SHADES

by Esther Esuga; April 2014

An innovative, creative, calm serenity
A spirit of togetherness and humanism
A patient, peaceful, joyful emotion
Independence
Different shades of Turquoise

A new, fresh, hopeful place of rest
Healing
Natural
Growth and development
Success
Vitality

A joyful, happy warming effect
Energetic
Sunshine
Arousal of cheerful feelings and freshness
Great mental stimulant

A classy, luxury glitz of glamour
A confident, generous, self-work
A victorious , royal, happy-to-go-look
An abundant, shiny, excess extrovert
Sophisticated

Have a blessed Monday, all my darling avidReaders 🙂

Farm killings in South Africa

by Balthazar

Where is the media?
Farmers under  attack
No one seems to care
Cos Apartheid was the root of the problem
The police seems to be powerless
ANC tries to cover these acts
I thought this government fought for equality for all
No one is aware of these things
2000 murders farmers have been ignored
Jealousy is a poison
My great grand father owend this land
Therefor, I have to kill
Really?
You seem to think that they just took money from trees
Why is this happening?
Why isn’t anybody paying attention to this?

Dangerous minds are drama queens
They can’t seem to take responsiblity for their lives
Wasting their lives on playing blame games
What’s your f**** problem?
Farmers are feeding the country
I am tired of your f**** silly excuses
This is a racist term on White farmers
Racism is racism without any discussion
Torture becomes a source of power and survival
Crime knows no color
A murder is a murder
A thief is a thief
Africa remains silent
Why don’t build your own lives?
Murder is brutal
It’s not serving South Africa
It’s not serving Africa
It’s not serving the world
The hole of failure begins to open

Town Eclogues: Thursday; The Bassette-Table

by Lady Mary Wortley Montagu

SMILINDA and CARDELIA.CARDELIA.
THE bassette-table spread, the tallier come,
Why stays SMILINDA in the dressing-room ?
Rise, pensive nymph ! the tallier stays for you.

SMILINDA.
Ah ! Madam, since my SHARPER is untrue,
I joyless make my once ador’d alpieu.
I saw him stand behind OMBRELIA’s Chair,
And whisper with that soft deluding air,
And those feign’d sighs that cheat the list’ng fair —

CARDELIA.
Is this the cause of your romantic strains ?
A mightier grief my heavy heart sustains.
As you by love, so I by fortune cross’d,
In one bad deal three Septleva’s I lost.

SMILINDA.

Is that a grief which you compare with mine ?
With ease the smiles of fortune I resign.
Wou’d all my gold in one bad deal were gone,
Were lovely SHARPFR mine, and mine alone.

CARDELIA.

A lover lost, is but a common care,
And prudent nymphs against the change prepare.
The queen of Clubs thrice lost ! Oh ! who cou’d guess
This fatal stroke this unforeseen distress !

SMILINDA.

See ! BETTY LOVEIT very Ă  propos !
She all the pains of love and play does know,
Deeply experienc’d many years ago.
Dear BETTY shall th’ important point decide,
BETTY, who oft the pains of each has try’d :
Impartial, she shall say who suffers most,
By cards, ill-usage, or by lovers lost.

LOVEIT.

Tell, tell your griefs ; attentive will I stay,
Tho’ time is precious, and I want some tea.

CARDELIA.

Behold this equipage by MATHERS wrought
With fifty guineas (a great pen’orth !) bought !
See on the tooth-pick MARS and CUPID strive,
And both the struggling figures seem to liue.
Upon the bottom see the Queen’s bright face ;
A myrtle foliage round the thimble case ;
JOVE, JOVE himself does on the scissars shine,
The metal and the workmanship divine.

SMILINDA.

This snuff-box once the pledge of SHARPER’s love,
When rival beauties for the present strove,
(At CORTICELLI’s he the raffle won,
There first his passion was in public shown ;
HAZARDIA blush’d, and turn’d her head aside,
A rival’s envy all in vain to hide)
This snuff-box — on the hinge see diamonds shine ;
This snuff-box will I stake, the prize is mine.

CARDELIA.

Alas ! far lesser losses than I bear,
Have made a soldier sigh, a lover swear :
But oh ! what makes the disappointment hard,
‘Twas my own Lord who drew the fatal card ! —
In complaisance I took the Queen he gave,
Tho’ my own secret wish was for the Knave :
The Knave won son ecart that I had chose,
And the next pull my septleva I lose.

SMILINDA.

