Do Not Go Gentle into That Good Night

 

Peter Vahlersvik

Do not go gentle into that good night,

Old age should burn and rave at close of day;

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,

Because their words had forked no lightning they

Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright

Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,

And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,

Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight

Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,   

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,

Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.

Do not go gentle into that good night.

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Dylan Thomas

in, The Poems of Dylan Thomas

Phase One

 

Alexander Krivitskiy

For leaving the fridge open

last night, I forgive you.

For conjuring white curtains

instead of living your life.

For the seedlings that wilt, now,

in tiny pots, I forgive you.

For saying no first

but yes as an afterthought.

I forgive you for hideous visions

after childbirth, brought on by loss

of sleep. And when the baby woke

repeatedly, for your silent rebuke

in the dark, “What’s your beef?”

I forgive your letting vines

overtake the garden. For fearing

your own propensity to love.

For losing, again, your bag

en route from San Francisco;

for the equally heedless drive back

on the caffeine-fueled return.

I forgive you for leaving

windows open in rain

and soaking library books

again. For putting forth

only revisions of yourself,

with punctuation worked over,

instead of the disordered truth,

I forgive you. For singing mostly

when the shower drowns

your voice. For so admiring

the drummer you failed to hear

the drum. In forgotten tin cans,

may forgiveness gather. Pooling

in gutters. Gushing from pipes.

A great steady rain of olives

from branches, relieved

of cruelty and petty meanness.

With it, a flurry of wings, thirteen

gray pigeons. Ointment reserved

for healers and prophets. I forgive you.

I forgive you. For feeling awkward

and nervous without reason.

For bearing Keats’s empty vessel

with such calm you worried

you had, perhaps, no moral

center at all. For treating your mother

with contempt when she deserved

compassion. I forgive you. I forgive

you. I forgive you. For growing

a capacity for love that is great

but matched only, perhaps,

by your loneliness. For being unable

to forgive yourself first so you

could then forgive others and

at last find a way to become

the love that you want in this world.

 Dilruba Ahmed

The Shape of Silence

 

R.R. Leone

It never begins loudly.

No slammed doors.

No thunder of words.

Just a pause

that lasts

longer than it should.

At first you tell yourself

they just need space.

Everyone needs space.

So you wait.

But the quiet stretches.

Minutes become hours.

Hours become something heavier.

You replay the last conversation

like a physician studying scans,

searching for the fracture

you might have missed.

Was it that sentence?

That question?

The look on your face when you spoke?

The mind becomes a detective

in a crime scene of memory.

Meanwhile the room fills

with a silence that has weight.

The phone stays dark.

No message. No explanation.

Just absence.

And the strange part is

how silence changes the body.

Your breath grows shallow.

Thoughts circle faster.

The nervous system begins to signal

something it cannot name.

Not anger. Not grief.

Something closer to panic.

Like slipping beneath water

and realizing

no one else noticed.

At first you tread carefully.

You assume air will come back.

A word. A message. A sign of life.

But the surface keeps moving farther away.

And the quiet grows deeper.

You begin to understand something

no one ever teaches you about love.

Connection is oxygen.

And when it disappears suddenly,

the mind does what bodies do underwater:

it fights.

It searches.

It reaches upward for something

that isn't there.

Eventually the conversation returns.

Or it doesn't.

But by then something has changed.

Because silence, once introduced,

leaves a mark.

Not a wound you can see.

Just the memory

of how long you held your breath

before realizing

you were swimming alone.

R.R. Leone

Each Moment Is Precious

 

BriBar

The English Lake District, Keswick, Cumbria, UK

Live in the moment,

Just take it all in.

Pay attention to everything,

Right there and right then.

Don’t let your mind wander

To what’s coming next.

Cherish this moment

And give it your best.

Don’t let tomorrow

Make you rush through today,

Or too many great moments

Will just go to waste.

And the person you’re with,

In that moment you share,

Give them all of your focus;

Be totally there.

Laugh till it hurts,

Let the tears drop.

Fill up each moment

With all that you’ve got.

Don’t miss the details;

The lesson is there.

Don’t get complacent;

Stay sharp and aware.

It can take but a moment

To change your life’s path.

And once it ticks by,

There is no going back.

In just 60 seconds,

You may make a new friend.

Find your true love,

Or see a life start or end.

You become who you are

In those moments you live.

And the growth’s not in taking

But in how much you give.

Life is just moments,

So precious and few.

Whether valued or squandered,

It’s all up to you!

Patricia Fleming

Steel Cage

 

Bonny Beth Leah Luhman

We all live happily in our transparent steel cages.

We are happy in our own prison because 

it may be confining but it protects us from the outside world.

That way we need not be effected by the troubles of the citizens of the world.

If we don't like what we see we can change the channel from within our cells.

And even if we watch it we are not effected because 

nothing can get to us within our prison.

But the pressures of the world keep pressing and 

even steel has it's breaking point.

Finally our prison shatters inward cutting and bruising us 

in a thousand different places on the outside and the inside.

The wounds on the outside will heal.

Are you happy with your inner wounds?

You should be.

You earned them.

Steve Hannity

Do You Know What You Want?

