lot,
But whether I’d be happy or not…
That is my choice.

To leave hurtful memories behind
Or allow them to bother my mind…
The choice is mine.

To fret over a mistake when it’s done
Or learn from it and move on…
The choice is mine.

To be bothered by all that people say
Or ignore them and go my own way…
The choice is mine.

To hide my feelings, pent up, unspoken,
Or say my mind and ease the burden…
The choice is mine.

To enjoy what I’ve been able to gain
Or ungratefully regard it with disdain…
The choice is mine.

Sometimes I won’t get to pick my lot,
But whether I’ll be happy or not
Will always be my choice.

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Source: https://www.familyfriendpoems.com/poem/the-choice-is-mine

Sailing midst the clouds – Et cetera

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© Ivan Wong

He feels the clouds envelop him
As he sails across the sky
He rows his boat into the new world
And waves this world goodbye
His best clothes on and new hat up
He lets out a triumphant cry
He gazes at the distant world
And then at the mackerel sky
He’s up, he won, he defeated the world
All he had to do was try

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The Holiday Prayer –Spencer Betz

 

The sidewalks and the roadways
Have now become my home
Since misfortune somehow found me
I’ve been wandering alone

The coldness and the darkness
Of every passing night
Leads me to a shelter
That for tonight feels alright

You’d not think it’s perfect
It’s loud and space is tight
But if they have a bed for me
It’s perfect for this night

I’m tired, cold and hungry
My body’s wracked with pain
But I’m just a broken spirit
Not a person gone insane

So look at me this Christmas
And thank your lucky stars
That you have what you do have
And don’t bare all these scars

And if the moment strikes you
That to give is to receive
Then you are that one person
That helps me to believe

I believe that I will conquer
All that fate has dealt to me
And I’ll never give up trying
I believe in humanity

So while you sit with family
Gathered ’round your Christmas tree
And open Santa’s presents
I hope you’ll think of me

If there’s one gift you can give me
I will tell you what I’d like
It’s not a giant castle
It’s not a brand new bike

A prayer is all I ask for
A prayer that asks the Lord
To bless those here beside me
The broken, beat, the poor

Ask that He please hear you
In your Christmas prayer
And bless all souls who suffer
So lost and in despair

For myself, I ask you nothing
Except this one small prayer
So won’t you take a moment
Bow your head and show you care

 

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https://www.thoughtco.com/holiday-prayer-for-the-homeless-700482

Travel – Edna St. Vincent Millay

 

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The railroad track is miles away,
And the day is loud with voices speaking,
Yet there isn’t a train goes by all day
But I hear its whistle shrieking.

All night there isn’t a train goes by,
Though the night is still for sleep and dreaming,
But I see its cinders red on the sky,
And hear its engine steaming.

My heart is warm with the friends I make,
And better friends I’ll not be knowing;
Yet there isn’t a train I wouldn’t take,
No matter where it’s going.

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Hydra: a pilgrimage to Leonard Cohen’s Greek island retreat

The tiny Greek island that so enchanted Leonard Cohen in the 1960s still captivates today.

 


photos Efi 2018

Greece is a good place
to look at the moon, isn’t it?
You can read by moonlight
You can read on the terrace
You can see a face
As you saw it when you were young

Cohen wrote the poem Days of Kindness about his girlfriend and muse Marianne Ihlen, and their years spent here.

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https://www.theguardian.com/travel/2016/dec/04/hydra-greece-leonard-cohen

Spires of the fireweed.. Ian Emberson

Fireweed is a bush that takes on a bright red colour in autumn

Spires of the fireweed on the fretted sky –
Tints of magenta on tranquility,
Do you feel nurture for the life within,
The burst of bloom that yields your progeny.
Do you have sense of flowering’s fleeting glow,
Bearing its part in continuity
To charge the seed and rip its casing wall
And float its fluff upon the autumn wind?…

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https://www.inspirationalstories.com/poems/spires-of-the-fireweed-ian-emberson-poem/

 

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Peer sharing….

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Photo : Ferit Temur

Intentional Peer Support

If I could write a poem about hope
I’d call it Intentional Peer Support.
It would be about connection, worldview, mutual responsibility, and
moving towards not away from.