But ah ! what aggravates the killing smart,
The cruel thought that stabs me to the heart,
This curs’d OMBRELIA, this undoing fair,
By whose vile arts this heavy grief I bear,
She, at whose name I shed these spiteful tears,
She owes to me, the very charms she wears :
An aukward thing when first she came to town,
Her shape unfinish’d and her face unknown ;
She was my friend, I taught her first to spread
Upon her sallow cheeks enlivening red,
I introduc’d her to the park and plays,
And by my Interest COSINS made her stays ;
Ungrateful wretch ! with mimick airs grown pert,
She dares to steal my favourite lover’s heart.

CARDELIA.

Wretch that I was ! how often have I swore,
When WINNALL tallied, I would punt no more !
I know the bite, yet to my ruin run,
And see the folly which I cannot shun.

SMILINDA.

How many maids have SHARPER’s vows deceiv’d !
How many curs’d the moment they believ’d !
Yet, his known falshood could no warning prove :
Ah ! what are warnings to a maid in love !

CARDELIA.

But of what marble must that breast be form’d,
Can gaze on Bassette, and remain unwarm’d ?
When kings, queens, knaves are set in decent rank,
Expos’d in glorious heaps the tempting bank !
Guineas, half-guineas, all the shining train,
The Winner’s pleasure and the Loser’s pain ;
In bright confusion open rouleaus lie,
They strike the soul, and glitter in the eye ;
Fir’d by the sight, all reason I disdain,
My passions rise, and will not bear the rein :
Look upon Bassette, you who Reason boast,
And see if Reason may not there be lost !

SMILINDA.

What more than marble must that breast compose,
That listens coldly to my SHARPER’s vows !
Then when he trembles, when his blushes rise,
When awful Love seems melting in his eyes !
With eager beats his Mechlin cravat moves :
He loves, I whisper to myself, He loves !
Such unfeign’d passion in his look appears,
I lose all mem’ry of my former fears ;
My panting heart confesses all his charms ;
I yield at once, and sink into his arms.
Think of that moment, you who Prudence boast !
For such a moment, Prudence well were lost.

CARDELIA.

At the Groom-porter’s, batter’d bullies play ;
Some Dukes at Marybon bowl time away :
But who the bowl or rattling dice compares
To Bassette’s heavenly joys and pleasing cares ?

SMILINDA.

Soft SIMPLICETTA doats upon a beau ;
PRUDINA likes a man, and laughs at show :
Their several graces in my SHARPER meet ;
Strong as the footman, as the master sweet.

LOVEIT.

Cease your contention, which has been too long,
I grow impatient, and the tea too strong :
Attend, and yield to what I now decide ;
The equipage shall grace SMILINDA’s side ;
The snuff-box to CARDELIA I decree ;
So leave complaining, and begin your tea.

This poem and all it’s rights go to “https://www.poemhunter.com”.

God bless you all my darling avidReaders! Have a blessed Thursday 🙂

Two Poems for Today

I decided to post two contrasting poems. These both deal with hope and utter sorrow.

God bless you all today. Whether you’re having a bad day or a good day this is for you 🙂 Love you all my darling avidReaders! 🙂

I Wandered Lonely as a Cloud

BY WILLIAM WORDSWORTH

I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o’er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of golden daffodils;
Beside the lake, beneath the trees,
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the milky way,
They stretched in never-ending line
Along the margin of a bay:
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

The waves beside them danced; but they
Out-did the sparkling waves in glee:
A poet could not but be gay,
In such a jocund company:
I gazed—and gazed—but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought:

For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills,
And dances with the daffodils.

LIFESTYLE/HOWSTUFFWORKS

An MSers Prayer

Now I lay me down to sleep
I pray to God I do not weep
Some days I feel so strong
Others it seems everything is wrong

After another long hard day
Of having the wrong words to say
I have to think of tomorrow
And pray there is no sorrow

While tomorrow does always come
It doesn’t mean I won’t be glum
Happiness is my hearts desire
We shall see what will transpire

https://www.tocolor.pics/praying-hands/

Blue Rotunda by Louise GlĂĽck

Beauty for my Ashes/CBN.com

I am tired of having hands
she said
I want wings—

But what will you do without your hands
to be human?

I am tired of human
she said
I want to live on the sun—

Pointing to herself:

Not here.
There is not enough
warmth in this place.
Blue sky, blue ice

the blue rotunda
lifted over
the flat street—

and then, after a silence:

I want
my heart back
I want to feel everything again—

That’s what
the sun meant: it meant
scorched—

It is not finally
interesting to remember.
The damage

is not interesting.
No one who knew me then
is still alive.

My mother
was a beautiful woman—
they all said so.

