Edgar Allan Poe Rrrocks! …. Thanks for this Silla đ
“Spirits of the Dead”
Edgar Allan Poe Rrrocks! …. Thanks for this Silla đ
Category: reblogs
on NOT raising rapists…
No its not poetry but #Adjustedsails delivers a POWERFUL message here “on NOT raising Rapists”… Enjoy!
âNobody ever says I wanna be a [RAPIST] when I grow up.â I liked those late â80s commercials stressing the importance of making early anti-drug decisions by choosing NOT to be a drug-user. As a passionate advocate of abuse prevention, I teach my children, and admonish others to teach their children, NOT to be rapists and NOT to be abusers (sexual, physical, emotional, or otherwise). People usually ask, âHow? Whatâs a practical way?â My response: âExplicitly!â We donât teach our children much else in vague terms. We donât JUST say, âMind your manners.â We say, âDonât put your elbows on the table.â We donât JUST say, âRespect othersâ things.â We say, âDonât go upstairs without their permission, or donât run in their home, or donât jump on their couch.â Well, Iâd much rather your son run across my couch than rape my daughter! Likewise, Iâm sure youâd much ratherâŠ
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BEAUTIFUL EXCHANGE
Yep! its also me right here đ
Blessed day! đ
Hello! đ
Its been a while and although I have soooomuch material I am yet to publish in this space of mine, I have today a word that was impressed upon my heart and that I would just LOVE to share with you.
I know a lot of us go through the challenge of guilt, the past is never truly forgotten. Lately I have begun a new transition in my faith- No, Iâm not becoming a pastor or anything but I have decided for a tighter relationship with my maker. Anyway, it so happens that recently I was basking in the beauty of my renewed relationship with Christ when I let my guilt get the best of me and off I went on a pity party!
âHow can I call myself a child of God with all the baggage in my past?â
Why do we do that to ourselves?!âŠ
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Brilliant Writing by “Boy with a hat”!
HAPPY INT’L WOMEN’S DAY!!!! đ
đ
The taste of salt and sweat of your skin is sweet
but the taste of your tears is much sweeter
To feel your body overwhelmed,
Arms wrapped around me- heavy breathing
Your silenceâŠ
It can never amount to the saline dam that our love making just brokeâŠ
Festival King
5 minutes
_____________________________________________________
Scottâs rave: This is awesome poetry, as it pulls me in not only from the good writing, but in analysis of all the meaning that the writer is expressing for her muse. Festival King is an artist of poetic expression and I like her art so much that I almost canât stand it! Ending this one in âYour silenceâŠ.â and then what is that saline dam that broke? Not physically, but what in the soul could make such a thing happen? Iâm in awe, and yet I think I understand it all. Beautiful work again Festival King!!âŠ
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Thanks Scott Mitchell for sharing my world!!!! đ
Butterfly to my honeysuckle
lays himself within my petals
Having his fill of sweet nectar
Have your fill dear butterfly
and at rapturous end
within my petals lay still
~
Festival King
Scottâs rave: Ok, Iâm catching my breath here and questioning whether or not reading such amazing and intense poetry is safe for me in the morning. I particularly relate to this one by Festival King because Iâve used butterflies and flower petals myself in some of my intimate poems. And the second stanza of this one captivates me, imagining 2 intense moments. Having oneâs fill and then laying still. Yes, I believe even laying still is intense because of all that it concludes and confirms. Wow! A big thanks to Festival King! She has been a friend of mine for over a year and I always look forward to her writing. Please visit her blog Festival King!!
Reblog:Beggar Girl + Haiku #19- Appreciation
I’m reblogging this piece in order to remind us to appreciate the lives we lead, and here’s a simple haiku to go with it:
Not a beggar girl|
Not a woman of the streets|
Blessed beyond measure.…Cheers!
Different lives, different locations;
But sharing that same condition⊠A beggar girlâs destiny.
Born into penury, her pockets she fills with her plea
âOga gimme change na!
Madam help ya daughta!
Daddy I beg hep me!
Mommy gimme wata!â
As a child her innocence is her might,
Her youthful smile and laughter her charm,
With pure resilience she disarms her passerby,
Attaching herself to her prospective financier
this small frame with teary eyes lets out her angelic cry
âOga gimme change na!
Madam help ya daughta!
Daddy I beg hep me!
Mommy gimme wata!â
She grows older; begging her career
but the older she gets, the less her financiers
Her innocence is lost with age, a woman is on the rise,
Not many pity a wondering girl in her teens as she gives off her daily cry
âOga gimme change na!
Madam help ya daughta!
Daddy I beg hep me!
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My Lady Onion
OK, today on dVerse its all about food and poetry courtesy of Claudia so I’m reblogging this piece as a token of my expression … hope you like đ
Bundle of complication, Passionate; Rich in flavor, I could swear you be Cancerian by your mystifying behavior.
You are many layers; one core, Peeling at you leaves me sore, Wanting you is torture but the treasure of your spice I cannot ignore.
Lady, wild and free, Let me tend to you in my garden without fee, Let me have you for my own and savor your gifts, I alone.
O Common and yet Rare ingredient in my course of life, I long to keep you and have you for my wife. So in tears I'll patiently strip away to your center; Knocking on the portal to your heart till you 'gree me enter. And though you may be complex and sting for a time, I know Lady Onion, someday you'll be mine...
©2011 Festivalking
Hahaha! đ
Just had fun with this, but I guess you can tell by now thatâŠ
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Red
Today on dVerse, Anna Montgomery is taking us through the art of contemporary poetry. When I wrote “Red” earlier on in the year I thought it was just out right weird, but after reading her article I understand this piece even more.
Happy reading and please meet up with Anna at http://dversepoets.com/2012/10/04/meeting-the-bar-postmodern-prose/ for an education on Contemporary Poetry
Cheers!
Iâm not sure it makes sense anymore, how could it come to this?âŠ. Maybe I should have seen it from the get go but all I saw was âRedââŠ
I fell in love with beauty I had never known. Vibrant, Sexy, Intelligent, Creative⊠A perfect gift of Cupidâs to me. She would be my gem and fortune, and she was. We gave into each other absolutely; the perfect couple⊠Everything was âRedâ, but time is a wicked thingâŠ. With it that vibrant color begins to wear and a faded texture I see.
Cupidâs gift gradually morphs into a fiendish curse. Aggression and anger is its gift to us. She, still my rare beauty, I look at her and the devil wears Prada comes to mind. My âRedâ beautiful, powerful and yet vain flower.
Quarrels over the slightest matters ensue⊠Initially welcome, as passionate acts of reconciliation fuel âbittersweetâ to aâŠ
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The Artist called “War”
The ageless artist.
Vicious portrayals he reveals,
made with constantly evolving brushes
from stone, to steel, then fire;
Novel models now made nuclear.
Strokes of the brush hints the gush of red,
While the steadfast patron, his ecstasyâs fed,
A hate inspired vision created,
The canvas drenched in gory shade.
Mangled figures, a lifeless display
Unseen souls violently snatched away,
The Benefactor,
His fill he takes with each image portrayed.
In time we see the board wiped clean,
yet moved by hatred the artist births new scene
A mural of blood, flesh, sweat and tears
a horrid vision, the gods to bare.
The artist, unwavering and dissatisfied
Conjured by the darkness of human pride
Peace and love, his art deprive.
While hatred, in each heart reside.
His Masterpiece, yet unborn!
A display to end all earth spawn,
Thus these words I write to warn
âKeep far the novel brush
lestâŠ
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Festival King 