If I could write a poem about social justice,
I’d call it Intentional Peer Support.
It would be about inclusion of vast and different personal stories, our views, cultures,
values, experiences, knowledge, uncommon and common sense, our ideas.

If I could write a poem about relationships,
I’d call it Intentional Peer Support.
It would be about challenging ourselves to see and think differently
to learn and grow together.

If I could write a poem about compassion,
I’d call it Intentional Peer Support.
It would be about acknowledging and sharing our power
while still daring to be powerful.
It would be about sensitivity, self definitions and self determination.

If I could write a poem about listening differently,
I’d call it Intentional Peer Support.
It would be about tuning into one another,
suspending what we think we know
in order to discover what we didn’t
It would be about a commitment to be patient
with the process of relating and each other.

If I could write a poem about community,
I’d call it Intentional Peer Support.
It would be about prioritizing our relationships
in the family and in our communities
as we define our families, as we remain apart of community.

If I could write a poem about vision,
I’d call it Intentional Peer Support.
It would be about a new vision of interacting with peers
forgetting what we don’t want, envisioning what we do,
living well in the present, and creating a better tomorrow.

If I could write a poem about Intentional Peer Support,
It would be about social change
I’d call it social change.

Selina Welborn

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“The whole universe is in a glass of wine”

A poet once said, “The whole universe is in a glass of wine.” We will probably never know in what sense he meant that, for poets do not write to be understood. But it is true that if we look at a glass of wine closely enough we see the entire universe.

 

Ένας ποιητής είπε κάποτε: «Το σύμπαν όλο βρίσκεται μες σ’ ένα ποτήρι κρασί». Και ίσως ποτέ να μη μας είναι σαφές τι εννοούσε ακριβώς μ’ αυτή του την κουβέντα, γιατί, ως γνωστόν, οι ποιητές δε γράφουν για να τους καταλάβουμε εμείς.

Είναι όμως αλήθεια πως αν κοιτάξουμε ένα ποτήρι κρασί από πολύ κοντά θα δούμε όλο το σύμπαν μέσα.
Continue reading

The Blessed Damozel – Dante Gabriel Rossetti

 

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The Blessed Damozel” is perhaps the best known poem by Dante Gabriel Rossetti as well as the title of some of his best known paintings. The poem was first published in 1850 in the Pre-Raphaelite journal The Germ. Rossetti subsequently revised the poem twice and republished it in 1856, 1870 and 1873. [1]

The poem was partially inspired by Edgar Allan Poe‘s poem “The Raven“, with its depiction of a lover grieving on Earth over the death of his loved one. Rossetti chose to represent the situation in reverse. The poem describes Continue reading

Tom Noddy’s Bubble Magic

Εγώ αγαπώ τους ανεπαίσθητους κόσμους,
τους αβαρείς και αβρούς,
σαν σαπουνόφουσκες.
Μ’ αρέσει να τους βλέπω να ζωγραφίζονται
από ήλιο και πορφύρα, να πετάνε
κάτω από το γαλανό ουρανό, να πάλλουν
κι αμέσως να σπάνε…
Ποτέ δεν κυνήγησα τη δόξα…

Never have I aimed for glory,
nor endeavored that my story
be for Memory destined.
I have loved my worlds appeasing,
subtly fleeting, gently pleasing,
all with bubbles of a kind.

«Cantares», του Antonio Machado και του Χουάν Μανουέλ Σερράτ

Tom Noddy’s Bubble Magic has been featured on televisions shows all over the world over the years. In some early performances Tom used cigarettes but that was long ago and he has developed a handheld fog generator whose fuel is food grade glycerin.

An episode of a BBC mathematics programme focused on the math of minimal forms and they asked if I could contribute. We set up in a small theater and exchanged ideas. They filmed the results and edited it beautifully into their programme. I’m very pleased with this one.

 

http://tomnoddy.com/video.html

 

Unforgettable – A Walk with Alzheimers

 

Do not ask me to remember,

Don’t try to make me understand,

Let me rest and know you’re with me,

Kiss my cheek and hold my hand.

I’m confused beyond your concept,

I am sad and sick and lost.

All I know is that I need you

To be with me at all cost.

Do not lose your patience with me,

Do not scold or curse or cry.

I can’t help the way I’m acting,

Can’t be different though I try.

