I Am

I AM

I am a fat worm plucked from the front lawn by a robin,
then fed to its chirping chicks.
I am the whiskers of the cat
who sits grooming himself on the fence post,
patiently waiting for a fledging
to fall out of its nest.

I am the fine mist of dew
that drapes the earth at dusk
I am the loon's cry rippling across the lake,
and a cricket, readying myself to perform
the night's symphony.

I am the rustle of veils pushed aside,
the uncertainties that crumble in the dark,
and all the inhibitions tossed at the foot of a bed.
I am the perspiration beneath a pendulous breast,
the softness of human touch,
and the moan that gets caught in your throat.

I am the flight of the 10 o'clock plane
that flies over my house every night,
always en route to a different destination.

I am the feeling that lingers
when you wake from a dream,
the uncertainty that tugs at your brain.
I am the coffee cup held tight in the morning,
the cream that swirls its way
to the bottom when stirred,


I am the aftertaste in your mouth.
I mmm...I am

This is  a poem by a woman from Quebec Canada.

Mademoiselle Azphodel.

Exclusion

Wednesday, March 7, 2012

Exclusion

Deviant behavior starts at a young age

when bullies begin reacting with rage.

A minuscule flea sets despots off

so trivial and trite the peers scoff.

It grows and it festers this irritation they get

taking out on others without regret.

If not nipped in the bud truants they'll be

or grown-ups excluding people like me.

 @laurie kolp

in an imperfect world..one can only hope to hingle imperfectly together

By way of a link from a picture, I found on Google an interesting poetry site.

Erospainter erotic theme park.

There is an interesting amount of poetry here, so don't delay.

Content may be explicit..

Prudes don't click link...

'Do Not Go Gentle into that Good Night'

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.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dylan_Thomas





 I loved this poem. A truly great creative writer.

Dylan. You da man...

http://youtu.be/g2cgcx-GJTQ

ME

                                          ME

IF THE JOURNEY IS ABOUT DISCOVERNG ME then the path is sometimes too difficult to trail…..

If I see the complete design of the universe,my existence becomes so small,my ego just so ignorable.

   

Have I been defeated already, or still there are chances of win…….

Everyday seems a mistake all so many times I have been rubbished 'n' mocked

My definitions in life are oh yes quite quirky but…

After with all dats gone by, who sees any silver lining in the clouds still.

If the journey is about me discovering myself,the path becomes so difficult to trail sometimes…

They say I have been my own enemy, yes I'm my best critic I believe

My deficiencies make me so much of myself, how can I part from all that and be

If I make the criterion and  if  I'm the judge ….

Then with the endurance earned and a graceful smile I give myself accolades still.

And then if the journey is all about me…….the path will remain as much difficult to trail..

The design is right and our existences just spread in a small time, I will let myself be…the best I can be…..

                                                                                              

                                                                            -shabda


A lovely poem by Shabda, a young woman from Delhi India.
See her BLOG.

Thoreau