 

StockCake

You beg for life, but you race towards death.

You march for freedom, but hide under oppression.

You want your liberties, so you steal them from others.

You want to be equal, but you are in the minority or so you say.

You yearn for individuality, but you are afraid to be different.

You want to be unafraid, but you are afraid of what will happen if you are.

You want to relax, so you speed through life.

You want to be loved, but spread the seeds of hate.

So think care fully, do you want your life, or do you want your death?

Do you know what you want?

Steve Hannity

The Darkness

Valeriia Miller

You would never know it,

The constant pain I feel,

Because in the light of day

It almost isn’t real.

Sure, I’ll play, I’ll laugh,

I’ll sing some songs,

But that pain is always lurking

Because it’s been here all along.

And when the darkness comes

With its all-consuming power,

It slowly takes my soul

Hour by dreadful hour.

But they tell me that I’m strong enough.

They swear that it gets better.

They say, “If you can just hold out

and bear this stormy weather.”

They tell me, “You will be happy one day.

All you need do is fight.”

But what they seem to forget

Is after each day comes the night.

And so, I act along.

I play my part

While this crushing darkness

Slowly breaks my heart.

Dallas E. Krystof

My Inner Life

 

iantfoto/Gettyimages

 'Tis true my garments threadbare are,

          And sorry poor I seem;

But inly I am richer far

          Than any poet's dream.

For I've a hidden life no one

          Can ever hope to see;

A sacred sanctuary none

          May share with me.

         

Aloof I stand from out the strife,

          Within my heart a song;

By virtue of my inner life

          I to myself belong.

Against man-ruling I rebel,

          Yet do not fear defeat,

For to my secret citadel

          I may retreat.

Oh you who have an inner life

          Beyond this dismal day

With wars and evil rumours rife,

          Go blessedly your way.

Your refuge hold inviolate;

          Unto yourself be true,

And shield serene from sordid fate

          The Real You.

            

              

                

Robert William Service                  

By The Fireside : The Builders

 

StockCake
 

All are architects of Fate,

  Working in these walls of Time;

Some with massive deeds and great,

  Some with ornaments of rhyme.

Nothing useless is, or low;

  Each thing in its place is best;

And what seems but idle show

  Strengthens and supports the rest.

For the structure that we raise,

  Time is with materials filled;

Our to-days and yesterdays

  Are the blocks with which we build.

Truly shape and fashion these;

  Leave no yawning gaps between;

Think not, because no man sees,

  Such things will remain unseen.

In the elder days of Art,

  Builders wrought with greatest care

Each minute and unseen part;

  For the Gods see everywhere.

Let us do our work as well,

  Both the unseen and the seen;

Make the house, where Gods may dwell,

  Beautiful, entire, and clean.

Else our lives are incomplete,

  Standing in these walls of Time,

Broken stairways, where the feet

  Stumble as they seek to climb.

Build to-day, then, strong and sure,

  With a firm and ample base;

And ascending and secure

  Shall to-morrow find its place.

Thus alone can we attain

  To those turrets, where the eye

Sees the world as one vast plain,

  And one boundless reach of sky.

Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Sometimes

 

Valeriia Miller

Sometimes I can’t find the words

That fill my messy head.

Can’t find the effort to smile

Or get out of my silly old bed.

The world just sometimes feels like

I don’t fit and don’t belong,

And even when I make the effort,

A smile just doesn’t last long.

I could pretend with all my might

That I am the happiest I can be.

Surrounded by the world, it seems

Lonelier I couldn’t be.

Not sure what may be the answer.

Not sure if I’m really keen

To spend another day here,

Living this dreadful dream.

But I must find some courage,

Light a fire inside my heart

And find a love for life again,

And I know where I shall start.

I’ll walk among the forest

And feel the crisp sea breeze

And lay among the meadow

And listen to all the bees.

I’ll figure out the mayhem

And gaze at all the stars

And dance at every sunset

With a smile inside my heart.

Lucy Petersen

Today I asked my body what she needed

 

Pablo Merchán Montes

Today I asked my body what she needed,

Which is a big deal

Considering my journey of

Not Really Asking That Much.

I thought she might need more water.

Or protein.

Or greens.

Or yoga.

Or supplements.

Or movement.

But as I stood in the shower

Reflecting on her stretch marks,

Her roundness where I would like flatness,

Her softness where I would like firmness,

All those conditioned wishes

That form a bundle of

Never-Quite-Right-Ness,

She whispered very gently:

Could you just love me like this?

Hollie Holden

I Know You Want to Lie by the Roadside but the Wolves Are Coming, Sweetheart

 

Jannek Viegas

I’m here with you.

Our feet are bare at the beginning of a long walk.

I know the field looks empty now.

It’s not. The seeds are still growing.

Do not learn the lessons of heartbreak.

The wisdom of sorrow is a lie.

It will tell you wolves are a mercy,

that a bare field is acceptable.

If you need to rest let’s do it now.

Drink water, sleep, hold yourself.

Save your voice for when it’s time to scream.

I won’t lie to you, though.

The wolves are coming.

In your heart is a knife

but also a harvest.