Just remember that I need you,

That the best of me is gone,

Please don’t fail to stand beside me,

Love me ’til my life is done.

– Owen Darnell

Maurice Carême – Τhe cat and the sun

The cat opened its eyes
And the sun flooded in.
The cat then closed its eyes
And the sunlight stayed in.

That is why at twilight,
When the cat comes awake,
I can see in the night
Two sunny bits of lake.

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«Η γάτα άνοιξε τα μάτια,
Ο ήλιος μπήκε μέσα.
Η γάτα έκλεισε τα μάτια,
Ο ήλιος έμεινε μέσα.
Γιʼ αυτό, το βράδυ,
Όταν η γάτα ξυπνάει,
Διακρίνω στο σκοτάδι
Δυο κομμάτια ηλίου.»

.

 

 

 

Κράτα το

“Blessing the boats”

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May the tide
that is entering even now
the lip of our understanding
carry you out
beyond the face of fear
may you kiss
the wind then turn from it
certain that it will
love your back may you
open your eyes to water
water waving forever
and may you in your innocence
sail through this to that

—Lucille Clifton

 

Photos : gefi63

ΣΠΟΡΑΔΕΣ ΝΥΜΦΕΣ – Sporades “sirens “

Kαλό Φθινόπωρο συνταξιδιώτες μου!!!

Good Autumn My Travel Companions

 

Σποράδες νεραϊδόμορφες , νύμφες του Αιγαίου ,
άρπα τετράχορδη ουράνιας μελωδίας ,
διθύραμβε του έρωτά μας , του πηγαίου .
Νησιά των οραμάτων μας , εξωτικά μου ,
άστρα του νου μας και νεφέλες χορωδίας ,
παρακαλώ σας , ταξιδέψτε τα όνειρά μου .

….Sporades , nymphs of the Aegean Sea,
harp quartet of heavenly melody,
he dares our love, the source.
Islands of our visions, exotic,
stars of our minds and chorus clouds,
please, take my dreams.

 

Continue reading

Who Am I, Without Exile? – Mahmoud Darwish

 

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…..

Water

binds me

to your name …

Nothing takes me from the butterflies of my dreams

to my reality: not dust and not fire. What

will I do without roses from Samarkand? What

will I do in a theater that burnishes the singers with its lunar

stones? Our weight has become light like our houses

in the faraway winds. We have become two friends of the strange

creatures in the clouds … and we are now loosened

from the gravity of identity’s land. What will we do … what

will we do without exile, and a long night

that stares at the water?…..

.

Care ……. Craig Santos Perez

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My 16-month old daughter wakes from her nap
and cries. I pick her up, press her against my chest

and rub her back until my palm warms
like an old family quilt. “Daddy’s here, daddy’s here,”

I whisper. Here is the island of Oʻahu, 8,500 miles
from Syria. But what if Pacific trade winds suddenly

became helicopters? Flames, nails, and shrapnel
indiscriminately barreling towards us? What if shadows

cast against our windows aren’t plumeria
tree branches, but soldiers and terrorists marching

in heat? Would we reach the desperate boats of
the Mediterranean in time? If we did, could I straighten

my legs into a mast, balanced against the pull and drift
of the current? “Daddy’s here, daddy’s here,” I

whisper. But am I strong enough to carry her across
the razor wires of sovereign borders and ethnic

hatred? Am I strong enough to plead: “please, help
us, please, just let us pass, please, we aren’t

suicide bombs.” Am I strong enough to keep walking
even after my feet crack like Halaby pepper fields after

five years of drought, after this drought of humanity.
Trains and buses rock back and forth to detention centers.

Yet what if we didn’t make landfall? What if here
capsized? Could you inflate your body into a buoy

to hold your child above rising waters? “Daddy’s
here, daddy’s here,” I whisper. Drowning is

the last lullaby of the sea. I lay my daughter
onto bed, her breath finally as calm as low tide.

To all the parents who brave the crossing: you and your
children matter. I hope your love will teach the nations

that emit the most carbon and violence that they should,
instead, remit the most compassion. I hope, soon,

the only difference between a legal refugee and
an illegal migrant will be how willing

we are to open our homes, offer refuge, and
carry each other towards the horizon of care.

 

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