Category Archives: Uncategorized

I love this so

frost & flame

there is
a stranger here
inside of me
and I am trying to
introduce her to
the sun

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Luke Matthews is my 100th follower so I decided I reblog “our” favorite poem! Thank you so much!! 🙂

Wine, Women & Writing

Out of the night that covers me,
Black as the pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.

In the fell clutch of circumstance
I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeonings of chance
My head is bloody, but unbowed.

Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the Horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
Finds and shall find me unafraid.

It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll,
I am the master of my fate:
I am the captain of my soul.

__

This is my absolute favorite poem of all time. You’ve probably heard of it. It’s by English poet William Ernest Henley

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to fade


I will not lie to you , I have no reason to
there were moments when I wanted to drop my ember coat
and dust off the glistening dirt in my hair
burn the history in my blood
so that I could feel like more than
an unhealing wound
I promise you I wanted to
……………………….
run and hide myself
……………………….
I wanted to bleed ash and heritage
and hear my own cry in my voice
I still wore scars that were never my own
and wanted more than anything to say
I have no business being either ebony or
African
because all it ever entailed
was struggle
and difference.
There are times when I only
wished to blend
to sit unnoticed
un-special
but blending in is
fading out.

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The Blue Door in Old Mesilla

Hola!
My dear friend , Katy, and I went out on a random excursion to old Mesilla. It is such a beautiful place filled with such culture and color. And it is a must-see if you are in the Cruces area. I promise you it is breathtaking. To quote the site http://www.oldmesilla.org

” Mesilla (“Little Tableland”) is the best-known and most visited historical community in Southern New Mexico. Since its’ beginning, around 1848, Mesilla has had a major influence on the economic, cultural, historical, and political life of the Mesilla Valley. From the Gadsden Purchase, to the Civil War, to the Butterfield Stage Coach Trail, to the trial of Billy the Kid, to being a lively social center in the 1880s–Mesilla has been a prominent part of the rich history of the Southwest.”

I loved our day of just walking around taking pretty pictures. It was great fun. This blue door was definitely a winner for us both. Took a great amount of pictures in front of it.  And here is one of Katy standing in front of it:

Hope you enjoyed the pictures.
Have awesome Sundays!!:)

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..~Back~..

 

I want to follow satellites and stars
and the swift music from the boombox
of our past, diner moments
humming along to songs whose words
we’d never known
I wana follow the trail of your morning
whispers,
holding doors for me, beanie hat
in hand “My lady”
The strum of your guitar, the drum of your
drum, the depth in your voice,
the marks your longboard made on my father’s
driveway, the backseat track 8 memory
of us holding hands and being silly in
what I can only describe as your “car”.
I want to follow the enchanted roads of
chance, fate and kismet tracing them back
to where we’d met,
exchanging glances, stealing stares every once
in a while from thick Alegebra Books.
I’m missing the sound your keys made from your
tunnel-pockets
as you walked,
Once you finally arrived in my life
I always knew  when you were coming.
remembering how you had
a key for everything, spreading them
on my mother’s countertop
I’d ask you what each is for,
“How about the one for my heart?”
I’ve asked for you back, from nature, from
hope, from heaven & co. I have asked and
begged, eyes closed, eyes opened, hands
up, hands down, on my feet, on my knees.
I’d like to find the portal, the album
Time has kept of my forever
and there I’ll wait
for our worlds to melt into
a single heart
once again.

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..Sometimes..

I write letters sometimes,
to no one in particular really
just so I can explode like ink on a paper
and share myself
even if in the smallest form
I know tiny particles of me will be somewhere else but here
and sometimes I even post them
just for the sake of it
for the fun of it
with no addresses so to speak
nothing you can read
often I scribble “to heaven” so tiny only ants can read it
I wonder where they end up?
maybe in the bottom of a postmaster’s pocket
crunched into the prettiest ball
as though he’d known to crush with care
because whoever sends these letters feels whatever they do.
Maybe they’ve been made into something else
and though you’ll never see the words again
maybe they are your notebook
your diary
your calender
and maybe you make plan days and draw dreams
right on the paper that I’d written down all the tales of my failed dreams
and plans that I’d made on a wim
with a handful of fairydust
and not a droplet of sweat on my forehead.
and you won’t ever know it.
I wonder.

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~He Moves Like Music~

I see him move like music,
fast-paced,
his beating heart like drums,
his body like an orchestra,
an orchestration of magic and man.
like soft music that teases ,
then fast music that electrifies!
man, he moves like hes walking on hot coal
and loving it.
I’ve seen him move like heat,
Fire.
Flames bursting igniting una pasiĂłn.
Like love.
He dances with his soul,
rushing from its muscular hold.
beautiful movements, quick, rapido!
And my world is born watching a man with a dream.
I see him move like the sound of thunder,
with power,
and thrill
it jolts you unaware,
bringing you alive!
His movements!
Steps spontaneously right,
unplanned,
unpracticed,
straight from the depths of his being.
He dances with his soul.
Dark eyes closed and  mind at ease,
its all in the movement,
its all in the tango between dancefloor, man and  heart,
wrestling all that can break a man.
I’ve seen him dance arms locked with his spirit,
Hes seen a life crawl under its self ,
Death swarming  like air,
Pain constant like promise.
Hes felt the dancefloor beneath his tired feet shake !
And heard the sweat from his pores hit the floor like stones
But he dances still with his soul
enlightened and free and swaying.

By Upile Chisala 11/30/2011.

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Sometimes (via littlenothingsfromtheheart)

This is just a simple poem that I found totally cute! REBLOG!!! yeepee!

Sometimes you never go looking. Sometimes you never even think about it. Sometimes it just hits you in the face and says "I'm here!". Sometimes you're still working on picking up the pieces when it happens. Sometimes you're just looking for a friend to understand. Sometimes it just happens. Sometimes you're scared. Sometimes you're not. Sometimes you're unprepared. Sometimes this guy just walks in and stomps on everything you believed about guys. … Read More

via littlenothingsfromtheheart

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