When it’s time,

use one to protect

the other.

Leslie J. Anderson

You don’t know me

 

pinkrabbit

You don’t know me

You don’t know what I had go through

You see where I am now

But you haven’t seen what it took me to get here

You don’t see the nights I cried myself to sleep

Or the times I want it all just be over

You can’t see what I lost on my way here

You keep just saying how easy my life is

Easy

It has never been easy

I make it look easy

I make Hell looking like a Heaven

I hide the pain, struggle and everything else

It ain’t like you all would care

No you just want easy targets to hit me more

To bring me down

You don’t want to see me success

Because you can’t success

No I’m not the one to be blamed for that

That is on you

You need to put the hard work and do it for yourself

No one will give it to you

No one didn’t give it to me

Lot of people did try to stop me

Told me stop

Told how ridiculous my dreams were

How none of it was meant for me

No matter what everyone said

I knew deep inside me

It was for me

It will be for me

And next one who tries to keep me from it

Will find out why it wasn’t good idea

I’m done playing nice

I’m done making myself small

Stop shining so others would be more comfortable

No more that

I will shine bright like sun

I don’t care about others insecurities

That is their own job to fix those issues

Not mine responsibility

Never again

It is time to show who I am

No you don’t know me

You might know my name

Just wait when you can’t escape seeing it everywhere

I’m not stopping

This is just the beginning

You’re welcome to stalk my next chapter

But you will never be part of my success

You will never again be part of my life

Viper can’t ever be a good friend

So no you don’t know me and you never will

C.F. Grönroos 

To His Coy Mistress

Silco Saaman

Had we but world enough and time,

This coyness, lady, were no crime.

We would sit down, and think which way

To walk, and pass our long love’s day.

Thou by the Indian Ganges’ side

Shouldst rubies find; I by the tide

Of Humber would complain. I would

Love you ten years before the flood,

And you should, if you please, refuse

Till the conversion of the Jews.

My vegetable love should grow

Vaster than empires and more slow;

An hundred years should go to praise

Thine eyes, and on thy forehead gaze;

Two hundred to adore each breast,

But thirty thousand to the rest;

An age at least to every part,

And the last age should show your heart.

For, lady, you deserve this state,

Nor would I love at lower rate.

       But at my back I always hear

Time’s wingèd chariot hurrying near;

And yonder all before us lie

Deserts of vast eternity.

Thy beauty shall no more be found;

Nor, in thy marble vault, shall sound

My echoing song; then worms shall try

That long-preserved virginity,

And your quaint honour turn to dust,

And into ashes all my lust;

The grave’s a fine and private place,

But none, I think, do there embrace.

       Now therefore, while the youthful hue

Sits on thy skin like morning dew,

And while thy willing soul transpires

At every pore with instant fires,

Now let us sport us while we may,

And now, like amorous birds of prey,

Rather at once our time devour

Than languish in his slow-chapped power.

Let us roll all our strength and all

Our sweetness up into one ball,

And tear our pleasures with rough strife

Through the iron gates of life:

Thus, though we cannot make our sun

Stand still, yet we will make him run.

 Andrew Marvell

The Passionate Shepherd to His Love

 

Bert Hardy





 

Come live with me and be my love,

And we will all the pleasures prove,

That Valleys, groves, hills, and fields,

Woods, or steepy mountain yields.

And we will sit upon the Rocks,

Seeing the Shepherds feed their flocks,

By shallow Rivers to whose falls

Melodious birds sing Madrigals.

And I will make thee beds of Roses

And a thousand fragrant posies,

A cap of flowers, and a kirtle

Embroidered all with leaves of Myrtle;

A gown made of the finest wool

Which from our pretty Lambs we pull;

Fair lined slippers for the cold,

With buckles of the purest gold;

A belt of straw and Ivy buds,

With Coral clasps and Amber studs:

And if these pleasures may thee move,

Come live with me, and be my love.

The Shepherds’ Swains shall dance and sing

For thy delight each May-morning:

If these delights thy mind may move,

Then live with me, and be my love.

 Christopher Marlowe

That is not me

 

Pixabay

You said you know me

But still the one you think is me

I can’t find myself in that

What is this picture that you have created about me?

It is someone who you have created in your own mind

Me…

Me it is not

Why you claim that you know what I feel?

When you don’t understand what I feel and when

How could you know other person when you don’t know what they feel and when?

If you don’t understand my feelings?

How could you understand my words?

Do you listen at all when I talk to you?

Do you hear my words?

Words which I tell you who I am and why

Or am I just secondary?

Someone who has made to fit in your play

The main performer of your play ain’t as perfect as you think

That what you are

And what you see in the mirror

Doesn’t fit into reality

You are looking at a distorted image of reality

How can you do it…

Lie to yourself?

Your explanations reeks from lies

And you can’t hide the truth

People are leaving your play

They are leaving you alone

On the stage middle of the play

And you can’t see the reason

How could you?

When you look at the distorted image

When you don’t see anything else but you and your lies

Or did you think those are real and truth ?

I bow down one last time

And when curtains close on the stage

I disappear

I no longer belong to your play

C.F. Grönroos