I have to imagine
everything
she said

I have to act
as though there is actually
a map to that place:

when you were a child—

And then:

I’m here
because it wasn’t true; I

distorted it—

I want she said
a theory that explains
everything

in the mother’s eye
the invisible
splinter of foil

the blue ice
locked in the iris—

Then:

I want it
to be my fault
she said
so I can fix it—

Blue sky, blue ice,
street like a frozen river

you’re talking
about my life
she said

except
she said
you have to fix it

in the right order
not touching the father
until you solve the mother

a black space
showing
where the word ends

like a crossword saying
you should take a breath now

the black space meaning
when you were a child—

And then:

the ice
was there for your own protection

to teach you
not to feel—

the truth
she said

I thought it would be like
a target, you would see

the center—

Cold light filling the room.

I know where we are
she said
that’s the window
when I was a child

That’s my first home, she said
that square box—
go ahead and laugh.

Like the inside of my head:
you can see out
but you can’t go out—

Just think
the sun was there, in that bare place

the winter sun
not close enough to reach
the children’s hearts

the light saying
you can see out
but you can’t go out

Here, it says,
here is where everything belongs

Anger by Daniel Luke Nelson

Anger fills my heart and soul
Anger takes a mighty toll
Anger lessens but can never leave
Anger you hope to never receive,
Anger stays forever within
Anger acts with the might of all sin
Anger is deadly to all around
Anger gets mad at the thought of sound
Anger is the thoughts in my head
Anger that’s mine all should dread
Anger for me is different from you
Anger you see tells me what to do
Anger will sit and whisper in my ear
Anger he sits and tells me all that you fear,

Anger…
He is here
He’s here to stay
Anger is the hole
In which we lay
Anger is
And Anger will
Always be with us

He is in me, and he is in you
He can make you do
What he wants you to
Anger will make you
Make you cry
Anger can make you
Want to die
Anger can make you
Go insane
Anger….. … A blood filled rain
No more anger
No more…..
Walk to the bright light
Shinning through that door…
Not knowing what’s in store
But even then
Anger lives on
But you… nevermore

I have been thinking a lot about how anger can wound someone and I realized that if we could make love our automatic response instead of anger how different this world would be! I read this and was moved.

God bless all of you, my darling avidReaders!

The Mansion of My Childhood

By MO H. SAIDI

For Tristan

I

My father was tall, plump, old and cruel.
            When he was late returning home, we’d
                        joke that he’d been taken to the morgue.

A story teller, he often would say, God
            Loves good tales with happy endings:
                        The Holy Book’s stories, Layla and Majnun.

II

My grandfather was a bearded man.
            He looked like the Sistine God
                        His face gleamed with candor.

An ayatollah, he believed Allah is afflicted
            With insomnia no angel can cure—He’s
                        a riddle, a challenge for mankind, God’s

grace can be purchased in every bazaar.
            He’d say, “Don’t pray for me, do it for Him.
                        When He’s jaded, He may stage a deluge.”

III

My father would visit my grandfather
            once a month—the city was an hour’s drive
                        away. Grandfather had strong arms

But his legs were paralyzed.
            He had fully memorized the Book of Kings
                        and the Koran. For a good tip, I’d listen

to him for hours and the follow the lines.
            Only rarely did he err. He let me correct
                        the slips because I was his favorite grandson.

IV

My childhood house was a mansion
            I was the shortest kid on the block. They
                        all knew my name; I only the teacher’s.

When grandfather would visit us, he’d
            bring us softballs, candies, silver coins.
                        Even before his stroke, he was always weak

in his legs, would limp along and tire quickly.
            On his last visit, he struggled and wrote
Icannotcontrolmyhand, and he dropped the pen.

V

I would look at my father in awe.
            He was tall, strong and voracious
                        too old to live to see my diploma.

Loud and uncouth, he was a lamb
            under Mother’s shadow. To leave more
                        time for prayer, they both had forbidden chess,

reading or writing poetry in our house.
            I always dreamed to be a writer. They
                        preached that I should become a mullah.

We made peace: they burned the chess board
            and the pieces; I buried the Holy Book. As I
                        prepared to leave town, a call shook the house.

VI

I heard the unbearable news—my hero
was dead—we rushed to his hometown.
                        The city was confused. A black holiday.

The waves of men in black marched
            in the streets. His house teemed with mourners
                        waiting for the feast. The servants served

Bread, rice, and cheese. High on the roof
            the muezzin was hard at work with booming
                        calls. In the chaos of the funeral procession,

I muttered his favorite line as I looked
            at his open casket. Life is a mansion
                        of ice, how could I avoid the sun?

Your daily dose of poetry. God bless you all my darling avidReaders 🙂

EDEN, THEN AND NOW

RUTH STONE

In ’29 before the dust storms
sandblasted Indianapolis,
we believed in the milk company.
Milk came in glass bottles.
We spread dye-colored butter,
now connected to cancer.
We worked seven to seven
with no overtime pay;
pledged allegiance every day,
pitied the starving Armenians.
One morning in the midst of plenty,
there were folks out of context,
who were living on nothing.
Some slept in shacks
on the banks of the river.
This phenomenon investors said
would pass away.
My father worked for the daily paper.
He was a union printer;
lead slugs and blue smoke.
He worked with hot lead
at a two-ton machine,
in a low-slung seat;
a green-billed cap
pulled low on his forehead.
He gave my mother a dollar a day.
You could say we were rich.
This was the Jazz Age.
All over the country
the dispossessed wandered
with their hungry children,
harassed by the law.
When the market broke, bad losers
jumped out of windows.
It was time to lay an elegant table,
as it is now; corporate paradise;
the apple before the rot caved in.
It was the same worm
eating the same fruit.
In fact, the same Eden.

OCTAVIO PAZ “THE STREET”

It’s a long and silent street.
I walk in the dark and trip and fall
and get up and step blindly
on the mute stones and dry leaves
and someone behind me is also walking:
if I stop, he stops;
if I run, he runs. I turn around: no one.
Everything is black, there is no exit,
and I turn and turn corners
that always lead to the street
where no one waits for me, no one follows,
where I follow a man who trips
and gets up and says when he sees me: no one.

Your poem of the day.

God bless you all, my darling avidReaders

The Raven; Edgar Allan Poe

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore,
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
`’Tis some visitor,’ I muttered, `tapping at my chamber door –
Only this, and nothing more.’

Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December,
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
Eagerly I wished the morrow; – vainly I had sought to borrow
From my books surcease of sorrow – sorrow for the lost Lenore –
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore –
Nameless here for evermore.

And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain
Thrilled me – filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating
`’Tis some visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door –
Some late visitor entreating entrance at my chamber door; –
This it is, and nothing more,’

Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
`Sir,’ said I, `or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,
And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,
That I scarce was sure I heard you’ – here I opened wide the door; –
Darkness there, and nothing more.

Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before;
But the silence was unbroken, and the darkness gave no token,
And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, `Lenore!’
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, `Lenore!’
Merely this and nothing more.

Back into the chamber turning, all my soul within me burning,
Soon again I heard a tapping somewhat louder than before.
`Surely,’ said I, `surely that is something at my window lattice;
Let me see then, what thereat is, and this mystery explore –
Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore; –
‘Tis the wind and nothing more!’

Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,
In there stepped a stately raven of the saintly days of yore.
Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he;
But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door –
Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door –
Perched, and sat, and nothing more.

Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,
`Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou,’ I said, `art sure no craven.
Ghastly grim and ancient raven wandering from the nightly shore –
Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night’s Plutonian shore!’
Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.’

Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,
Though its answer little meaning – little relevancy bore;
For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door –
Bird or beast above the sculptured bust above his chamber door,
With such name as `Nevermore.’

But the raven, sitting lonely on the placid bust, spoke only,
That one word, as if his soul in that one word he did outpour.
Nothing further then he uttered – not a feather then he fluttered –
Till I scarcely more than muttered `Other friends have flown before –
On the morrow he will leave me, as my hopes have flown before.’
Then the bird said, `Nevermore.’

Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
`Doubtless,’ said I, `what it utters is its only stock and store,
Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful disaster
Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore –
Till the dirges of his hope that melancholy burden bore
Of “Never-nevermore.”‘

But the raven still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling,
Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird and bust and door;
Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking
Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore –
What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore
Meant in croaking `Nevermore.’

This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom’s core;
This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining
On the cushion’s velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o’er,
But whose velvet violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o’er,
She shall press, ah, nevermore!

Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
Swung by Seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor.
`Wretch,’ I cried, `thy God hath lent thee – by these angels he has sent thee
Respite – respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore!
Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe, and forget this lost Lenore!’
Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.’

`Prophet!’ said I, `thing of evil! – prophet still, if bird or devil! –
Whether tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,
Desolate yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted –
On this home by horror haunted – tell me truly, I implore –
Is there – is there balm in Gilead? – tell me – tell me, I implore!’
Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.’

`Prophet!’ said I, `thing of evil! – prophet still, if bird or devil!
By that Heaven that bends above us – by that God we both adore –
Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,
It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore –
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden, whom the angels name Lenore?’
Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.’

`Be that word our sign of parting, bird or fiend!’ I shrieked upstarting –
`Get thee back into the tempest and the Night’s Plutonian shore!
Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken!
Leave my loneliness unbroken! – quit the bust above my door!
Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!’
Quoth the raven, `Nevermore.’

And the raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon’s that is dreaming,
And the lamp-light o’er him streaming throws his shadow on the floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
Shall be lifted – nevermore!